Linda Barlow (52 page)

"He loves you but you cannot return his love?"

"Aye, lassie." He spoke heavily. "And it's slowly breaking him. From the time I was a lad of fifteen Francis has given what love he had to me. I don't know why. I never asked for it; nor have I deserved it." He paused briefly, then continued, "You remember, no doubt, that I served my first summer as a mariner on the same ship where Francis was a young officer."

"He was the only one who was kind to you."

"Yes. He saved me from attack, from rape, in fact." He went on to explain that Francis had protected him from the brutality of those coarse Mediterranean sailors. He had been an idealistic youth with overly sensitive emotions, a slender, still-boyish body, and a face that was too perfect for his own good. He had known the gentlemanly arts of dueling and horseback riding, but he'd had no experience with the dirty, body-to-body combat that went on in the dark alleys of every Mediterranean port. Francis had taught him to defend himself, with his fists and his knife. He'd also given him books and taught him to play chess. He'd delighted in Roger's keen, insightful intellect. Despite the ten-year difference in their ages, they had quickly become friends.

"When first I suspected it was something more than friendship he desired of me, I was confused and frightened. I felt betrayed. For all his fine brains and his gentle manners, he was no better than the villains he'd saved me from. Or so I thought at that tender age."

"What did he do to you?" she asked, wide-eyed.

"Nothing. He didn't touch me. He got a little too full of wine one night and expressed the opinion that a male lover could be just as pleasant as a female lover. I understood that he was speaking from experience, and I feared that this was the next thing he intended to teach me."

"So you ran away to the monastery?"

"Aye. I knew little then, of women. I was afraid that if Francis desired me, there was something wrong with me, too. Perhaps I shared the same vice. In which case, I'd better renounce the world and dedicate myself to a life of the spirit rather than engage in acts that I, in those days, considered immoral and perverse."

"I always wondered what on earth drove you into a monastery. You didn't seem the saintly, contemplative type."

"No," he agreed, grinning.

"And afterward? You met Francis again? When you returned to Whitcombe, you and he pretended you hadn't seen each other since those days on his ship. But it wasn't true, was it?"

"No. We ran into each other often in the Mediterranean, and we became friends, sailing together, sharing battle, adventure, good sport, intellectual diversions. I suspected his feelings hadn't changed, but I was older by then, more experienced, and much more tolerant. He made no advances to me, so I didn't feel threatened.

"Over the years," he went on, "Francis saved my life several times with his deadly sword-arm. On the last such occasion, I was so grateful I promised him anything he wanted in return; a rash vow, I realized afterwards. There was one thing, of course, that I couldn't have given him. Thank God he didn't ask it of me."

"But what he did ask was that you help him smuggle heretics out of England?"

He nodded. "When I met the poor wretches, I was glad I'd agreed. This present group isn't the first, as you may have realized. We've been doing it for several months, using other ships besides the three that I own. Francis was organizing the escapes in London last spring before Will died, and he needed my help. He was nearly arrested then, which is why he went north to Whitcombe in the first place. London was, briefly, too dangerous for him."

She nodded, pleased at the way the pieces were finally fitting together—old doubts being resolved, old questions being answered. Which reminded her: "Roger, remember the day Ned died in the cave at Thorncroft Overhang?"

"How could I possibly forget?" he said wryly.

"You and Alan argued because he had overheard you plotting strategy with Francis."

"Aye. So what?"

"So Francis was still at Whitcombe."

"He was camping out in the forest for a few days. There were plans we still had to finalize, and it was always so difficult to talk privately at the keep."

"The point is, he hadn't left for London after all. If he was in the forest that day, he could have been the person who strangled Ned. Which means," She hesitated, then said it: "He could also have been Will’s murderer."

Roger groaned loudly. "If you start that again, I will thrash your lovely backside. Will died accidentally. Poor Mad Ned hanged himself, and Francis hadn't the slightest interest in either of them. There's an end to it, Mistress Never-Give-Up. Now, come here." He got up and divested himself of the rest of his clothing. "We've chatted long enough."

He then began to undress her, encountering no resistance. In sooth, her own fingers flew to unfasten her dress and slip it off her shoulders. Roger's breath caught as he brushed his fingers across one lovely nipple. "Oh my lady. Do you have any idea how often in the past few months I'd betake myself alone to my dreary bed and think of you, imagining how I'd touch you, kiss you, taste you…what I'd demand of you, and how willingly you'd comply?"

"I had a few such fantasies myself."

"Mmm." He was kissing her. "Did you ever touch yourself, pretending it was me?"

"Well..." She blushed.

"Show me how."

"Roger!"

"You can begin here." He took her hand and put it to her own breast. "Do it."

"I cannot. I'm ashamed."

"You needn't be. Your body is beautiful. There's nothing about my desires or yours that we should ever be ashamed of." He smiled and replaced her fingers with his own, massaging her gently until her nipple hardened and tweaked in his palm. "After so many months of frustration, I'm taking great delight in imagining you similarly desperate, driven to fondling your own body and wishing your hands were mine."

"I thought such feelings were horribly sinful and that I should certainly go to hell."

He laughed and pulled her down on him, gripping her firmly around the waist and sliding her up until his mouth could reach her breast. He took the nipple carefully between his teeth and drew upon it, then teased it with his tongue. Waves of pure liquid sensation gathered in her belly and flowed outward to the farthest reaches of her body. She moaned and rubbed herself against him.

"If I order you to caress yourself for my pleasure, Alix, you will not deny me."

"Because I've yielded up my virginity to you, you think I shall hereafter obey your every order? I fear you have a good deal to learn about me still."

One of his hands slipped between her legs, parting the sensitive folds of flesh there. His fingers moved, caressing her with devastating skill. She quickened against him, and his sensual onslaught escalated until he was rewarded with the soft sounds of her gasping and pleading for release. Quickly he rolled over and slid between her thighs, his knees parting her, making certain she was securely positioned for his entry. "Rebellious little baggage. I love you."

"Then obey my orders, sir, and come to me."

"So I shall," he vowed, and did her bidding.

* * *

A day later, with Alexandra sitting at his bedside, Francis Lacklin groaned, stirred, and spoke. She dropped the cool cloth with which she had been soothing his brow and stared at him in dismay. Was he delirious? Merciful God, had he meant what he had just said? Did he realize she was here beside him and that she had heard it?

His return to consciousness was sudden; Roger was not present, although he had spent many long hours by his old friend's side. As had she. Despite what she had learned about Lacklin's feelings for Roger, she bore him no ill will. On the contrary, she was delighted to find out that he was human, after all, with passions and weaknesses. And she was more determined than ever to make him live.

She had been talking nonstop for an hour or so, craftily informing Francis that she was in the process of rethinking her position on the question of heresy. Perhaps he could instruct her about the theological positions of such dissidents as Martin Luther and John Calvin. If the possibility of winning her to his cause didn't rouse him, she thought secretly, nothing would.

Without warning, just as she was gamely trying to discuss the problem of good deeds versus divine grace, Lacklin had started to speak, saying with perfect clarity: "Mistress Martin." He tossed restlessly. His eyes were still closed; he appeared to be dreaming. He spoke again, his voice faint now: "Find her. Silence her."

Sweet Christ in heaven. Mistress Martin? Did he mean Priscilla Martin, Will’s lover? Silence her? She pictured the beautiful, elegant Pris. Had she heard correctly? Why did he want to silence Pris?

Pris Martin had disappeared from the Whitcombe area on the day after the inquiry into Ned and Will's deaths. She had left no explanation for her sudden departure. But when Alan had come upon her in Oxford, she had been frightened to see him. Why? What was she afraid of?

Had it been Francis who murdered Will?

As Alexandra sat there, stunned, Lacklin stirred once more and opened his eyes. They looked into hers with full and complete recognition. "Alexandra?"

"Hello, Francis. So you're back. Your wound is doing nicely, and you're going to live. Roger will be so relieved." She knew she was speaking overly fast—babbling—but she couldn't stop herself. "He ordered you not to die, you know, but we weren't sure you were going to follow instructions."

Francis took several deep breaths, coughed, then stated, "I do not intend to die. There is too much work to be done." He rested a moment, then asked, "Where are we?"

He seemed to be unaware of the startling words he had spoken. Thank God! If he knew she had overheard him, he might decide that she too should be silenced! "We're off the coast of Flanders. We're going to land and set your heretics ashore. Those who survived."

"You seem to have survived nicely, I see." His voice was reedy from disuse. "Has Roger forgiven you? He must love you even more than I thought."

"I didn't betray you." How dare you accuse me of anything, she was thinking. You're lying there talking about searching out a poor frightened widow and silencing her. "But that is a long story. 'Twill keep until you're stronger."

There was a brief silence. Then: "It was you urging me to live?"

"Yes. Roger too—both of us."

"You called me back. I owe you my life."

"Nonsense." She thrust her hands into her lap, afraid he might notice their trembling. "You're a strong man, and, as you say, you did not intend to die."

"Nevertheless, I thank you." She thought she saw the glimmering of a sardonic smile cross his lips. "Was I dreaming or were you actually expressing interest in the reformed beliefs some minutes ago?"

"Ah, that brought you back, did it? I thought it might."

"And did we talk at all, then? My memory is fuzzy. I seem to recall speaking to someone. Was that you?"

Jesu! "You must have been dreaming. You've been unconscious for two days. You did not speak until just now when you opened your eyes."

"Indeed?" He was gazing up at her in a most disconcerting fashion. He closed his eyes, obviously exhausted from the effort he had made. Softly he added something that sent ghostly fingers scurrying up and down her spine: "I fear you'll rue the day you brought me back. You and Roger both. God help us all."

Part III

The Argo, July 1557

The joy of love is too short, and the sorrow thereof, and
what
cometh thereof, dureth over-long.

—Sir Thomas Malory

Chapter 29