Linda Barlow (73 page)

"Direct me to him, then, Harry."

"I ought not. Your man and me, we got to be friends lately. As much friends as a man of 'is station can be with a bloke of mine. 'E told me about you. 'E loves you. 'E'd not appreciate this, I can tell you."

"He won't know," Alexandra said calmly.

"But you—is not honor more important than anything else to fine ladies like yourself?"

"Honor is a man's word," she said to Harry, as she had once said to Roger. "We women care less for honor, and more for love."

"'E's a rough man, my lady. 'E'll 'urt you."

"Nothing that your Master Simon can do to my body will compare with what he will do to Roger's if I do not persuade him to kill my husband quickly with the rope. Take me to him. Now."

* * *

Master Simon was not what she had expected from Harry's description. He was no giant, but a man of medium height and build, well-muscled, but not brutish. He occupied a small apartment in the Tower while waiting to carry out his duties, and when Harry somewhat hesitantly showed her in, he rose and greeted her with respect.

"Baroness?" His eyes flicked over her. They were small eyes, set close together. "I have heard of you."

"Everybody has heard of me, Master Simon. May I sit down?"

There was a small stool in front of a nearly lifeless fire. He nodded, still staring closely at her body. She sat. She could not decipher his expression. Her legs were aching and the babe was kicking vigorously. Jesu! What if Master Simon had an aversion to pregnant women?

"If you've come to offer me a bribe, I cannot take it."

Vaguely grateful that they weren't going to dance around the subject, she asked him why not.

"The baron of Whitcombe is no ordinary traitor. His trial, with all its excitement, attracted almost universal attention. He has become a romantic figure of sorts. His death will be a rare event, a spectacle. And the people are jaded, my lady. They have witnessed too many burnings. But a good old-fashioned traitor's death, with slow strangulation at the end of a rope, disembowelment and burning of the entrails before the victim's still-living eyes, and dismemberment by four horses, each driven toward a different compass point—
that
they have not seen for some time."

Alexandra had to fight to catch her breath. She knew the details, of course, but hearing them so coldly described from the lips of the man who was going to torture and kill her husband was brutal beyond belief. She felt a line of sweat break out along her backbone and there was a roaring in her ears. I cannot bear it. I cannot.

"My lady?" He sounded genuinely concerned. "Is aught amiss?"

"No," she whispered. "No." She sucked air into her lungs and straightened her spine. "Hanging is tricky. The victim's neck might break; he might suffocate more quickly than you imagine."

"Not in the hands of a master hangman."

"That you are a master I have no doubt. But accidents will happen, and no one could blame you if one did." She paused. "You have refused the money my husband offered you because you had already been bought by Monsieur Geoffrey de Montreau, is that not so?"

The small eyes hardened, but the executioner neither confirmed nor denied her charge.

"I will pay you twice what he has promised you. And believe me, you will take no risk with me. I have the complete and unlimited funds of both my own personal estate and of Whitcombe’s. De Montreau is an expatriate French traitor. He is not wealthy, and he is far more likely to pay you off with six inches of steel in your belly than with the agreed-upon silver."

"I am not greedy for wealth, my lady," Simon asserted, in what Alexandra was certain was a lie. "The Frenchman merely offers to pay me to do my job well. You, on the other hand, wish me to bungle it. I have my pride. And, as I've explained, this is no backstreet execution. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of people will be present to watch me perform. They will expect me to keep the prisoner conscious and screaming for mercy for several hours before I dispatch him. It will be a triumph for me. Twice what the Frenchman paid me—even three times that amount—would not compensate me for the loss of face I would suffer should he die too fast."

Once again Alexandra had difficulty holding on to the contents of her stomach. "What did he pay you?"

He named an exorbitant amount. She doubted the figure was accurate, but she did not care. Without blinking she offered him three times as much. "In gold. Payable immediately—tomorrow, that is. I will go home, notify my bankers, and return in the morning with a coffer full of gold."

"No," said Master Simon. His small eyes were hot now, with an expression she could not mistake. "Your gold is not enough."

Her skin crawled, but she forced herself not to betray her repulsion. She allowed her eyes to meet his; she reminded herself of the tricks she had first learned at court, the simpering come-hither behavior of the practiced coquette. If this was the way it had to be, she might as well give a good performance. She also had her pride. "What, pray, might I add to my gold that would persuade you to change your mind?"

Master Simon approached her slowly. Something had changed in the air between them; his air of respectfulness had vanished. Suddenly the brutality Harry had referred to was out in the open, and Alexandra was afraid. "Stand up. Remove your cloak. I wish to look at you."

Alexandra did as he required.

"You carry a child."

"I assure you, I am agile despite that limitation," she said dryly.

He walked slowly around her, staring at her breasts, which were partially revealed by the low neckline of her gown—the gown she had worn deliberately for Roger's pleasure.

"Yet you are still slender, and your skin is fresh and white. And clean. Female prisoners are usually filthy and infested with vermin. How old are you?"

Alexandra wanted to scream, but somehow she managed to simper and say, "I am not yet twenty."

"My wife is thirty-nine, and fat. She reeks of beer." He reached out and fingered her hair, which she had inadequately rebraided after Roger's lovemaking. "My wife is a wig-maker. She does excellent business making wigs from the hair of my victims. Their heads are cropped before execution and I take the tresses home to my wife. She complains, though, because it is often dirty and befouled with lice. Take down your hair, mistress. I wish to examine it."

As if in a daze, Alexandra obeyed. Merwynna, she was thinking, be with me.

Master Simon stroked her hair, then gathered it in his hands and sniffed it. "It is good," was his opinion. "Thick, slightly waved, and a most unusual color. Aye, I believe my wife would be pleased with your hair."

Her patience had reached an end. "I am not one of your victims," she reminded him, jerking her head away. "You know full well what I am offering you, hangman. A coffer of gold and my willing body for an hour in your bed." She pulled her cloak around her once again. "In return, you will ensure that my husband, the Baron of Whitcombe, dies an instant, painless, and merciful death at the end of a rope. And I warn you, if you betray me, if you take my gold and my other offerings and then fail to kill him precisely as I have demanded, you will not live to see another dawn. I have powerful friends, Master Simon. 'Tis your neck as much as my husband's that is at stake here." She paused; they glared at each other. "Well? I await your decision."

"I will take your bribe."

She nearly sagged with relief. That she could have Simon killed after Roger's execution, she had no doubt, but that would not save her beloved from his agony.

"With one addition. I want your hair. All of it. You will return here tomorrow evening at eight o'clock, asking to see the prisoner one final time. You will bring one coffer full of gold and another filled with those thick red locks. I will take you then, your head shorn like a lamb's. I fancy it that way. Do you understand? It is my price."

Her hair.
Once it would have meant nothing to her, the loss of those flamboyant red tresses. But because Roger loved her hair, cutting it seemed almost as much of a violation as the other thing he demanded of her.

And yet it did not matter. Roger would never see, never touch her fiery hair again.

"It is a bargain, hangman."

* * *

When Alexandra passed through the inner gatehouse to the courtyard of the Tower of London, she leaned against the nearest tree and vomited. She didn't notice the dark shadow that slipped through the gates, following her. She was still coughing and wiping her mouth with a handkerchief when a man came up behind her and touched her lightly on the shoulder. She whirled and found a black-robed priest behind her, offering comfort, she supposed.

"Never mind, Father, I'm better now."

"Are you?" asked a familiar voice.

She stared. She was looking into the face of Francis Lacklin. For one shocked instant she simply gaped at him. Then, without having the slightest idea how it happened, she was in his arms.

She felt his hands gently patting her head while she sobbed out her grief on his shoulder. Although he had once tried to kill her, it did not occur to her to fear him. That was behind them now. All that mattered was that the man they both loved was due to die on the day after tomorrow, shortly after dawn.

"What are you doing here?" she asked. "And dressed like that?"

"I've been here for some days. It seemed the only reasonable way to get into the prison."

"But a priest, Francis! You mean you're actually saying popish prayers?" In spite of herself, she was tempted to smile at the image. "I can scarcely credit it."

"Did they allow you in to see him?"

"Yes. I have a writ from the Queen. And you?"

"'Tis he who won't see me... see a priest, that is. Do you suppose he's actually turning toward the reformed faith? How is he?"

"Oh, Francis, they're going to kill him slowly; Geoffrey has arranged it. I've tried to bribe the executioner myself, but what if he changes his mind and goes through with the torture anyway? Up there on the gibbet, Master Simon will be able to do whatever he pleases. 'Tis his pride that's at stake, he informed me. His
pride!
He takes delight in extending the suffering of his victims, making them sweat and writhe and scream for surcease—"

"Sweet God, Alix, hush!" He jammed her face against his gown. "It won't be like that, I promise you."

"I've done my best to stop it. The hangman wants gold, which I've promised to bring him tomorrow night. And my body, of course—that's nothing to me now. And my hair. Can you imagine, he wants my hair. His wife is a wig-maker. She probably takes the hair from all his victims. I have to go home now and cut it off."

"Alix, you're raving."

"No, Francis, I'm not. This is happening." She repeated it, trying to drum the reality into her head.
"This is happening.
They're going to kill him. The only thing I can hope for now is that they kill him swiftly."

"No, Alix, you must hope for more than that. Listen to me." He pushed her back to arm's length and shook her slightly. "We're going to save him. It's what you freed me for, remember? We're going to get him out."

"Are you mad?" She jerked her head toward the thick walls of the ancient buildings behind them. "This is the Tower of London. It would take an army to get him out of here."

"Perhaps. But people have escaped from this fortress in the past. And years ago when Roger and I were sailing together in the Middle Sea, he freed me from a Turkish prison that was even more formidable than this one. We shall use guile. I have already made certain plans and arrangements, but I needed a lever. You may be able to provide it. Come away from here." He slipped her arm through his and pulled her in the direction of the outer gate of the fortress. "It is dangerous to talk here. We will go somewhere more private and you will repeat everything you have so incoherently told me about your attempt to bribe the executioner."

She acquiesced. As they walked, Lacklin glanced up at a guard patrolling the battlements. "Bow your head. You are a grieving lady and I a priest offering support and comfort. We wouldn't want anybody to draw any different conclusions."

They identified themselves to the guards in the outer gatehouse and were waved through. "Oh God, Francis, do you think there's a chance?" she asked when they safely gained the city streets.

"As long as there is life in his body, there's always a chance. Come. I will tell you my plan."

* * *

Deep within the walls of the Tower, Roger Trevor had another visitor that night. He was lying lethargically on his cot, thinking of Alix and wondering if there was in truth a life hereafter, when Harry the warder came again to his cell. This time he brought Sir Charles Douglas, Alexandra's father.

"Hello, my lad."

"Charles." Roger sat up, but made no effort to be formal. He and his father-in-law had an odd relationship. During the early part of his captivity, when Charles had escorted him to London to stand trial, they had developed an uneasy respect for one another. Douglas had indicated that although he was doing his bounden duty, he took no pleasure in arresting his own daughter's husband. Indeed, he made it clear to Roger that were it not for the hostile presence of Geoffrey de Montreau and the Queen’s men, he might have looked the other way while Roger made an effort to escape.