The Golden Dove

by Jo Ann Wendt

  Eyes streaming, she grabbed hold of the mattress, took a great heaving breath and pulled. Her back and shoulders screamed with pain, but the heavy load inched ahead. She wrenched it again and moved it a few inches farther. She wrenched again, and then again and again and again until she lost count, until she grew dizzy with the effort, her lungs burning, her eyes streaming. The heat, the heat!

  Her dame school was swallowed by fire now. She heard the windows shatter, exploding in the heat. Flames raced along the rooftops on both sides of the street now, murky as red blood. Fire drops and flaming debris showered down. She cried out as a cinder struck her cheek. She swatted it away, then swatted sparks off Black Bartimaeus. Pax barked wildly. The heat, the heat! She was going to faint.

  "Jer'cho. Go," Black Bartimaeus gasped, his face ashen.

  "No!" She tugged at the pallet, her fingernails splitting, bleeding. "If I—can pull you—to the top—of Wattling Street—to St. Paul's—we'll be—safe there—"

  To assure herself, she glanced over her shoulder into the murky, soupy darkness, toward the great cathedral. She froze. For even as she watched, huge flames leaped onto the wooden scaffolding that covered the cathedral and spread like a spider web bursting into fire. Within moments, St. Paul's blazed like an enormous torch.

  She jumped to her feet, stunned. They were cut off, ringed by fire. They were lost.

  "Help us!" she shrieked, choking, hacking, coughing, screaming out to the burning heavens. "Precious God, help us!"

  Chapter Twenty

  Dove awoke on his wedding day feeling cranky, out of sorts. He couldn't account for it. Hell, this was the happiest day of his life! He was getting Marguerite today, wasn't he?

  Still, the nagging feeling persisted. To squash it, to stamp it out, he went early to the bath chamber. Bath servants massaged him, bathed him, washed his hair and brushed it dry. Then he returned to his rooms and put on his wedding finery: silk drawers, silk stockings, a shirt of linen and lace, petticoat breeches of royal blue brocade, a matching coat with silver piping, black leather shoes. He grabbed a handful of rings from his jewel chest and rammed them on, three to each hand. Then he took the engraved gold wedding band he would give Marguerite in the ceremony and tenderly slipped it on his smallest finger.

  Dressed, he gazed in his looking glass and knew he should feel as good as he looked. But he didn't. He felt out of kilter with the day, out of kilter with the wedding merriment, out of kilter with his whole damned life.

  When word came from John, inviting him to break his fast in John's room, Dove ducked the invitation. The old, easy friendship he'd had with John was gone, shot to hell. Lately, he was as uncomfortable in John's company as a fish in a frying pan. Each time he looked into John's decent face, he remembered that afternoon on Wattling Street and felt like a Judas.

  So, avoiding John, he took a stab at cheering himself up by going to Marguerite's apartment. Futile. In a wedding tizzy, surrounded by maids and hairdressers, she gave him short shrift. The perfunctory kiss she gave him said, "Go away." He went. But not without thinking of Jericho. Jericho and her warm, willing mouth. He felt. . . hell, he felt lonesome! A queer way to feel on your wedding day.

  At odds with himself, at odds with the whole world, he wandered to his mother's chambers a#d found her and d'Orias companionably breaking their fast together, sitting at a low table in her private withdrawing room. They chatted for a while, but when his mother's glances grew too piercing, too inquiring, he left.

  As the door shut behind her son, Glynden de Mont looked at d'Orias. "For a young man who is getting the woman he has always wanted, Dove looks remarkably unhappy."

  "Unhappy?" Leonardo helped himself to more bread and cheese. "An understatement, my sweet. I've seen happier men going to the gallows."

  She made a steeple of her graceful fingers, lowering her lips to them in thought. "I wonder. Do you think it can have anything to do with that pretty bondslave who was here this summer? The redhaired girl?"

  "It has everything to do with that pretty bondslave."

  She looked up in surprise. D'Orias never tired of looking at her, watching her, gazing at her beautiful facile face, her bright expressive eyes. She was so like Dove. Her manner of thinking was like Dove, too. Quick, pouncing, intelligent, every nuance of thought surfacing in those bright hazel eyes.

  "He loves her?"

  "He loves her."

  "Dove told you that?"

  Leonardo smiled wryly. "How could he tell me, when he does not know it himself?"

  She gazed at him for a full minute, then, vexed, gave him her aristocratic shrug. "Nonsense. Dove is in love with Marguerite. Madly so. And if he'd loved that redhaired bondslave, he would have made her his mistress."

  "No. He loves her, Glynden. When a man truly loves a woman, he does not make her his mistress. He makes her his wife."

  Now he had her full attention. It was a statement that trespassed perilously close to their own problem. In her imperious way, she chose to ignore it. So like Dove, he thought with irritation, so like Dove.

  "Dove is marrying Marguerite, Leonardo, and that is that. I do not wish to discuss it further."

  D'Orias calmly spread butter on a piece of bread and took a bite. He chewed it, swallowed it, eyeing her steadily.

  "Which brings us to another subject you do not like to discuss, yes? The subject of our own marriage?" It had been a sore point between them for years, d'Orias dearly wanting to make her his wife, and Glynden resisting, shackled with stubborn loyalty to her long-dead husband, to her rank, to her duty as preserver and protector of Arleigh Castle.

  "We have settled that long ago."

  "To your satisfaction, not to mine. I want to marry you, Glynden," he said calmly. "I want to make you my wife. I want to provide for you and shelter you. I want you to bear my name. And I want Ginevra to be legitimate. A child of wedlock."

  "I want that, too. But it is impossible!"

  He gazed at her steadily. "In that case, perhaps the time has come when our paths must . . . part, siV'

  Her beautiful eyes widened in shock. Vulnerable, she looked as young and defenseless as a girl. He adored her. He loved her more than life itself. But there comes a time . . .

  "You would leave me?"

  He wished he could say more. He wished with all his heart he could reveal the secret he had been guarding for years. But that would be a mistake. He needed to be sure of her love before he confided such a secret.

  "Not willingly. I would more willingly cut off my right arm. But there comes a time when a man must weigh self- respect in the balance with love. For me, that time has come. Consider your answer, Glynden."

  Rising, he went out of the room to his chamber, to dress for Dove's wedding. He left behind him a beloved and profoundly upset woman. For she knew he would do it. He would leave her.

  After seeing his mother and d'Orias, Dove headed for the bedchamber his Uncle Aubrey used when visiting. He was about to enter when a maidservant came flying down the corridor, slippers flapping, serge petticoats swirling.

  "Lor' Dove? Have ye seen the sky?"

  "What do you mean, have I seen the sky?"

  "The sky toward London, sir. Pray, go look, sir. I hope it's not a bad omen for yer wedding day, sir." She crossed herself.

  Dove felt a catch in his breast. The sky toward London had looked sickish all yesterday. Hazy, faintly yellow. Dog days, everyone had thought, dismissing it. But now he wasn't so sure. He rushed down the stairs and out of the castle. He loped across the castleyard and up the stone steps to the wall, running along the walkway to the gatehouse. John was already there, dressed for the wedding. Uncle Aubrey was there, too. They turned as he came running.

  "What is it, Uncle?" To the east, on the horizon, a dirty yellow curtain hung in the sky like an unwashed bedsheet. Rising behind it, the sun was a pallid red disk.

  "We don't know, Dove."

  "Is it locusts?" Dove had never seen a locust plague, but he'd heard of them, those hor
rendous swarms from Africa that could, in off-weather years, ride on the winds and turn farmlands into a habitation of famine.

  "No. Locusts come in a black cloud, not yellow. And you hear them long before you see them. I've seen locusts in Tangier," Aubrey answered. "But I've never seen anything like this."

  They stood watching, thoroughly puzzled. Now and then, a grayish feather drifted down. Leaning out over the wall, Dove caught one. The feather disintegrated on his palm. He caught another and sniffed it.

  "Burnt ash."

  "Can it be woodland on fire, Your Grace?" John asked.

  Worried, Aubrey examined the horizon. "It's possible," he admitted. "I've never known a hotter, dryer summer for England in all my forty-two years. Anything could burn. Anything."

  They stood watching for a while longer, joined by others. Unable to solve the mystery, the whole group left the wall worried, murmuring. Going down the stone steps, John invited him to his room to toast his nuptials. Dove couldn't squirm out of it. So he went. But he made short work of it, and when John presented him with a wedding gift—a magnificent silver urn, exquisitely engraved with a scene depicting Dove and his brothers riding in King Charles's coronation procession in 1663—Dove felt so guilty he could hardly lift his head to thank John. Death was preferable to this agonizing sense of having betrayed a friend who'd been closer to him than a brother.

  Thanking him with terse words, Dove left in a hurry, leaving behind a disappointed and puzzled friend. But what could he say? I've taken your woman, and I'm sick as hell about it? Forgive me? Shit.

  The peculiar sky remained the topic of conversation all morning, and Dove was glad of it. It took the attention away from him. He'd had enough of idiots asking him if he was happy. Of course, he was happy! To reassure himself, to stamp out his doubt, he visited Marguerite again.

  This time she didn't send him away. This time she made him happy. She let him sweep her into her private withdrawing chamber and kiss the life out of her. She didn't complain about a wrinkled gown. His happiness soared. Eager to prove his love, he drew his wedding gift from his pocket and presented it to her. A lavish diamond necklace, fifty teardrop diamonds set in gold. Marguerite seized it with a joyful cry.

  "It is beautiful, Dove. Thank you!"

  "We're going to happy together, sweetheart," he promised.

  "Immensely happy, Dove." But he felt a childish stab of disappointment. For as she said those words, she didn't look at him. She looked at the sparkling diamonds.

  Despite the unease about the sky, despite servant prattle about omens—which his mother harshly nipped in the bud —wedding guests assembled in Arleigh Castle's ancient ceremonial hall, a hall that had witnessed four hundred years of de Mont marriages.

  Standing at the altar, flanked by John, Raven, and Lark, waiting for his bride to come down the aisle, Dove suffered momentary misgivings. His face must have shown it, for Raven winked at him, Lark whispered a ribald wedding-night joke that made him smile, and John murmured, "God bless you, Dove. May you truly be happy."

  He smiled his thanks at each, but couldn't meet John's eyes. He wondered if he would be able to speak so generously at John and Jericho's wedding, and decided not. He came face-to-face with the truth. He didn't want anyone marrying Jericho. He wanted to keep her for himself. Tucked away like a spare handkerchief. Ashamed of himself, he flushed.

  His thoughts flew to Marguerite. Did she really love him?

  Or did she love his money? The Marguerite he'd grown up with had loved him. Hell, that Marguerite had adored him! But this Marguerite? Misgivings chewed at him.

  There was a faint, expectant rustle. The assembly stirred. Every one turned as Marguerite stepped into the hall, beautiful and radiant in a gown of mauve satin, his diamond necklace sparkling on her breast. She was so beautiful he lost his breath. She sent him a dazzling smile. The same way she had smiled at him in their childhood. All doubt flew. This was his Marguerite! This was the woman he wanted!

  Midway through the sacrament, as he knelt with Marguerite before the priest, Dove faintly heard whispering in the great hall, urgent whispering. "London . . . 'tis true . . . London . ."

  He glanced over his shoulder. In the front row of chairs, a servant squatted before his mother, whispering earnestly. D'Orias and Aubrey and Esme, Raven's pregnant wife, were leaning toward the servant, straining to catch what he was saying.

  London? Dove's spine prickled. Had it something to do with the sky? Dropping Marguerite's hand, he sprang to his feet.

  "What is it?" he demanded in a loud voice, breaking the ceremony, bringing it to a wrenching halt.

  "Dove," Marguerite gasped.

  His mother rose to speak, but she was plainly too upset to do so. Rising, Aubrey spoke for her.

  "A servant has just brought word," Aubrey said tightly, addressing the startled assembly. "London is on fire. She has been on fire since Sunday. The entire city is in flames. Lady de Mont wishes you to know you are free to leave at once, if you so desire. Many of you own properties in London and will wish to see to them."

  For an instant Dove couldn't take it in. Nor could anyone. A stunned silence swept the hall. Marguerite clutched his hand, her face pale. The priest began to pray softly in Latin, and somewhere among the assembled guests, a woman began to weep. Then, the hall exploded like a hornet's nest. Everyone talked at once.

  "My shops." John's eyes were glazed with shock. "My house."

  The fear that had been rising in Dove exploded. He turned on John in fury. "The hell with your shops, your house. Jericho!"

  Spinning around, he grabbed Marguerite by her satin shoulders.

  "I have to go, sweetheart. Immediately. Someone may be in danger."

  "Go? Go! What do you mean?" The shock on her face turned to dismay. "Dove, our wedding. Our wedding."

  "We'll be married the instant I get back." He hit the aisle running.

  "Dove, our wedding!" she cried after him. "Dove! Where are you going?"

  "To London," he shouted over the rising tumult. "To Wattling Street. I'll be back, sweetheart." Sprinting out of the hall, he hit the castleyard running, Marguerite's complaint ringing in his wake.

  "Dove? Dove, this is my wedding day!"

  He hit the stables still running, shouting for stable boys to saddle his fastest mount. Two lads sprang up to do his bidding. Waiting, he grabbed a short sword and buckler off a wall peg and rammed it into the saddle sheath.

  "Hurry!" The lads were hurrying.

  "Ay, Lor' Dove, ay."

  He paced back and forth in the rustling straw, his heart ticking like a clock. Jericho. Black Bartimaeus. The two of them, coping with a burning city.

  The cinch was still being tightened when footsteps came across the castleyard. John burst in, his face flushed red.

  "Wattling Street. You've been to Wattling Street, you bastard, haven't you!"

  "What if I have," Dove snapped, wrenching the stirrup, steadying the skittish horse. "For God's sake, John, this is no time to argue. London's burning! Saddle up. Jericho, Black Bartimaeus—they're alone."

  John's color flushed deeper. "You son-of-a-bitch. You broke your promise, didn't you? You went to Wattling Street and you took her, didn't you! You took her! That explains it all—why she's been so downhearted of late. You rode into London and took her."

  "We'll talk of this later," Dove tried. He grabbed hold of the saddle and started to mount, but John wrenched his arm, eyes blazing.

  "You son-of-a-bitch, we'll talk of it now. You bedded her. Admit it!"

  "Yes!" Dove said, heating, swatting John's hand off his sleeve. "All right, I'll not lie. I was with her. I admit it." In growing anger he added, "I also admit I'll regret it to the end of my days. I didn't mean for it to happen. Nor did she. It just happened. You know how it is with Jericho and me —the fondness there is between us. For God's sake, John! Have a little pity."

  "Pity? You bastard, I'll show you pity."

  Dove was unprepared. John's fist smashed into
his jaw, knocking him ass-over-kettle into a heap of straw, knocking the breath out of him. Dove hadn't braced for it, hadn't expected it. John and he had never fought. Ever. Not even as children. Taken by surprise, he shook his ringing head to clear it, then staggered to his feet. Alarmed, the horse had whinnied and skittered sideways. Regaining his balance, Dove tried to remount. He wasn't about to fight John. He loved him. Besides, John was in the right and he was in the wrong.

  "Fight, damn you!" John thundered. "Hit back!"

  "No."

  With a bellow of fury, John grabbed his arm, swung him around, and bashed him again. This time, he flew into the stable wall, banging his ribs. He dropped painfully to his knees panting. When he could breathe again, he climbed to his feet, furious. He lowered his head and took a fighter's stance.

  "You want to fight, John? All right, let's get it over with. Let's fight."

  "With pleasure."

  The gawking stable boys scampered out of the way, and Dove sprang. It was a furious fight, a dirty fight, with no holds barred, no rules observed. Cursing, panting, they went at each other like maniacs, punching, battering, knocking each other from pillar to post. They slammed into walls, knocking down horse harnesses. They tackled each other and wrestled on the stable floor, rolling from one end of the stable to the other, rolling under the sharp, pawing hooves of startled whinnying horses. They cursed and grunted and strained. They rolled through horse dung. The strong pungent smell mixed with the salty smell of Dove's own blood, which spurted from his bashed nostril.

  Alerted by the uproar, stable hands came running. Panting, struggling with John, Dove cursed them. "Get out of here!"