Linda Barlow (28 page)

"Join you in what?"

There was a fraction of a second's pause before he replied, "Join my ship's company, of course, what else?"

She went back to the note. No more meddling.

As for how you remember me, no doubt it will be with far more generosity than I deserve. For all your noble sentiments, I sincerely thank you. And now, my oldest dearest friend, farewell. In future, as I trust you'll understand, we shall meet as nothing more than casual acquaintances. I will enforce this. Long and bitter soul-searching convinces me that the break between us must be final.

Forgive me, Alix. God bless you.

At the bottom he had scrawled his name.

She took overly long to read it. She was striving for control. "A curious epistle," she said finally. "The style of the beginning is much at variance with the manner at the end."

He made no answer. She folded up the note and closed it tightly in her palm, then raised her head, trying once again to summon up the quality he had termed courage. It was not just needed for facing daggers and swords.

"You needn't say anything more. I'm not going to argue."

He hesitated for a moment, then did say something more: "This business of Will's—it's upset you. Honest, upright William proved to be false as fog, and now I respond with coldness to your affection for me." He paused. "It must be very hard."

'"One who cannot, one who will not, one who dares not, one who dies,'" Alexandra recited. "I'm not sure which one you are—the second, I imagine. Never mind. It's my destiny. Unlucky at love, as they say." Her voice was strained. "Can't we talk about something else? The weather? Does it rain in London at this time of the year?"

He blew out a harsh breath, making her aware that this was no easier for him than it was for her. "There is something else, actually. Something I could not commit to paper."

"My curiosity leaps."

"Your curiosity is precisely the thing I wish to restrain. Listen, Alix. I've already been more open with you than I ought to have been, so I'll tell you something more. I have enemies at court. There are people there who would go to drastic lengths to see my poor body broken on some torturer's wheel. The last thing I want is for you to acquire my ill-wishers."

"How could I? If we're to be such unrelenting strangers..."

"Exactly. One of the reasons I intend to create a gulf between us is to ensure that it never occurs to anybody to look from me to you and purse his nasty lips. But even so, there is a danger. Several things about your story the other day suggest to me that you've been nosing about a good deal more than you admit, that for every transgression I've caught you in, there's been at least one I've missed, and that you've lied to me now and then. Stop trying to look so innocent. I'm not going to press you.

"My purpose is simple: to warn you that whatever you've seen, or heard, or guessed about my doings, you must put it so utterly out of your mind that not even the most subtle scorpion at court will be able to sting it out of you. Do you understand? People's lives—and not just yours and mine—depend upon your silence."

"I knew it. You're a Saracen raider in disguise. The Muslim hordes are about to conquer all of Europe."

One of his hands was still lightly bandaged. The other reached out and gripped her tightly around the wrist. "No jesting, Alexandra. Promise me."

"You're hurting me."

His expression hardened. He did look like a Saracen raider with his dark hair, his sun-brown skin, his carnal mouth. The flare of passion in his eyes reminded her that although he might be master of himself, unruly emotions seethed just below the surface. For an instant she wondered, not without some trepidation, how it would be to have those emotions loosed and directed at her.

"Your promise," he insisted.

"You have it."

His bruising grip did not relax. He was staring at her in the way she was beginning to recognize, the way he could not entirely control. "There's one more thing." He jerked her forward so she stumbled against him. His arms closed around her, and his mouth came down with swift hawk-like violence on her own.

It was an embrace devoid of tenderness or love; it was anger, frustration, and despair rolled up into a bristled ball; it was selfish and hurtful and a slap in the face at everyone who had ever injured him, herself included. At least, it began that way.

But the violence faded as she kissed him back, desiring him, accepting him, loving him no matter what he was. In that elemental moment, she was his other half, and his breath was as necessary to her as her own. His cruel little note seemed a futile gesture, a jest, an error. He could not mean it, not when their souls reached for one another just as insistently as their bodies.

He pushed her limp and melting body back. She lifted her eyes and saw to her surprise that his face was calm, even peaceful. Free of torment and purged of emotion. He smiled at her and bent to kiss her thrice again, once on each eyelid and once on the top of her head.

"Fare thee well, my fiery Amazon," he said, running one last lock of red hair through his fingers. Then he turned and walked swiftly into the trees.

"Roger!" she called after him, but he did not look back.

She wandered into Merwynna's cottage and sank down onto a bench. The wisewoman was sitting silently on her stool before the fire. Their eyes met.

"What time do ye have to be home?"

"I know not. Before supper. I still have things to pack."

"We must be quick about it, then."

"You mean you're going to instruct me?"

Merwynna's expression was worried but decided. "It takes no special gift of second sight to foresee trouble between ye and that particular young man," she said grimly. "I will instruct ye."

Alexandra laughed. "Then I defy my fate."

* * *

Alexandra rose before dawn the next morning and walked over the moors of her native countryside to the chapel where Will was buried. She lit a candle for his soul, and another for the soul of Catherine, his mother. Then she lit a third for Ned, who lay buried in the forest in an unconsecrated grave.

There in the silence of the church, Alexandra made a vow: "I will turn my face away from death and toward life, but I will not forget you, you whom I have failed to help and failed to love and failed to understand. If wrong has been done you, I swear to God that I will attempt to bring it to light. Farewell, my friends. Rest in peace."

She found her father pacing the courtyard at Westmor Abbey, impatient to leave. "I'm ready," she told him, embracing her mother and kissing her good-bye. "Let the journey begin."

Part II

London, February 1557

Fire is the test of gold; adversity, of human strength.

—Seneca

Chapter 15

It was a dreary day, but that didn't stop the people from turning out. There were hundreds of them—men, women, and children, shoving and fighting with one another in their attempts to secure a good view. They were mostly the poor, many dressed in rags that barely protected their bodies against the raw winter winds. Around the edge of the crowd some prosperous-looking burghers could be found along with a few spectators of noble blood.

The pickpockets were out, as were the whores. A jongleur sang an inappropriately merry song, and various hawkers cried their wares. A pastry-maker drew uneasy laughter with his black jest about the fresh-roasted flesh that had gone into the making of his delicious meat pies.

Sitting stiffly on his mount on the edge of the crowd, Roger Trevor surveyed the scene with a well-schooled expression that he hoped was hiding his distress. Why did so many folk regard executions as public spectacles? It was true in every country he had visited. People who in ordinary circumstances were friendly and civilized turned into bloodthirsty savages when some poor scapegoat was led forth among them to be hanged or beheaded or—one of the cruelest deaths of all—burned at the stake. Although there would always be someone who would scream, faint, or run in terror from the scene, the majority would watch with fascination, even pleasure, as their fellow human beings were mutilated and killed.

And yet, distasteful though he found it, Roger couldn't condemn these people. After all, he was among them. Once or twice a month he forced himself to pay witness to Mary Tudor's relentless cleansing of England's spiritual body. He told himself that he came only to harden his resolution, to convince himself that the double life he was leading was ethical and necessary. But deep in the darker corners of his being he sometimes wondered if he did not come for the same reason everybody else did—to give vent to the cruelty and violence that dwelt within his own soul.

A great cheer went up as the priests led forth today's victims. Two middle-aged men and a woman. It was the woman whom everybody watched. She was tall, slender, and very young. The priests were haranguing her, still trying to convince her to recant. She kept shaking her head even as the executioner dragged her atop the pile of faggots and bound her to the stake.

None of the victims recanted. A stir went through the crowd as the torches were lit and the priests droned their final words. Edmund Bonner, the Bishop of London, who had personally supervised the burning of dozens of heretics, lifted his arm and gave the signal. Over the heads of the crowd, Roger could see his face burning with passion and zeal for his calling.

The faggots were lit, and screams were heard above the crowd cheering in appreciation. A heavy, nameless fear came over Roger, making his heart race painfully and sweat break out all over his body. Wheeling his horse, he forced his way through the crowd and fled.

* * *

It was the bad beginning of a bad day. At court, where he presented himself for the day's formalities, which included the presentation of credentials of a new cadre of diplomats from France, Roger felt even more of a hypocrite than usual. Because of his wit, his style, and his impeccable command of the Spanish language, Roger had risen to favor quickly at Mary Tudor's court. But he had tactfully let it be known that he had no interest in political power. The life he loved was not here at all, he reminded his new friends, but at sea. His chief concern was building the trading partnerships necessary to keep the country strong and economically sound.

England needed a Levant Company, he frequently reminded his monarch, and an embassy to the Ottoman Empire in Stamboul. English ships had traded in the Mediterranean a few years ago, and there was no reason why they should not be there again. Englishmen were hearty sailors who ought to be exploring the world the way the Spanish and the Portuguese were. Only with strong trade ties around the globe could this island kingdom expect to maintain its identity and its independence.

The queen, he knew, was not so obsessed with religion that she didn't recognize the importance of Roger's vision. She had already made moves to explore trade with Russia under Czar Ivan, and the New World beckoned also. She turned a deaf ear to the Council members who reminded her that seamen and mariners were often free thinkers who had turned against the True Church. Roger was careful not to spark rumors about his own religious beliefs. When at court, he attended Mass faithfully.

Today, however, with the memory of the heretic girl's screams resounding in his ears, he couldn't face Mass, so he arrived late to court, just in time for the reception of a new suite of diplomats from France. Clad in a formal doublet of deepest blue broadcloth trimmed with satin and lined with fur, Roger stood among the other courtiers while M. de Noailles, the French ambassador, presented several new members of his mission. They were receiving a correct, if strained, welcome from Mary. The two countries were on the verge of war because of Mary's marriage to King Henri's enemy, Philip of Spain. Philip was eager to draw English troops and resources into his feud with the French, and Mary was anxious to please her husband and secure Philip's return to her side, and her bed.