Linda Barlow (51 page)

Later that same day, Alexandra sat beside Francis Lacklin's sickbed in Tom Comstock's tiny infirmary. She was bathing his face and talking to him, determined to bring him back to consciousness. Francis, she had decided, was going to live.

She was determined to pull him through, by willpower alone, if necessary. It was the least she could do to make amends for the massacre on the riverbank. This man was Roger's friend, and she was not going to let him die.

Lacklin's face was still and quiet, his breathing barely perceptible, his bones sunken in the manner that often precedes death. Alexandra could not help but remember sitting beside Will Trevor in similar circumstances, trying to talk him back to life despite everyone's insistence that it was hopeless. Francis Lacklin, she recalled, had been the only person who had consistently watched with her, the only person besides herself who seemed to believe in the possibility of Will's regaining consciousness. How ironic, she thought, that he should be lying in a similar kind of coma now.

Although she had never liked Lacklin, Alexandra experienced a distinct change of heart as she sat beside him now. She had Francis to thank for Roger's continued existence. His big body had absorbed the sword blow that would have killed her lover. That was enough to make her forgive the man for all the danger he had led Roger into.

Had Roger and Francis been wrong to do what they had done? she wondered now. She was no longer certain. Perhaps the dissidents were correct in wanting to purify the Church, to cast off hundreds of years of institutionalized abuse. Should they be burned because they wanted to restore something closer to the simple forms of worship that Christ himself had practiced when he'd walked upon this earth?

As a lady of Queen Mary's court, she had avoided facing these questions for months. Of necessity, she had closed her eyes and ears to the screams of the martyrs at Smithfield—she would not have been able to maintain her loyalty to her mistress otherwise. But now she felt the queen had been wrong to force her religion down the throats of her people. It was the height of arrogance to declare that by burning their bodies, she would save their souls.

Arrogance...pride...the certainty that one was right and someone else was wrong: how often this all-too-human fault caused tragedy. It had led her to believe Roger was his brother's murderer, and him to believe she was Geoffrey's whore. To Mary Tudor all earthly evil took the form of heresy; to Geoffrey de Montreau the devil was personified in Roger. Was there no one who was free of this lamentable tendency to see the evil in everyone else's heart except one's own?

Even those who recognized their own faults didn't seem to be able to stop sinning. She had promised last summer at Whitcombe that she would not meddle. She had failed miserably to keep that vow. And despite Roger's agony over the death of Celestine, he had come within a hair’s breadth of harming another young woman last night.

Sorrowfully she remembered her exchange with Merwynna:

Knowledge does not save us, not even self-knowledge.

What does save us, then?

That is something ye must discover for yerself.

She was no closer now to knowing the answer to that riddle than she had been last summer.

Her head was throbbing slightly when she heard familiar footsteps approaching the infirmary. The door opened, and she lifted her eyes to Roger's.

He came in and sat down beside her. He stared at Francis, his lips pursed with worry. "You're very solemn. Is he worse?"

"No. He's going to pull through, I'm sure of it." It seemed important to say it, to believe it, if she wanted to make it true.

"Then what were you thinking about, love?"

She shrugged and smiled. "Weighty questions of ethics and religion, I warrant."

"That's a sure way to exhaust yourself."

"What do you believe? You're so quick to feign cynicism that I cannot tell."

"'Tisn't feigned. The good Lord and I," he said dryly, "have never exactly been on the best of terms."

"You studied in a monastery; now you shelter heretics. Which are you, Roger, a Papist or a Protestant?"

"I am neither. Don't forget, I've also lived in the Turkish empire. I learned something of Islam, a religion which is more respectful of Christianity than most of us realize. The Quran writes of Jesus and considers him a prophet. Did you know that?"

She shook her head, fascinated.

"Abraham, too. Islam, Christianity, and the religion of the Jewish people are all remarkably similar. They worship the same deity, and their traditions tell many of the same ancient stories. Yet they are constantly at war over the details."

"I have enough trouble keeping the Papists and the Reformers straight."

"Once I met a strange and wonderful holy man from the far reaches of Asia who taught me some of the meditation practices of the Hindus. I have met Buddhists, too, who seem to understand far more of peace and compassion than those of us who live in this part of the world. There are many ways of worshiping God on this earth. I have yet to be convinced that any one of them is better than the others."

She stared at him round-eyed. "Papists and Reformers alike at least are Christians."

"Aye, but what does that signify? The followers of Islam believe that it is they who will enter Paradise while the Christians are cast into the pit. Who, I wonder, is right?"

"You don't believe in Jesus?"

He made a face. "I didn't say that. I consider myself a Christian, yes, because the tenets of that faith are deeply rooted in me. But I recognize that my religion is an accident of my birth. Had I been born in China, I might have been raised in Buddhism, and grown up believing it was the ideal religion."

"But such a belief would have been wrong. Surely there can be only one God, one truth. We must send Christian missionaries to the countries in the world where they hold such erroneous beliefs and instruct them in the redemption of Christ, thereby saving their immortal souls."

"That is the usual answer. Your mind is capable of better."

Chastened, she realized she had just parroted the intolerance of Mary Tudor. "Is there no truth to be found, then? How does one determine what to believe?"

"I'm not certain. There are some things I can't accept about the new Protestant doctrines, but one notion I'm drawn to is the belief that we can each commune directly with God, without the intercession of a hierarchy of clerics and saints. Prayer and meditation seem to be beneficial for the soul. I'm not sure it matters which deity you pray to, as long as you spend a few minutes a day at peace with yourself, practice goodwill toward others, and try, of course, to lead an ethical life."

Merciful heavens. She was in love with a man who didn't know which deity to pray to? "'Tis a good thing you're out of England," she said lightly. "If the bishops knew your extraordinary views, they'd have you tied to a stake in less time than it takes to blink."

"And you too, witch," he reminded her. "Did you not once tell Francis and me that your mentor in Westmor Forest worshiped the Old Gods of rocks and springs and trees? You're a pagan at heart, sweetling, despite your orthodox disapproval of my views."

"Aye," she laughed, chastened once again. "'Twas Merwynna and her gods I called upon for help when I was most sorely beset," she admitted. "You're right—in England they would burn us both! 'Tis a lucky thing we've escaped the wretched country."

Frowning slightly, Roger got up from his bench and took a turn around the small infirmary, glancing at Tom's other patients in their beds as he passed. Comstock himself was not present; he had gone to attend a sailor who had slipped on the rigging and cracked his ankle.

Gently Alexandra massaged Francis Lacklin's temples. So much had changed since that morning last summer when the three of them had accidentally met in Westmor Forest. These men had awed her then, both of them. Who would have thought that in less than a twelvemonth she would come around to loving one and tolerating the other?

Roger came near again, stopping his pacing by the head of his friend's bed. "Why don't you speak to him," she suggested. "'Tis possible that he will hear you. Merwynna says we must always talk to the sick if we wish to restore them to full consciousness. We must give Francis something to grasp onto, so he can pull himself back from the borders of death."

Roger reluctantly met her eyes. "I don't know what to say."

"You could thank him for saving your life. I've been doing that all afternoon. And you could tell him you love him. That worked wonders, you'll recall, with me."

To her amazement, Roger's expression changed to one of anguish and despair. "But I don't love him. Not the way he wants. And there's a black corner of my soul that would like nothing better than to be free of him forever."

Not the way he wants? Alexandra's mouth went dry. Good heavens, how did Francis Lacklin expect to be loved? She had another image of that morning in Westmor Forest when she'd come upon them practice-dueling—two powerful men panting, sweating, and naked to the waist. Alone, by choice, deep in the forest.

Sweet Jesu. She was not so innocent now as she had been then. "Is there something between you that I don’t know about?"

Roger looked away. "Wise as you are, Alix, I don't think you could possibly understand."

She rose to her feet, the deck heaving beneath her as the ship rolled through the still-choppy seas. She felt a little queasy. Was it possible that he and Francis had a physical relationship? "You really ought to talk to him. Would it be easier if I left you alone?"

He pushed a hand through his unruly hair. "Aye, perhaps it would. Go to my cabin. I'll join you there presently."

But it was several hours before he came to her. Alexandra spent them worrying, remembering his words about the things from his past that would supposedly horrify her. Snatches of conversation came back: "You're liable to be taken upstairs and introduced to certain unmentionable acts of sophisticated vice," he had taunted her on the night she'd showed up at Whitcombe House clad as a boy. "There are mariners here this evening... and you know how they behave, deprived so long of the company of women." He was himself a mariner. As was Francis. It occurred to her now that she had never seen Francis Lacklin with a woman.

"Except for brother-killing," he'd said to her in Merwynna’s cottage, "there's no crime I haven't committed." Christ have mercy. She'd always known that Lacklin had some sort of powerful hold on Roger, but it had never occurred to her before that it might be an unnatural one.

Her lover looked weary and discouraged when he slammed into the cabin at nightfall, pulling off his doublet and sinking down in apparent exhaustion on his bunk.

"Is he dead?" Her mouth could hardly form the question.

Roger shook his head. "No. But he hasn't shown any sign of awareness either, although I talked till I was dry."

"There's no fever yet?"

"According to Tom, no. But I get the impression—it's only my imagination, I suppose—that he no longer has the will to live. I think he knows that I love you, that we're together now. Which hardly provides him with much of an incentive."

Jesu! Alexandra waited, not daring to speak. She was afraid of what he might confess, yet simultaneously curious. Roger seemed unfocused in some way, too tired to monitor his own words. He hadn't slept very much last night. She ought to have insisted he sleep.

"He was wary of you, right from the beginning. He knew I loved you before I knew it myself. In his own way, he's as dangerous to you as Geoffrey was. If you had any sense, Alix, you would pray for his death."

"I would never pray for any man's death," She paused, took a deep breath, and then added softly, "be he lover of yours or no."

Roger raised his eyes to hers, obviously startled. "What did you say?"

Sitting down beside him, she stopped his words with light fingers against his lips. "You don't have to explain anything to me. The months I spent at court were hardly conducive to innocence."

"Alix—"

"I can guess how you must feel about his injury," she plowed on. "Naturally you will grieve more intensely over a lover than a friend."

"You think Francis and I are lovers?"

"Well..." Her voice trailed off helplessly.

"And you're not gnashing your teeth in horror?"

"I don't think I've ever been much of a teeth-gnasher," she said sensibly. "What did you expect me to do? Revile you for it? I'm a classical scholar, remember? The Greek philosophers were always falling in love with some handsome young man."

"Alix, I am not a Greek philosopher."

She thought she saw the beginnings of a smile quirking the corners of his lips. Confused, she said, "No, of course not, but you might have similar inclinations. I can understand that. I think."

"Christ, love," he growled, "I assure you, when it comes to loving, all my inclinations are directed toward females. Francis and I are not—nor have we ever been—lovers."

"Oh." She blushed, feeling like an idiot.

"You have the right idea," he admitted, "but you've got one crucial element wrong. I like women. Francis is drawn to men; that is, to one man in particular: me. But it isn't just physical. 'Tis deeper than that by far."