Linda Barlow (41 page)

"That's strange."

"It hardly matters now, does it? Lacklin had already ridden off when Roger caught me, which is probably what saved my neck. Lacklin is the very devil with a sword, as you know, and unlike Roger, he doesn't hesitate to use it."

"Very pious," she said sarcastically.

"I know you've never liked him. He terrifies me, to tell you the truth. Roger can be cruel, even vicious when he’s angry, but he always calms down and comes to his senses. Lacklin, on the other hand, he’s just cold. Fathomless. I think he’s capable of almost anything.

"Anyway, Roger made me swear never to reveal what I’d overheard. That was the promise I'd made him; that was the reason I couldn't explain to you what had caused the argument between us. I've known all this time, you see. Until I went to Oxford and learned to take a different view of the need for reformation in the Church, Roger's heretical activities seemed to me to prove him a villain."

Alexandra was having difficulty taking it all in. Francis Lacklin had not left the area around Whitcombe when he'd claimed to have done so. Which meant that he could have strangled Ned. And murdered Will?

She reminded herself that she had enough problems without dredging up that old mystery again. Her carefully reasoned conclusions had been woefully incorrect. She must not make the same mistake twice.

As for Alan, he had apparently been as indefatigable a meddler as she. He had known more details about Roger's plottings with Lacklin than she'd ever learned herself. "God's teeth, Alan, if only we'd pooled our knowledge. I thought they were trying to kill the queen! I wouldn't have barged in tonight if I'd realized they were planning an errand of mercy."

"He's hard on women, though, that's one thing I'm even more certain of since last summer," Alan went on, back to his old theme. "Especially when he’s in one of his black moods. He uses them callously, without affection. Women from the court, women from the alehouses, women—"

"I don't care to hear about his women, thank you."

Alan turned to her, his face white. "You love him, don't you?"

She lifted her chin. "Does it matter?"

"Yes."

"Why?" she asked, determined to have this out. But though he stared at her in anger, his slender body taut in the saddle, he didn't speak. A minute passed, two; then he slackened and looked away.

"Let's not argue, Alix."

One who will not, one who dares not... Damn and blast these Trevors, she thought. But a second later, she was sorry. How must it be to live always in the shadow of a man like Roger—admiring him, imitating him, and still half-fearing him? How must it feel to suspect that the girl you had grown up with, played with, studied with, argued with, dreamed with, and loved might be turning away from you, and toward him?

She reached out and gently touched his arm. "We both love him," she said gently. "Just as we love each other. But one day I fear he's going to leave us very far behind. He'll go back to the Ottoman empire, perhaps, or off to the New World,"—her throat tightened convulsively—"or into the ground. Oh, Alan, why does he take such risks?" She spoke in a low voice, but Alan was close enough to hear her. "He's reckless; he'll trap himself one day. It's the cold, controlled men like Francis Lacklin who never get caught. My father is already suspicious, and Geoffrey de Montreau is openly seeking Roger's death. This refugee plot is madness. If they catch him, he'll die a traitor's death. Why does he do these things?"

They had come to a narrow lane in a not very respectable part of the city. They all had to go single-file through the lane, so the conversation was interrupted. Alexandra’s groom, who knew the way back to the palace, was in the lead with Alan behind him, her following, and Roger’s man-at-arms in the rear. The sun had fully set, and it was now quite dark.

When they were able to ride side by side again, Alan said, "He does it because he promised Francis, who saved his life on some occasion. And I suppose because he believes it's right."

"He's not even a sincere dissenter. He's no more enamored of Lacklin's doctrines than he is of the pope's."

"But he does hate injustice, Alix. And although he hides it, he has great compassion in his heart. I've learned in the past few weeks that hard though he seems, Roger will always help someone whom he perceives to be weaker than himself." Alan laughed grimly. "Which includes most of humanity."

As he spoke they entered another dark and narrow lane. Alexandra was beginning to regret that they had not hired a linkboy to light their way, particularly when they rounded so sharp a curve that she was briefly cut off from the rest of the party. This part of London was not safe to traverse after nightfall.

No sooner had this thought crossed her mind than she heard a commotion coming from behind her, where Roger’s man was riding. Twisting in her saddle, she peered into the gloom just in time to see several shadowy figures converge on the man and haul him off his mount. Cutpurses? "Alan," she said sharply. But ahead of her Alan’s horse had been wrenched to a stop, and a moment later she too was surrounded.

It happened so fast. These were not cutpurses. There were too many of them, and they were armed and well-mounted. Her groom and Roger’s armsman had been pummeled to the ground, and when she and Alan were herded out of the narrow lane to a wider street, she heard a voice that chilled her.

"Are we talking about the same Roger?" said Geoffrey de Montreau. "Just, compassionate, and a helpmeet to his fellow man? Impossible, mes amis. The two of you are going to help him, however. You're going to assist him in making a swift end to his miserable life."

Chapter 22

It was, of course, a trap. Alexandra knew it instantly. Everything that had happened, from the apparent accident on the quay yesterday morning, to Geoffrey's voice now in the dark of a London street, had been cleverly calculated: his warning this afternoon that had driven her to Roger; these men, who must have been following them, waiting for a suitably dark place to launch their attack. Sweet Jesu! She and Alan had been so absorbed in their discussion that they hadn't paid sufficient attention to their surroundings.

And now? Alexandra's blood curdled at the thought of what was going to happen now. Alan, she realized, didn't have any idea who Geoffrey was. When the armed men brandished their weapons and seized his reins and hers, he reacted with confusion.

"Alix, who are these fellows? They're not dressed as the queen's guard."

"They’re not the queen’s guard." Surrounding them were close to dozen soldiers, none of whom wore identifying badges. "Don't say anything. I expect they're going to be asking us a few questions."

Alan's horse skittered, and she could sense his fear. Oh, please, Alan, be brave, she thought silently. She remembered all the times when, as a child, Alan had cravenly broken down because of his older brothers' taunting. What if Geoffrey threatened him with torture and he confessed Roger's plans for the rescue of the heretics?

What if they threaten you with torture, she asked herself, and you confess? "Whoever they are, they can't do more than harass us. They'll have my father to reckon with, not to mention the queen."

"Aye," said Alan, looking nervously around. "May God grant that you're right."

"Monsieur," Alexandra greeted Geoffrey coldly. "What is the meaning of this? How dare you delay us? I am on a private mission for the queen."

Geoffrey smiled, his perfect features triumphant. "I know all about your private mission." He smirked and nodded to one of the thugs who seized her hands and bound them together with rough cord. Another member of the troop was doing the same with Alan. "You’re both coming with me. This is Trevor’s brother, I presume? All the better."

"You imagine I will yield so easily?" Alexandra drew breath to scream, but her cry was cut off by one of the guards, who covered her mouth with a mail-gloved hand. Despite his bound wrists, Alan heaved himself at her attacker, but was seized by two others. They were big, burly fellows, more than capable of restraining the struggles of a woman and a youth. She and Alan were trussed up and thrown over the backs of their horses, then led quickly through the streets of the dark indifferent city, where such scuffles were ignored by honest, god-fearing folk who knew better than to venture out after nightfall.

 
It was not long afterward that she and Alan were dragged off the horses and driven through the gates of a looming house. They were marched up the path and inside the heavy doors, then down a narrow circular stairway to a cellar that was even darker and dingier than Roger's. The ill-lit chamber to which they were taken was a dungeon. There were no rings or chains or metal cages, just a well-oiled and new-looking rack constructed of light, unvarnished wood that still smelled of the forest.

They were greeted by a beefy thug of a man with a bald pate and a cruel face and his two youthful but husky associates. Alexandra heard Geoffrey de Montreau dismiss the soldiers at the door to the torture chamber, then the sound of a clanging door and a twisting key. The back of her gown was wet with sweat, and she could hear Alan's frantic breathing beside her. She reached for his hand, which was shaking. He was even more frightened than she was.

"The devil, what's this—a pair of children?" said the master of the rack. "Conspiracy begins young now, eh? Well, is it to be ladies first, or is the gentleman chivalrous?"

Alexandra stepped forward. The questioner was English, while the guards, she believed, had been French. She was not certain who held them, but if this fellow was employed by the state, perhaps they had a chance. "I demand to be taken before the queen at once. I am Alexandra Douglas, lady-in-waiting to her Grace. If you continue to treat me in this despicable and illegal fashion, I assure you, you will be severely punished."

The fellow guffawed, and Geoffrey strolled to Alexandra's side, saying, "Good try, but you're in private hands, cherie. He works for me. I heard that he was efficient at his job, so I offered him a good deal more money than the crown was willing to pay. He's very skilled, mademoiselle." Geoffrey glanced at Alan. "Your friend here is looking a trifle pale. Perhaps you would care to answer my questions without any unpleasant exertion?"

"Ignore him, Alan. He won’t dare to carry out his threats. You're a diplomat, monsieur. I can't believe you would go to such lengths all because of a young woman who has been at peace in her grave for two years. I doubt that Celestine would thank you if she could see the evil being wrought on her behalf."

"Alix, what are you talking about? Who is this man? Who is Celestine?"

"Celestine was my sister," Geoffrey informed Alan. "Your fiend of a brother seduced and murdered her."

"That isn't true."

"It's not a point I intend to argue, mademoiselle. Nor is it the crime for which he will be condemned. Let's not discuss Celestine, shall we? I am merely assisting the English authorities in apprehending a dangerous traitor and heretic."

"You lie." Alan said stoutly. "My brother is neither of these."

"No? Your brother threw off his popish views when he left his monastery years ago. He has never respected the policies of his queen, however much he may pretend to do so at court. No," he gloated, turning his attention back to Alexandra, "I know him well, and I have an excellent idea what he is plotting with Francis Lacklin. All I lack are a few details, which you, mademoiselle, are going to provide. It has not been easy, but his destruction is finally in my hands." He smiled with satisfaction. "After what he did to my beloved sister, it seems highly appropriate to me that he will be condemned by a woman's testimony."

"You have chosen the wrong woman. The queen herself protects me. You will provoke a diplomatic incident over this. You may even precipitate the beginning of the war."

"No, cherie. My timing is brilliant. As you will hear tomorrow—if you survive that long—war between your country and mine is about to be declared. I leave London shortly, my peace-keeping mission a failure. But before I go, I will see your lover indicted for treason. Shall we get on with it?" His men came forward, each of them taking one of Alexandra's arms. It was then that Alan rushed them.

Roger must have taught him something in the recent weeks at Whitcombe House, for he managed to floor one of the men with a competent uppercut and send the other reeling against the wall. In the meantime, Alexandra had the presence of mind to deliver a well-aimed kick to Geoffrey de Montreau's right kneecap. Fishing out the small dagger she always carried in her girdle, she lunged for his throat. The mistake she made was the same that many others had made before her—she did not realize that underneath his extravagant court attire, Geoffrey hid the body of a trained and experienced soldier. The kick did not fell him after all, and before she could fix the knife at his neck, he applied a wrestling hold that disarmed and rendered her helpless.