FLAME OF DESIRE

Katherine

Vickery

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Flame of Desire

by Katherine Vickery

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                              Historical Romance

Copyright 1986 by Kathryn Kramer

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To my my cousins—Don Vickery and Merry Gayle Vickery and to my aunt, Brownie Trumble whose deaths were so tragic and untimely.  I owe them a debt of gratitude for their kindness to me after my mother’s death.  Little did any of us know then how soon they would join her………..

“Doubt thou the stars are fire;

Doubt that the sun doth move;

Doubt truth to be a liar;

But never doubt I love.”

--Shakespeare, Hamlet, II, 2

Author’s Note:

Under the Tudor reign the changes in England were drastic: socially, politically, and theologically. The Rome-dominated Middle Ages gave way to a new era of national expansion and sovereignty.

During the reign of Henry VIII the Catholic Church was crippled, then abolished as the absolute power of the Church was replaced by the absolute power of the king. With the seizure of church property, including almshouses, aid to the poor was abolished. At the same time, the decline of the feudal system and feudal lord gave way to the world of the merchant and the growth of industry and commerce. People flooded into towns to seek employment, thus expanding cities beyond their medieval walls. It was a time of the rise of the middle class and redistribution of wealth. Merchants and others of the middle class could now buy offices once held by nobles and in turn were resented deeply by the nobility. If money is the root of all evil, surely that evil had changed hands.

Edward VI had the potential to be a great king, but tragically he died at the age of fifteen after a brief reign. During his rule he was victimized by his guardians in their struggle for power and wealth. During Edward VI’s short reign, however, the English church developed its strong Protestant roots, roots so strong that no subsequent reverse action was able to dislodge them.

Not a desire to return to Catholicism but the sense of justice to see the rightful Tudor heir succeed to the throne inspired the people of England to support Mary Tudor and resist Northumberland. But to Mary’s mind, it was a sign the English people wanted to return to the old faith, a faith that she had suffered for and thus felt it her sacred mission to restore.

In the New World Spanish explorers had discovered new avenues of wealth which poured gold into Spain. England wanted her share and greatly feared this powerful Catholic empire and the threat that arose with the marriage of its Queen Mary to Philip of Spain. That Mary was half-Spanish (her mother being Catherine of Aragon, her grandparents Queen Isabella and King Ferdinand) added to their fears, thus turning the tide from support of Mary to feelings against her.

Mary has been greatly maligned in being called “Bloody Mary.” Her conduct in the early months of her reign shows more lenience and tolerance than other rulers of her time, but she was transformed, by adversity and threats to her sovereignty and life, into one of the most hated of English queens, alienating England from Rome as surely as had her father. She burned more men and women for their opinions and beliefs than any contemporary monarchs, including Spain’s during the Inquisition. At her death England accepted eagerly the new faith which she had tried so hard to destroy. Her half-sister, Elizabeth, learned from Mary’s mistakes and became the beloved Queen Elizabeth under whose influence the “Golden Age of England” flourished.

My story is political rather than theological, as two lovers—he of the nobility and she a merchant’s daughter—are swept up into the tumult of the times, fighting the raging flames of hatred which threaten their desire.

PART ONE:   The Maiden and the Rebel

London - 1553

“Maiden’s hearts are always soft:

Would that men’s were truer!”

William C. Bryant – song

Chapter One

The slender tapers flickered in the wisp of the breezes which swept through the palace from the open windows, casting eerie shadows against the walls of the great hall. In the bedchamber all was silent. No one breathed a word as the white-haired court physician bent over the frail, pathetically thin body of the suffering boy-king, Edward.

Richard Morgan could hear his own heart thundering in the noiseless room as his eyes stared at the face of this king, this clever and beloved boy who might very well have been a great king. Henry VIII’s long-awaited son had become king at the age of nine, a king of personal charm and great intellect, the hope of a nation in the throes of great change. Richard had been his friend and confidant, in spite of their differences, and the king had trusted him and looked upon him as the elder brother he had never had. Now the king was dying—of this Richard Morgan was certain, and there was nothing he could do to ease the boy’s pain.

“You should have called me sooner,” Richard could hear the physician saying. He watched as the doctor drew a sandglass from his bag with which to take the young king’s pulse.

Damn Northumberland!
He thought, looking in the duke’s direction, wondering if the rumors were true that Northumberland, that ambitious upstart, had poisoned the boy. Was it the concoctions of the old woman the duke had brought in to cure the king that were finally taking his life? He would never know. He and many others could only wonder.

Rising to his feet, the physician opened his mouth and Richard knew before that wise man spoke what words he would utter. “The king is dead!”

“Lord have mercy upon his soul,” Richard whispered, crossing himself despite Northumberland’s frown. Looking at the discolored skin, at the pain-twisted face of Edward, he felt unmanly tears sting his eyes at the memory of the suffering the poor young man had borne these last months. “At last, my poor king, it is done.”

Turning his head, Richard looked again at Northumberland, wondering how long it would be before he made his grab for the throne. Would he at least give Edward a proper burial?

As if sensing Richard Morgan’s thoughts, the Duke of Northumberland turned his cold beady eyes upon him, staring at him as if to warn him to hold his tongue.

“I do not want one word of what has happened here tonight to leave this room,” his raspy voice whispered. “Silence is my order and I will have none disobey.”

Never one to be intimidated by this swaggering reptile, Richard Morgan spoke out at once. “The Princess Mary must be told about this immediately!”

“No!” Northumberland was to have none of this. He had fought too hard to see his dreams realized to have them spoiled now. Rising from his chair next to the sickbed, he stood before his antagonist. “It is not Mary’s business to know as of yet.”

Anger coiled in Richard’s stomach. He started to speak again, to tell this viper what he thought of him, but thought better of it. A show of temper now would do Mary no good. In his heart he knew what was afoot. Northumberland had married the Lady Jane Grey to his son at the end of May in secret and had cajoled the dying king to draw up his will naming her as his heir. That the old king, Henry, had declared both of his daughters illegitimate, at one time or another, to suit his own interests, made it possible for such a thing to happen. Richard cursed the name of Henry for doing such a thing.

A roar of thunder ripped through the silence of the room, causing all within to shudder. A streak of light flared into the death chamber, casting a glow on the paintings hung upon the walls. It was as if for a moment they came to life to issue their judgment.

“’Tis just a storm,” Northumberland said all too quickly, as if for just a moment he feared otherwise. He moved to the window to look upon the dark gray of the fading day, already making his plans.

“What are we to do? What are we to do?” piped up a short, balding man standing beside Northumberland. Before he would answer, Northumberland motioned for the other onlookers to leave the room. Moving into the shadows, Richard attuned his ears to the answer.

“Why summon our dear departed sovereign’s sweet sisters.” Northumberland answered with a smile. Looking about the room to make certain that all had left and feeling himself to be safe, he voiced his plan. “We will bid them come to London to see their brother ere he dies.” His laughter sounded menacing and Richard could have no doubt as to what was planned. A trap. He must warn Mary Tudor. He must. A sense of justice overcame him, a desire to see the rightful Tudor heir succeed to the throne. Mary.

Hurrying out of the room, away from the hall, down the steps of the palace, Richard glanced behind him. He was being followed. Undoubtedly the duke would take no chance of his plans being spoiled. It would be prison or worse were Richard to be caught. He winced as a thunderclap illuminated his fleeing form.

“There he is. After him!” The voices echoed in his ears as he fled from the danger which stalked him, searching desperately for a place to hide.

Rain pelted through the open window as Heather Bowen reached out to close the shutters of her bedchamber window. Such a storm! It seemed to rend the very heavens. Brushing several strands of her damp dark red hair from her eyes, she stepped back from the window as a sudden streak of lightning shot through the sky like a flame. What was it about storms that so unnerved her? Ever since she was a child they had frightened her. Was it because they seemed to be a portent of misfortune? Perhaps.

Drops of rain glistened on her thick lashes and brows and she reached up to wipe them away. “Poor Mother and Father, to be caught in this.” They were across town visiting her father’s sister and she worried lest they be caught in the fury raging outside. If only there were something she could do. But there was not. She would just have to wait until they returned and hope that the dampness would not cause them to take a chill.

As she walked across the room, away from the storm’s fury, her eyes caught her image in the small silver mirror upon the wall. Brushing her long hair in an effort to dry its tangled curls, she wondered where she had come by this color--a dark red, almost mahogany. Not from her mother, nor from her father. And the eyes. Gray, not the blue or brown of her parents. Her face shape, however, was like her mother’s—oval with a slight widow’s peak at the forehead; and the nose, straight but with a slight tilt at the tip which gave her a haughty look. She smiled at her image, showing her straight white teeth.

“Well, at least I can say that I am no foundling.” She laughed, for the features of Blythe were clearly reflected for all to see.

A boom of thunder caused her to shudder and she thought how much she hated storms. She sat upon the large canopied bed, and her hand brushed the soft fur of Saffron, her orange tabby cat. They would comfort each other as this tempest raged about them. The animal purred loudly as she stroked it, and for a moment both cat and young woman were content.

“Sometimes I think you are my best friend, Saffron,” she said wistfully. Her father was always busy with his ledgers and her mother occupied with the household. They had little time for her.

Another clap of thunder sounded through the night and Heather reached out for her cat as it jumped from the bed. It was not the storm, however, that had caused the sudden movement, but a rodent. A small brown mouse had caught the animal’s eye. Darting to and fro, it managed to escape the claws of its pursuer, finding safety in a large hole in the wall. For several minutes the cat held vigil, green eyes watching intently for the mouse to leave its sanctuary.

“No quite fast enough, Saffron. You let that one get away. Perhaps I feed you too much. Soon you will be as stout as Father.”

A noise from the stairway, in the direction of her father’s storehouse, seemed to startle the cat, and heather watched as the animal bounded down the stairs to investigate just as another loud noise sounded from below.