Linda Barlow (31 page)

"I should like to look my best for my lord the king," Mary added, her voice strained. She turned to Alexandra, her intelligent eyes bright with pain. "A potion for my nerves will do for now. If that proves efficacious, perhaps you will consider sharing with me some of the other
folkways
you have learned in the north. The beauty-enhancer, for example. Will you help me, Alexandra?" She paused. "In return, I will grant you any boon."

It was a plea, and Alexandra had never been able to refuse a direct appeal from a fellow human being in need. Forgetting her notions of what might or might not be foolish, she took one of her sovereign's limp, dry hands in her own and kissed it. "I will help you, of course, your Grace."

"Thank you, my child."

* * *

Back in her own bedchamber, Alexandra wished she had the energy to blend a potion for her own nerves. Her head ached, but she tried her best to compose her body for sleep. Her duties began far too early in the morning. Mary rose before dawn and often worked at affairs of state until midnight. The queen devoted all her energy to overseeing the welfare of her people, but the problems she faced were difficult: severe economic problems, bad weather that had ruined the harvest and left many poor folk to starve, epidemics of fevers that killed young children and the weak of all ages, and of course, constant religious strife. Mary’s ladies-in-waiting were expected to be nearby while she worked, to attend on her needs and offer their support. Alexandra was happy to do this, for she had compassion for Mary. But in faith, she couldn't remember the last time she'd had more than five hours of sleep.

Today had been particularly exhausting. She had danced and talked with Roger for the first time since she'd been at court. To her dismay, her body had thundered to life at his touch, almost frightening her with the force of her passion. Until today she had thought she was finally beginning to quell the unrequited love that had burned in her since last summer. She had almost convinced herself that, unnourished, her attraction for such an unsuitable man would wither and die.

Now, because of the feel of his hands claiming hers, his lips upon her fingers, his body close to hers, she knew she was no nearer to conquering her love for Roger than she had been six months ago. The most she could hope was that it wasn't as obvious to everybody else as it was becoming to her. She remembered Roger's warning about Geoffrey de Montreau, and shivered.
There was definitely something unpleasant about that man.

Before the evening had ended, Roger's enemy had indeed sought her out. From across the room his liquid blue eyes had stared directly into hers, not as a stranger might stare, but with the intimacy of a closer acquaintance. With her newly won self-control, Alexandra had allowed her own eyes to slide casually away, but she was startled. Monsieur Geoffrey, it seemed, knew who she was.

A little while later, he came over and bowed, dazzling her with the perfection of his attire and the gracefulness of his address. "Mistress Douglas? You are a woman whom I have long desired to meet."

"Indeed, monsieur? I was not aware that my fame had spread as far as France."

She was prepared to dislike him, and she expected some artificial comment to the effect that her beauty was known all over Europe, since this was the sort of remark she had grown accustomed to hearing, and despising, at court. But Geoffrey surprised her. "It is not on your own account that I seek you out, mademoiselle. You will forgive me? It is because of my concern over our mutual friend, Roger Trevor. Is he unwell? He looked far more fit last year in the Middle Sea. He has lost his healthy color."

She had not expected so direct an approach. Forcing an ingenuous smile, she tried not to betray her closeness with Roger by giving Geoffrey any sign that she recognized his hypocrisy. "I do not doubt it, monsieur, without the sun to brown him. We all grow a little peaked in this dreary English weather. Rain does not depress you, I hope? I understand the climate is much more pleasant in Paris."

But Geoffrey was not to be deflected from his purpose by talk of the weather. His thick lashes fluttered as he regarded her smilingly. Sweet Jesu, she thought, he's dazzlingly good-looking. If his sister had possessed similar beauty it was no wonder that Roger had desired her.

"A charming man, is he not, despite his peakedness?" the Frenchman went on. "It is said that there are many unfortunate young women who break their hearts over him."

Alexandra's hands closed on the folds of her expensive brocade shirts. Surely he could not know about her hopeless love for Roger. Even if he had witnessed their short interchange earlier, she wasn't so obvious, was she? He could only be guessing, and since it was a guess that other people who knew the close connection between herself and her handsome neighbor frequently teased her with, she had her retorts down pat.

"Having known Roger since he was a nasty little wretch who tied me to trees and put spiders down my bodice, I've never been able to understand the attraction."

Geoffrey's eyes were hidden under his lowered eyelids. "So he was cruel to women even then?"

By the Mass! "He was playful, certainly, but no crueler than other children. I repaid his teasing whenever I could. My greatest coup was the time I captured a garden snake and put it in his bed. His brothers and I hid behind an arras to observe the results." She laughed spontaneously, then caught herself. "He doesn't care for snakes," she added. "Human or reptilian."

She instantly chastised herself for that remark, damning her too-ready tongue. Although she'd made great strides in controlling her unfortunate tendency toward plain speaking, she still had a long way to go.

Geoffrey de Montreau seemed more amused than offended. When a dance began shortly thereafter, he solicited her as his partner. It would have been discourteous to refuse.

He was a far better dancer than she, and she was so busy concentrating on the intricate steps that she was able to ignore the intent way he was studying her. At last, however, he succeeded in irritating her enough to spark comment: "What is it, monsieur? Have I a tear in my gown, or is my dancing really so appallingly bad?"

The fair head bobbed and the blue eyes widened. "Your pardon, my lady, but I am one of those persons who take inordinate pleasure in observing everybody else. One does not learn to dance in the north of England?"

"One learns only when one is forced to. One would rather be climbing trees."

Geoffrey smiled the first natural smile she had seen on his face. "How old are you, mademoiselle?"

"Old enough to stop racing about the moors like a colt, as my mother would say."

"Are you homesick?"

It was a question nobody had ever thought to ask her. Her throat tightened as she had a mental image of cool shady trees and rolling moors. Merwynna. Alan, who was now studying at Oxford. Her mother. Dorcas. "I'm relatively new to court," she hedged. "I still have a great deal to learn."

Geoffrey nodded toward the queen. "Your mistress is difficult?"

Homesick she might be, but she was not an idiot. "No. It is not my post that is difficult for me. My mistress is gentle and kind. I miss my family and friends, that is all. No doubt I'll get over it."

"Your father is here at court."

"My father is a busy man. As you must be, too, trying to avert a war. What will happen if hostilities do break out? Will you be sent home in disgrace for failing at your mission?" She smiled. "For I fear you will fail, monsieur."

She was not speaking of the delicate situation between France and England, and she could tell that Geoffrey de Montreau knew it. The look in his eyes had hardened. "I rarely fail, mademoiselle."

The steps of the dance separated them briefly, but when they came back together, Geoffrey had a new line of attack. "And Monsieur Lacklin? One hears a great deal of the brilliant Roger Trevor here at court, but one hears not a word about his very good friend. You know him also, I presume?"

"One does not admit to knowing heretics, monsieur, if one wishes to keep one's head safely upon one's shoulders."

"Ah, mademoiselle, you are not as candid as everybody says."

"What do you mean?"

"Even though I am but newly arrived, I have already heard that the queen's latest lady-in-waiting is full of
joi de vivre
and disarmingly frank. She will not last too long at court, the gossip declares: her nature is too warm and her countenance too open for her to survive here. Within the year, they say, she will be either married or disgraced."

As he finished speaking, the dance ended and he bowed and moved away, leaving Alexandra red-faced. They say that, do they? she thought furiously. We'll see about that.

Another partner came to claim her, one of several attractive young men who had been paying her considerable attention for several months. His name was Philip Carrington, and he was the son of an earl. Her father, she knew, considered him a worthy match.

"Did that Frenchman say something to insult you?"

"He said I had an open countenance, which is apparently true. Was I blushing?"

"Aye. But not as much as you used to." Philip smiled and swept her off into the dance, and thence into an alcove, where he attempted to embrace her. She resisted good-naturedly, and they finally compromised on a kiss. She did not mind his kisses, but they were not like Roger's.

Chapter 17

The Queen was frantic. In a rare state of combined temper, over-strung nerves, and physical illness—she was plagued with a cold and a toothache—Mary had Alexandra and the rest of her gentlewomen reeling as they attempted to get her ready for her reunion with her husband. Philip of Spain had finally arrived on English soil, and his royal wife was riding out to meet him. He had taken ship from Calais to Dover, and his solid Spanish presence had been confirmed by several of Mary's highly trusted officers, including Sir Charles Douglas.

"He looks ill," her father told Alexandra, after having ridden posthaste from Dover to report the news to her Grace. "It's disturbing how much both have changed in the three years since their wedding. They seem weighted down with the cares of office. 'Tis natural for her, at her age, but he's only thirty."

"A dissipated thirty, if the gossip is to be believed," Alexandra said.

Her father gently placed a finger under her chin and raised her face. Alexandra winced at the concern that flashed in his eyes. In the flurry of activity of the last several days, she had not applied her cosmetics as cleverly as usual. The dark circles under her eyes, she knew, were huge. "And you look like a dissipated nineteen."

"Eighteen."

He shook his head. "March 20—it's your birthday today, child. Have you forgotten?"

"Good heavens, so it is. I'm afraid the days have been running into one another lately."

"Don't you ever sleep?"

"Sleep?" she repeated as if she'd never heard the word. "Was that something I used to do in my youth?"

"Pack your things, daughter. I have applied for, and been granted, a week's leave for you, beginning immediately."

"But the queen, the king—"

"Will both be here when you get back. You're not going with the queen, Alexandra. You're coming home with me."

* * *

Alexandra and her father took a barge down the Thames to Charles Douglas' riverside dwelling. The elegantly appointed house had once been the property of a lord who had faithfully served the old King Henry until the intrigue surrounding one of the king's marriages had thrust him out of favor. The queen had presented the estate to Douglas last year, in appreciation for services rendered; services that were, at best, murky.

Alexandra had known for some time that her father was not an ordinary court minister. The memorable conversation she had overheard between Roger and Francis Lacklin in the great hall at Whitcombe had alerted her to her father's true role in the queen's government, and her own careful inquiries at Westminster had confirmed her suspicions. Sir Charles was quietly acknowledged to be in charge of domestic security for the realm. It was he who made sure that traitors, agitators, and insurrectionists were either brought to justice or silenced.

Alexandra would have given almost anything to be certain that her father was ignorant of the mysterious and probably treasonous activities of Roger Trevor. Unfortunately, however, she knew her father was suspicious. Her suitor Philip Carrington was a protégé of her father's and privy to some of the secrets of state security. Through seemingly innocent questioning, Alexandra had gleaned several tidbits of intelligence from him, including the fact that Roger's London residence, Whitcombe House, was being watched.