Linda Barlow (58 page)

Alexandra broke the circle of hands, too angry to be terrified. Pris Martin cried out softly, in obvious dismay, and made the sign against evil.

"You are a demon," Alexandra said. "Merwynna is possessed. Be gone! And do not threaten me—I am not the prey of such as you."

The Voice continued to laugh, less maliciously now, sounding amused. "What I am is beyond your understanding. But I mean you no harm. We are linked: I, you, the wisewoman, the child in your womb. She is female. If you survive to birth her, she will live a full life and long. But put one foot wrong, and you will both die."

"What good is prophecy if anything can happen?"

"I tell you what is probable. There are no assurances."

Merwynna shifted spasmodically in her seat and moaned. "We have had excellent contact today," the Voice said cheerfully, "but it is too intense for this elderly one. She is weakening. Fare thee well. Persevere." There was a quiet hiss, as of a spirit leaving a body, then Merwynna's head fell forward onto her chest.

Alexandra jumped up and threw her arms around her old friend and mentor. For a moment she feared Merwynna was dead, for she was still and cold; she seemed to have no heartbeat. Alexandra quickly put her fingers to the large artery in the wisewoman’s throat, and was relieved to feel the light, rapid flutter of her blood. "Blessed God. She lives."

Pris had backed away to the cottage door. "She's possessed by a demon."

"Whatever it was, it’s gone now," Alexandra said sensibly. "Help me get her over to that mattress."

Pris helped, but she didn't look happy about it. "I'd heard she was a witch, but I never knew she was capable of such. Aren't you frightened, Alexandra?"

"Not of Merwynna. She has some odd friends, I'll admit."

"Did you understand everything that was said?"

"No. But the Voice has been right before."

"What it said about your stars? Perhaps that was a reference to your birth sign. 'Beware the fire?' Francis Lacklin once told me that he was born under the sign of Sagittarius. It is a fire sign."

"And Roger was born under Scorpio, a water sign."

'"Trust the water.'"

"I trust him now. When first the Voice spoke to me, I did not."

"And the earth? Who is that?"

"Alan," Alexandra realized. "He is a Taurus—an earth sign. 'One who dares not.' Embrace him, but let him go. I think, Pris, that you are right."

Pris gave her a sympathetic look. "And the child in your womb? You are pregnant?"

Alexandra made a face. '"Tis a mixed blessing, to be sure."

"Then we are sisters," said Pris, and for the first time since they'd known one another, the two women embraced.

Pris insisted upon leaving. She would not go to Whitcombe, she said; she didn't wish to see the place again. Particularly considering the Voice's urgings that she was to tarry no longer, she wanted to return to the only place where she felt safe. "I've made some friends in Oxford."

"A man?" Alexandra couldn't resist asking.

Pris shook her head, a little sadly, Alexandra imagined. She hoped Priscilla would find a man, a good man, one who would marry her and give her children.

"And you? You love Roger. I've known that since last summer. Why did you leave him?"

Absurdly pleased to have the young woman as her confidante after all that had happened in the past to keep them apart, Alexandra told her. When she'd finished, Pris took her hand and clasped it tightly. "You and he will be together again. I feel sure of it."

"I hope so."

"Guard yourself and your child. Forget about this latest problem. Justice will come to Francis Lacklin sooner or later."

"He's not a bad man," Alexandra said slowly. "Ruthless, yes. He will kill if he has to, of that I am sure. But I can't help thinking that if he killed Will, it must have been an accident... it's something he would have been wary of doing, you see, because of Roger, whom he loves."

"Maybe Roger is why he did it. So Roger would be Baron of Whitcombe someday."

"But Roger has never wanted that."

"The Catholic lords are strong in the north," Pris reminded her. "Whether Roger desired it or not, Francis may have needed a leader he could count upon in this part of the country."

"You’re right. My brain is working slowly today. I don't think it wants to hear any of this. It certainly doesn't want to face up to the truth."

"What happened was no accident. He lured Will out. He murdered the half-wit, Ned, because of his suspicion—it can't have been more than suspicion—that Ned had seen something that night. He's not a bad man, you say. Yet he sat by Will's bed, pretending to be praying for him, for three entire days. You've realized why, I trust?"

Alexandra swallowed hard. "So he could silence him if Will showed any signs of coming out of it alive?"

"He must have been terrified that Will would open his eyes and accuse him."

Dear Christ, so he must. Alexandra had a vision of herself sitting faithfully beside Francis' sickbed on the
Argo. I fear you'll rue the day you brought me back.
Curse you, Francis! I should have let you die.

Alexandra and Merwynna put together some food and water for Priscilla, who insisted on setting out for the London road immediately. But before she left, Alexandra sat down with her and copied out her account of everything she knew and suspected about the circumstances of Will's death. It was a formal deposition, signed by Pris and witnessed by Alexandra and Merwynna. And when it was done, Alexandra dutifully made a second copy, which they also signed.

"One copy is for you to keep," she told Pris, "and one for me. We will be widely separated, and it is unlikely that Francis Lacklin can come back and kill both of us. Now, which of us shall keep the note you sent to Will—or rather, the note you
didn't
send to Will?"

Pris handed the note to Alexandra. "I am a heretic. I dare not take this matter before a magistrate. You must bear that responsibility. I've done all I can do."

"I know. And I thank you for it."

"Good-bye. Take care of yourself." Pris touched Alexandra's girdle gently. "And the child. I will pray for you."

"Thank you." Alexandra smiled and added, "I'm glad we were finally able to become friends. Even for so short a time."

"I always liked you. 'Twould have been difficult not to. You were unfailingly kind to me. But I was jealous because of Will."

"I never loved him. In truth, I was never your rival."

"I know that now. Farewell."

As Pris walked resolutely off into the forest alone, Merwynna squinted after her and said, "If I were ye, I'd send a man-at-arms after her, to keep guard upon her for a while."

"Why?" Alexandra looked sharply into her old friend's eyes. "What can you see? Francis Lacklin
is
in the Mediterranean with Roger, isn't he?"

"Francis Lacklin is with Roger. Whether or not they are in the Mediterranean, I cannot say."

Alexandra shivered slightly. "I'll send Alan. If his father's not too ill, that is, for him to leave."

"'Tis an excellent idea. Alan has gray eyes."

Chapter 33

The Cock’s Feather Inn was a day's ride from Whitcombe, and respectable, as such places go. But Roger agreed to stop there for only one reason: it was raining hard and Francis had a persistent head cold. He didn't complain about it, but Roger could hear him coughing. Although three months had passed since Francis had been wounded in the chest on the riverbank, Roger wasn't convinced that his friend had entirely recovered his strength. He felt guilty about dragging Francis into such danger as this when the man was still recuperating from the sword thrust he'd taken on Roger's behalf.

On the other hand, Francis needn't have come. In fact, Roger had done his damnedest to convince him not to. "'Tis folly for both of us to risk our necks in England. Alix is my headache, not yours."

But Francis had insisted. His own work was in England, not in the Mediterranean. He had proved to be helpful in getting Roger from one part of the country to another; the Reformer dissidents had established a network of refuges and safe houses throughout England. With the help of some of Francis' associates they had been able to travel securely through the countryside to Yorkshire, where Alexandra was.

The journey had been uneventful. They had tarried near London long enough to learn that their quarry had returned to her father's house in Alan Trevor's company, only to leave shortly thereafter, headed north. Roger had felt an almost irresistible desire to confront Sir Charles Douglas, but good sense had prevailed, and he had refrained. To announce his presence in the country to Douglas would be folly. Alexandra's father would have no choice but to arrest him.

So northward they had wended, disguised as a pair of traveling friars, a part which Roger, having spent time in a monastery, was adept at enacting. Francis, the Protestant, considered the role demeaning, and played it out with lesser grace.

It was a chilly night for September, and the warmth of the fire in the great hearth was welcome to them both. Roger stretched out lazily on a bench with a tankard of ale in one hand, contemplating the red-sparkling flames, which reminded him of his beloved’s hair. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would see her. Tomorrow he would hold her in his arms. Tomorrow he would press the headstrong baggage down beneath his body and spread her silken thighs. Tomorrow he would make her his again—his woman, his mistress, his love. Infuriating wench! His fingers tightened on the tankard. Alix Douglas was going to learn once and for all who her master was.

His anger with her had faded since that bitter morning on the
Argo
when he'd discovered her gone, but he hadn't entirely forgiven her. Ever since that hellish night when he had nearly taken her in violence, he'd bent over backward to be gentle, solicitous, a true courtly lover in the manner of several centuries ago. It had been a mistake. She obviously considered herself to be just as independent a woman as she'd been before committing herself to his bed.

Deep in his heart Roger knew that Alix’s independence, her quick mind, and her free spirit were among the things he most loved about her. In truth, he would not change a thing about her. But tonight he chose to imagine her as a more conventional woman, a woman who knew the virtues of submission. Aye, the time for chivalry was over.
His
time had come. He would storm Westmor if necessary, he thought, swallowing more ale as he enjoyed his fantasies. In the manner of a ruthless border lord, he would invade the fortress and steal the woman he wanted. This time he
would
ravish her, if he couldn't have her any other way. A tender ravishment, spun of passion, laughter, and joy. He would love her over and over until they both expired of pleasure.

Francis, seated next to him, sneezed. "Why don't you go to bed?" Roger suggested.

"I believe I shall." He clapped Roger on the shoulders lightly, saying, "Try not to wake me if you're going to be up late."

"I'm not. I'll just finish my ale."

Francis was just rising to head up to their chamber they were to share with several other men when Roger saw him stop and stare at the entrance to the inn. The door had just opened to admit a fellow traveler, a woman. Roger gave the woman a quick once-over, then dismissed her. She wasn't Alix, and other women no longer held any interest for him.

That she held some interest for Francis, however, seemed obvious. He was staring at the slender, dark-haired, somewhat bedraggled-looking woman as if he were besotted. Odd. Francis rarely gave any woman a second glance.

But what was even odder was that the woman advanced a few steps into the common room, her eyes searching for the innkeeper or, preferably, his wife. It was unusual for a woman to be seeking accommodations alone. Her husband, perhaps, was seeing to their horses? Roger hoped she had a husband. Several of the men in the inn were drunk and rowdy, and others besides Francis were looking the woman over.

Her eyes briefly met his own. They moved past, then returned, and something changed in them. Christ! Roger casually looked away. In his friar's habit and hood, he didn't think he was particularly recognizable, but they were near Whitcombe, and he knew several women in the vicinity. She looked familiar, but the light was bad and he couldn't place her. She wasn't a former bedmate, was she? Someone he'd tossed for a night or two and then forgotten? He sincerely hoped not. He and Francis had come this far safely, and he'd begun, at last, to feel secure. Yorkshire was reasonably distant from London, and the long arm of the queen's justice would not easily seize him here. Still, as long as he remained in England, he was at risk.