Defiant Desire

by Anne Carsley

  It was with a towering sense of relief that Julian came at last to the hill and looked up at the cathedral, which seemed poised over the rest of the city in both warning and blessing. This was the landmark of London, a meeting and business place, gilded in beauty and crowned with worship. So Lady Gwendolyn had told her, and now her daughter would claim sanctuary there.

  Julian was conscious of glowing tapers, a brilliance of colored glass, images of the saints, and drifting incense inside the great vault of the old cathedral. All the accouterments of what the last reign had called “Popery” had returned in full force with Mary Tudor, and Julian’s eyes were assaulted and lured by the beauty before her. Tapestries, jeweled statues, rich vessels, velvet cushions, the lifted cry of the psalmist to his fierce God as worked in silks, a shining Book of Hours lying open on the seat into which she slipped; all these bemused Julian so that she let the cloak slip from her head as she looked about in awe.

  The chapel at Redeswan had been partially restored after it became permissible to hear mass again, but much of it had been destroyed in the first savagery of revenge on the “traitor Redenter,” as he had been styled by the furious Henry VIII. Julian heard the lilt of plainsong and understood the peace it could give. She sank to her knees, folded her hands, and looked up at the altar as she wondered how best to gain the attention of a priest without going to confession.

  There was a murmur to the side of her just then, and she saw a cowled monk motioning to someone beyond her. She turned to look but saw no one. Her head swung back, and she saw that he was gesturing toward her head, that it should be covered in the gesture of respect. Quickly she rose and made her way toward him as she pushed the tumbled hair back from her suddenly flushed face.

  “Father, I am in trouble and need of help.”

  “Cover yourself, daughter, and go on your knees not only for yourself but for us all. This has been a bitter day, and what are the troubles of one compared to the sufferings of Holy Mother Church?”

  She could not see his face, but the set of his shoulders suggested age, and his voice was tremulous. “Good Father, I have come from pursuit in the city, even from attack by those angered against the queen. . . .”

  “What is this? Surely there is respect in God’s own house?” The newcomer was tall and spare, white hair crowning a vigorous face that was now showing anger in the light of the tapers. “I am Father Stephen. Woman, what need have you?” He looked into the strained face of the girl and waved the other priest aside as he drew her discreetly into a corner. Faded blue eyes questioned her.

  “I serve the queen, Father, and when she went to perform an act of charity this morning, there were outcries against a group of us. We were dressed in old clothes, but they knew us for the court, nonetheless. I was in the end of our procession.” She caught a quick breath and launched into the dangerous part of her tale. “Words were bandied about. I was frightened and became separated from everyone. I was chased by several men and my gown was torn, but I escaped safely and have been sitting in a cookshop whose mistress thought she was being kind to a waif. My few coins were lost, and I have just been in a haze of fear. . . She let her voice trail away. This man was no secluded priest of the unworldly type. He seemed to see through to her soul.

  “And you are trying to get back to the queen’s household, then?” He wasted no sympathy on her, nor did he question her. There was a tenseness about him that went beyond such small matters. “How do I know that you speak the truth? Perhaps this is another scheme to torment that most faithful daughter of the Church.”

  Here at least Julian could speak freely. “I was lately summoned from the country to serve Her Majesty, and she has my most faithful duty. I swear it.”

  He said, “They shouted against her in the streets and maligned the king, her husband, crying out against the fires that purge the heretics, shouting against the Queen’s Majesty herself. There was a pitched battle, a small one that was quickly put down, but eloquent of the times. She performed her errand of kindness but has retreated in pain and grief. I think she will venture no more among her people.”

  His eyes flamed with a holy zeal. “This is an evil age.”

  Julian breathed out in exasperation. Heaven deliver her from all fanatics, be they Protestant or Catholic. “My name is Julian Redenter, lady-in-waiting to Her Majesty. I would not cause her further grief by vanishing or seeming hurt. Will you help me?” This time her voice had the ring of the aristocrat, and Father Stephen peered more closely at her.

  “There are those at Whitehall who will know you?”

  There was a commotion at the back of the church just then as several men strode in, not bothering to give reverence due. Julian saw that one of them was Matthew, the servant of Charles Varland. Another figure, taller and well cloaked, with a hat pulled down to conceal his features, stood apart. Julian would have known him in sackcloth or shroud, so strongly did her blood leap. It was Charles himself.

  Matthew walked purposefully toward her; the aureole of bright hair and proud stance had easily marked her. Two men followed him closely. Father Stephen moved back a little and left her to face them. They came up fully to her, and Matthew, the picture of concern and determination, put a hand on her arm.

  “You must come back with us, lady. Your husband is most anxious about you when you have these spells. Come now, all is well at home. There is no need to run away, you know.” He nodded to the men who advanced to her side.

  Julian felt the blood rise to fever heat in her. She had not thought Charles would go to such lengths to have her back. Surely that meant that he regarded her as more than a casual plaything? She had only to go with them now, and in the space of half an hour they would be sitting over wine, savoring the growing hunger between them. It might be the only passion she would ever know. Julian struggled briefly with herself and knew that she could not yield herself in such a manner; she was as she was, her pride equal to that of any man and more than most.

  She lifted both hands and crossed them on her breast, then shook the chestnut hair back so that her profile gleamed pure in the light of the tapers. Her voice rose deep and throbbing in the undertone of the chants to God that still moved through the air of the cathedral.

  “Get you from me, evil one! You lie and I call on the power of the Virgin and all the saints to bear witness that I am none of yours. I swear it upon Her and the Queen’s Majesty!”

  Her eyes flicked back to see if Father Stephen was watching. He was, but his face was impassive, not a lash moving. Matthew was fully equal to Julian, for he dropped his hand from her and looked sorrowfully at her, his earnest face quivering.

  “Now, now, the Virgin will tend you and the babe. Come with us quietly, for we disrupt this worthy place. You can come back tomorrow and pray here if you will just come with us now.” He was all sweet reason and kindness to a demented woman.

  Julian looked at the dark figure in the back. Charles had not moved, but she could believe that he was indeed the Dark Lord that he was called. Memory of his tenderness shook her, and she put it resolutely by. Father Stephen stirred at her back, but she dared not turn to look at him. In the far door she saw that a knot of people was gathering, and some of the religious of the cathedral had drifted nearer.

  She spun around and knelt before the priest in the position of supplication, and her voice rose up again in the plaint of the lost and driven to whom the Church had ever offered succor. “I claim sanctuary, lord priest. I claim the right and mercy of the fugitive. I claim sanctuary.” Her voice that had once held the lilt of “Greensleeves” now spoke the ancient litany of safety.

  The thin hand fell softly on her bowed head as Father Stephen said, “It is your right, daughter, and not mine to grant. But you have claimed it and here we stand.”

  Julian let her breath go with a hiss of relief. The hand pressed firmly on her head so that she could not rise without being off balance. He said, “These are none of yours?”

  “They are none of mine nor eve
r will be.” It was as if she wrote the epitaph to passion’s glory. “None of mine.”

  “Go, sirs, from this place. This matter will be sorted out, and you may explain yourselves on the morrow.”

  Another voice spoke into the stillness, a voice with the sound of the sea in it, a voice now gone hard and emotionless. “Have done. Have done.” Charles, too, could speak the epitaph.

  There was the tramp of feet, a brief silence, and then the surprisingly strong hand was lifted from her head and placed on her shoulder as Julian rose to face the clear eyes of the priest. She wanted to cry or run after Charles and say that it had all been a joke, a bit of teasing. Pain reached out for her, and she had a glimpse of what life would be like from now on.

  “Thank you, Father.” She hoped that she sounded sincere.

  The blue eyes were scornful on hers. “You will do well in the court mumming, lady. Who am I to sit in judgment on you? You serve Her Majesty, and that must be sufficient; I can tell your sincerity there, and your eagerness to return does you credit. I have helped you for her blessed sake. Arrangements will be made to convey you to Whitehall.”

  Julian bent her head, knowing that the course of her life was shaped by her actions this day and that she would never again be the same. She had chosen the path from the garden of the rose, and so it must be.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Julian lay back in the bed which seemed to get harder with each passing hour and twitched the coverlet toward her chin. The book of Roman exploits in Britain had not served to bore her into slumber, and she could no longer bear to glance at the chivalric romances she had once loved. Now she knew their bitter fruit.

  “How terrified you must have been! How fortunate that the good priests brought you straight here in their own barge! Are you really better, Julian?” Blanche put aside the book of religious verse that she had been reading to Julian and regarded her with anxious eyes. “It is a pity that you have had to remain abed these past days, but just think—you have had the attentions of the queen’s own physician.”

  “A great honor,” Julian agreed.. A great safety, too, for that gentleman had believed her tale of chills, a ringing in the ears, and a fever that came and went. It was not the season for plague, but one never knew. He had ordered rest and isolation. Blanche was the only friendly visitor. The queen’s friend, old Lady Clarence, had viewed her from the door, remarked, on the efficacy of prayer, then had gone away to make her report. “What news is there?”

  “The king still presses for war against the French, but the queen and her advisors have not yet agreed. There are balls and masques every night, and the Spaniards are so courtly! One of them told me about war; he said the king only came back to get our support. Oh, it’s so boring to talk about that when we ought to be out celebrating the May!”

  Julian laughed, and the other girl joined in. Under their chatter of gowns and gentlemen, Julian wondered if she dared broach the subject of Charles Varland. She was passionately eager to know everything about him, yet she knew the gossip of the court. Her pretense of illness had shut her away, and though it had been her safety, she was weary of it now. Blanche’s easy friendliness made her wonder at the caution she had learned from her youth.

  There was a clatter at the door as the little maid, Nan, burst through it. Her face was so white, the freckles stood out in splotches. She tried to speak and could not, her hands twisted in the skirts of her gown, and her eyes were platters. Julian and Blanche stared at each other, then stiffened as a small figure came through the door and stood watching them.

  “Your Majesty!” Blanche was a tumble of rose silk on the floor.

  “Madam the Queen!” Julian tried to struggle out of bed, became tangled in the sheets, and could not move without making herself ludicrous.

  Mary Tudor wore a simple green gown and coif. The morning light was not kind to her furrowed face and veined hands, but anyone would have known her for the queen. Two ladies were behind her, but she waved them away and fixed Julian with a penetrating eye.

  “I trust you are recovering, Lady Redenter.”

  Julian whispered, “Aye, madam, I shall soon be able to resume my duties.” Her mind raced as she tried to conceive of what enormity could have brought the queen of England to her bedside. “Indeed, I have much improved these past days.”

  Mary said, “My conscience has troubled me concerning you, Lady Redenter. I feel that I have not done my duty properly toward the daughter of one who gave my dear mother solace in her trials. You are a young, untutored girl, and my court is not the model I would wish it to be.” The sandy brows drew together, and she regarded Julian so steadily that the girl felt she knew her secret. “I have addressed myself to the matter, however, and have determined that you shall wed.”

  Julian felt as if dealt a hammer blow. The queen seemed to take her surprise as her due and forged rapidly on. Blanche had risen from her curtsy and backed away respectfully.

  “True happiness is found in marriage, for it is a reflection of God’s relationship with his Church. Lady Julian Redenter, the husband I have chosen for you is of the North Country, one of those who, like your own family, held with me and mine in dangerous days. His grandmother was partly Spanish, and he still maintains ties with that dear land of my husband, with whom I have consulted. He will give you a steadying hand, and you will give him heirs.”

  Julian found her voice as she pushed back the bedclothes and swung herself to the side of the bed. She was thankful that she had earlier pulled on the blue bedgown to cover her nakedness. “The Queen does me great honor, far more than I deserve, yet I had not thought to wed so early.”

  “You are nineteen, girl, and ripe for it.” The comment might have been made by Elspeth. “Lord George Attenwood is not yet fifty, his only daughter is a nun, he has no sons, and his lands are wide. He has been a widower these eight years. I have sent a message to him informing him of my decision and bidding him come to London.” She smiled rustily at Julian, and the girl saw her delight in the matchmaking.

  “Begging the Queen’s pardon, I am grateful, but I do not wish to marry.” Julian heard herself speak the words and could not believe that she had done so. Blanche paled, a red flush mounted in the queen’s face, and even the little maid shuddered. Julian could not stop; the experience with Lord Varland had taught her to fear enslavement of the senses. Who could say that this Attenwood might not rule her flesh in the same way? She wanted tenderness and caring if ever she were to wed. “Ah, madam, I would not willingly give my body and myself into the keeping of another to use as he ...”

  Queen Mary bent toward her, and the sudden warmth of her smile made Julian’s heart shake. “You are virgin and fearful. That is natural. I will caution Lord Attenwood well, for you are near and dear to me by virtue of your own sake as well as for your mother’s.” Her face clouded abruptly. “Many times I was told I would wed this one and that. Told that I would, be given for policy’s sake. I was willing—as a princess must be—but only in my later years did I come into my happiness. I want my ladies to be happy. Do not fear marriage, my dear.”

  She was oddly childlike, this woman who held all their lives in her hands and who could speak so yet order persecution and death. Julian said, “It is not that, madam. I do not want to wed—ever.”

  “You would be a holy nun?” The sandy eyebrows flew together. “Once I, too, thought that. You must search your heart. One or the other, certainly.”

  “But, madam . . .” Julian stared into the queen’s eyes and read the dawn of anger there. She had to do something and quickly. She let her body go limp and slid in a heap at the queen’s feet. Ignoble, perhaps, but she dared not provoke the Tudor rage that she knew from court stories lurked just beneath the surface. Now she began to breathe in shallow gasps as someone slipped a pillow under her head and began to fan her. The queen ordered that the physician be called; and moments later, she felt him touch her forehead and neck.

  “She is still weak and must rest. There is no d
anger or cause for concern.” Then she was lifted and placed in the bed. A pungent odor assailed her nostrils and she began to move cautiously.

  Queen Mary spoke in measured tones. “Mistress Parker, you have been wanting to visit your family in Kent. Take Julian with you, talk to her, speak to her of duty, of the need for one’s life to be settled. Need I speak of your own interest in this matter?”

  “No, madam. I understand.” Blanche was subdued, her tone low.

  “We will visit there on the royal hunt that His Majesty loves within the next fortnight. Her betrothed-to-be will be with us.” She sighed heavily, then turned to Julian before leaving the bedchamber. “You are ungrateful, just as this country is ungrateful!”

  After the door had been closed, Julian opened her eyes and looked at Blanche, who had been given a cup of wine for her. The girl’s hand was shaking so that the liquid splashed on her gown.

  “Julian, how dared you do that?”

  “How dare she order my life?” She reached for the wine and drank deeply. “It is not fair. A fat old lord, coming to court once a year, demanding heirs, and forcing one’s unwilling flesh! Why should I submit to being given as if I were a lap dog?” Julian realized how deeply she felt and wondered if Charles Varland had only been the culminating factor.

  “You are exhausted. Soon you will regain your strength and, with it, wisdom. Julian, for all our sakes, walk carefully.” Lighthearted Blanche looked at her friend as though she stood in the shadow of the block.

  Julian put a hand to her head. She must walk alone and wait for some opportunity to present itself. Had she not ever done so? “The fever, it is returning, I fear.”

  “Kent will cure you; it is the loveliest part of England.” Homesickness rang in her words, and Julian felt a sudden pang of longing for Redeswan.