FLAME OF DESIRE (11 page)

“Of course they would want the queen dressed in the finest cloth. Everyone in London knows that Thomas Bowen’s cloth is the finest for miles around.” His chest was puffed out in pride, reminding Heather of a peacock, proud and strutting. She smiled to herself, thankful for his good fortune. His jovial mood would definitely make it more pleasant around the house.

“Yes, Father. Everyone knows that you are London’s leading merchant,” she said, rising to her feet. She had to go to Richard, to see that he was all right. Perriwincle had promised to watch over him, but it wasn’t the same as her being there to see for herself that he was well. And besides, after last night there was so much she needed to say to him, to ask him.

“Sit down, girl!” his voice thundered in her ears. “If I am to be the queen’s own merchant, there is much that needs to be done.”

“But…” It was useless to argue. With a sigh of disappointment Heather returned to the task at hand, her eyes barely seeing what was written on the paper, her ears scarcely hearing her father’s voice calling out his sums. Only Tabitha’s entrance a half-hour later pardoned her.

“Master Bowen,” the flaxen-haired servant girl began, shyly lowering her eyes as she always did when talking to the head of the household. She was tall and thin, her actions more those of someone small and petite, making her appear awkward as she bowed.

Thomas Bowen grunted in answer, but when she did not speak, turned around to look upon her with eyes blazing. “Well, speak up. If you are going to interrupt me, be about your business and be quick about it!”

The girl’s square jaw tightened, her face reddened, and as always, Heather’s heart went out to this timid young woman who was certainly no match for her father’s temperament.

“His….his grace. The….the Duke of Northumberland.” She stood wringing her hands in nervous agitation.

“Yes?”

“He…he’s here!”

Thomas stood up, scattering the ledgers to and fro. “He’s here? Why didn’t you say so sooner? You silly chit.” He gestured wildly to Heather. “Set the table. Fetch our best wine! Put out the silverware. God’s blood, how I wish I’d had some warning.”

Heather could find no words to answer her father; her voice was choked with fear. Northumberland! Richard’s enemy was hers now too. What was he doing here? That he would find Richard was her greatest fear.

Thomas Bowen’s face was bright with anger. “Well, go on, daughter! Away with you.” He looked at Tabitha, who stood rooted to the spot. “You too, girl. Am I surrounded by idiots?”

With Tabitha close behind her, Heather did as she was bid, running up the stairs so fast that she was panting to catch her breath. She had to get word to Perriwincle so that just in case there was any danger, he could hide Richard. Feeling like a cornered rabbit, she sought a means of escape, to flee out to the stables for only a moment, but her father’s corpulent form blocked the doorway as he supervised the proceedings. She could hear his booming voice ordering Blythe Bowen to greet their guests.

“Tabitha…” she began, as they both spread the cloth upon the trestle table in the solar.

Tabitha looked up at her mistress, her bright blue eyes mirroring her adoration for the young woman with the dark red hair and lovely face. How she had always longed to be even half as pretty, instead of being so very, very plain.

“Yes, Heather?”

Heather’s answer was silence as her father’s eyes turned upon her. Filling the goblets with wine, setting the table with knives, forks, and spoons, and putting the two-handled bowls upon the table in case the duke decided to sup with them, she thought frantically about what she must do. It was time that she told Tabitha of her secret, of Richard Morgan. She felt instinctively that the servant girl could be trusted, and unlike Blythe, would not fret about the consequences of what she had done. She needed a friend right now, and Richard needed help. As they readied the napkins, basins, and pitchers, she quickly related her story to Tabitha in a voice which was hardly more than a whisper, just in case the wrong ears were attuned to the conversation.

Tabitha’s eyes shone with excitement, her thin lips stretched in a smile. “And he’s here, in the stables?” she asked in amazement, full of admiration for such an act of courage. That she was now to be part of this daring event filled her with pride. “Is he terribly handsome?”

Heather’s face answered the question, shining with the radiance of those who love. She wanted to say more but the untimely entrance of the duke and his cohorts silenced her tongue.

“And if you would care to sup with us….” Heather’s father was saying.

Feeling the sensation of eyes staring at her, Heather turned around, only to be met by small beady eyes which sent a shiver of revulsion pulsing through her.

“Why, by my faith, if it isn’t Mistress Dawson. Jane Dawson,” rasped a voice she had thought never to hear again. It was the same man who had tried to be so familiar with her on her way to the Tower.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, feigning ignorance of his identity. Perhaps if she pretended not to know him, he would think her not to be the woman he had met.

He tried to smile but managed only a grimace. “Seton. Hugh Seton. And I see that you are not Mistress Dawson at all, but the merchant’s daughter.” He cocked an eyebrow at her. “Why did you lie?”

She looked him directly in the eye, not wavering in her answer. “Because you were overbold and I had no intention of succumbing to your advances. In short, I had no desire to see you again.”

He threw back his head and laughed at her answer, but the sound was more menacing than cheerful. “I see you are not afraid to speak your mind.” His eyes raked over her, smoldering with desire. Even in her shapeless frock she was a pretty sight. “You need taming, wench, and I am the man to do it.”

“I doubt that, sir,” she answered, turning her back upon him to attend to the guests. How she managed to pour the wine without spilling it, she would never know.

“And Mary has had to gall to proclaim herself queen,” she heard Northumberland saying. “And the northern nobles, traitors that they are, are flocking to her support. Even now it is said that they are marching upon the capital. It looks like there will be battle after all. I must raise my own troops and count on you for support.”

“You have it,” Thomas Bowen answered loudly.

“Ah, if only I knew how Mary’s letter had been smuggled to the council. Therein lies my trouble. Traitorous bastard. Whoever did the deed will surely rot in hell for his papist sympathies. Though I have no doubt that Richard Morgan is at the bottom of it.”

At the mention of Richard’s name, Heather nearly dropped the wine cask. She must warn him that Northumberland was here. He must stay hidden. If anyone were to go into the loft….

The Duke of Northumberland’s voice lowered and Heather strained her ears to hear. “Perhaps I need send my brother to Calais and Guines to seek for Henry II’s support. Gold and jewels should prompt him to invade England, eh? I doubt that he would like to see a half-Spanish queen.”

Why, that traitor! Heather thought. She could see her father’s body stiffen as he caught her looking his way, no doubt intent upon keeping his own treacherous deeds secret. Now she knew beyond a reasonable doubt the reason for the great weight of the moneybox. Her father, she knew, would just as easily change sides were Mary to appear the victor, at least if there was a profit for him in doing so.

Thomas Bowen was animated in his discussion with the duke, but Heather could not hear what they were saying because of Hugh Seton’s prattle. He hovered about her, laughing and chattering in his attempt to gain her affection, and had it not been for the presence of her mother, she would have felt frightened by his advances, for the man did not know enough to keep his hands to himself, seeking a pat here and there when no one else was looking. She longed to pour some wine upon his person to so cool his ardor, but dared not. Her only respite from his unwelcome attentions came when the duke motioned him to his side.

“We must be on our way. Thomas, here, has some fine horses that could be put to our use. Come, let us view them.”

Heather’s heart pounded so violently at the duke’s words that she thought surely all in the room could hear it. She looked at Tabitha, their eyes meeting and joining in silent conversation. Warn him! Like a will-‘o-the-wisp Tabitha vanished from the room and Heather sought to distract her guests as they turned to leave.

“Gentlemen, another glass of wine? It will be a long dry journey.” Hugh Seton stepped forward, his arm encircling her waist as he held forth his cup.

“We have not time!” the Duke of Northumberland grumbled, motioning the stocky man forward. His eyes touched upon Heather as if trying to place where he had seen her before, outside this household, and she quickly turned her back as if intent upon flirting with the bold departing guest , who smiled broadly at her sudden attentions. Running his fingers over the bare skin of her shoulder, he grinned.

“We will finish this another time,” he rasped, pulling away regretfully to tag along behind his departing leader. Heather sought for a way to detain them, but could not, for her father’s piercing eyes were upon her and she knew that to act unseemly would only endanger Richard Morgan all the more. She could only watch as the party of men took their leave, and say a silent prayer that the man she loved would be safe from their prying eyes and ears.

Chapter Thirteen

Richard Morgan stared up at the pale frightened face of the girl hovering about him, wondering if he dared trust this stranger. “Who are you?”

“Tabitha. We have no time to talk—the duke is here.”

“Northumberland?”

“Yes. And a man named Seton.” She tugged at his sleeve to hurry him.

“If I have jeopardized Heather in any way by being here, I will never forgive myself,” he whispered beneath his breath. Something was afoot, he knew it. But what? Why were the duke and his cohorts here? Was Heather in any danger? “Northumberland! Seton! BiGod, is this the truth?”

“Yes. Please hurry. They are coming this way.” The emotion in her eyes and voice urged him to do as she said.

“If Seton lays one hand upon Heather, I swear I will kill him!” he swore. Leaning upon this tall, thin girl who sought to help him, he managed to climb up to the loft and hide himself behind a large haystack just as Perriwincle bounded in, oblivious of the danger threatening. At sight of the empty cot, he became frantic.

“Where….” He breathed, only to be silenced by Tabitha’s finger held to his trembling lips. She tugged at him, indicating he should follow her up to the loft. From down below they could hear the din of horses and men, and peeking over the edge of the loft, it was possible for them to see the blacks and browns of those who wore the duke’s livery.

“Andalusian, did you say, Thomas?”

“All three, your Grace.”

“Fine. I will take them with me. And, Thomas….”

“Yes, your Grace.”

“I will be very generous, as I have been before. I will leave it to you to gather together my supporters among the bankers and merchants of the city.”

From his hiding place Richard Morgan seethed with anger. To be so close to these treacherous snakes, yet to be as weak as a kitten, was nearly more than he could bear. If only he could procure a sword, he would gladly sacrifice his own life to rid England of the duke’s foul existence.

“We meet at Bury.”

“Yes, your Grace.”

“Bury!” Richard whispered. Taking a step closer to hear more, he tripped over a bucket, clumsy in his excitement.

“What was that?” Seton’s loathsome voice.

“Who is up there. Thomas? I cannot take the risk of anyone spying upon me and letting their tongues rattle on. Come, let us see.”

The haystack was not large enough to fully hide Richard. He was trapped. The sound of stumbling feet sounded from below as the party of men started to climb up the steps to the loft. He would have to prepare himself to face his fate like a man.

“Bloody damn!” It was Perriwincle who swore, thinking quickly to save the situation. “Always was clumsy.” He leaned over the loft, grinning toothlessly at Thomas. “Sorry, sir. Seems I’ve dented your new bucket.”

Looking up and seeing Perriwincle from his perch in the loft, Thomas Bowen stamped his foot in anger. “Perriwincle! I should have known it was you.” He motioned to the men to come back down. “It’s just my stablehand.”

The duke paused for a moment near the top rung of the ladder steps. “Are you certain?”

“Yes. The old man works out here, though I have a suspicion that he does more napping than working. No doubt that was what he was doing just now and I caught him. Ha!”

Mumbling beneath his breath, the Duke of Northumberland climbed back down the ladder steps, and Thomas, anxious to placate him, waved excitedly at Perriwincle.

“Get down here, Harold, and help the duke! Don’t dawdle there looking like a frightened nanny goat.”

“Yes, sir.” Perriwincle was down the ladder before the merchant could say another word.

Richard Morgan strained to hear what was going on, but only the sound of horses’ thrashing hooves, Perriwincle’s cursing, and the rumbling of the men anxious to be upon their way could be heard; then, there was silence, startling in contrast to the noise before. Richard could hear his own breathing, as loud to him now as the roar of the wind, yet he kept his hiding place until Tabitha and Harold Perriwincle came to help him back.

“May God curse that man!” he rasped in anger. “Northumberland is the worst catastrophe to overtake our land since the war between the houses of Lancaster and York.”

“Aye. Perriwincle hastily agreed. “How I would like to go to our rightful queen and fight by her side. God bless her! Oh to have me youth again. She’ll need every man.” He looked at Richard and felt pity for the poor man, to be so laid up when he as sorely needed. “I know just how you feel, honest I do.”

“Yes, I think you do.” He sat down upon the edge of the cot, feeling defeated and drained of all his strength. He was not a man used to being idle, particularly when he was so needed. Covering his face with his hands he fought with difficulty against the rising tide of his emotions.