by Anne Carsley
“I find his glance and touch loathsome, madam!” Julian spoke the words so fervently that some of the color returned to Isabella’s face. “I care nothing for the struggles and policies of the court nor, indeed, who rules so long as I and those close to me are left in peace. It has been so under Queen Mary, and for that I am grateful. She has restored dignity to me and mine.”
“And plunges us into war! Dotes on her Spanish husband to the ruination of this land! Destroys and maims her people. Returns to a religion which is no religion!” Isabella’s voice was shrill, her manner no longer cool but urgent.
Julian took her chance boldly. “I take it that you value this cause of yours, Isabella. And your own life. There can certainly be no illusion about the fate of traitors, and I think that you are that. What are you trying to do?”
“The queen will not be harmed, only brought to see the will of her people!”
“She still values your opinion highly. What will you give me to maintain my silence?” Julian hoped that she sounded greedy. “Keep your plots, Isabella Acton; I care not. But I think that you greatly care about this scheme of yours.”
Contempt flared in Isabella’s beautiful eyes, but her hands were steady as she clasped them in front of her. “Money, jewels, a younger husband than the one chosen for you? What will insure your silence?”
There was a burst of conversation in the corridor and a man’s laughter as footsteps came toward the anteroom. Isabella went white all over again, for the incriminating papers were spread all over the floor, and one glance would suffice to tell what they were. Julian did not doubt that there were others who placed these things all over the palace.
“I do not wish to wed Lord Attenwood. He revolts me. Truth to tell, I want no man as yet. The idea of the marriage must have come from the king, but surely war will occupy his mind now. He may even leave England. Speak to the queen, turn her mind from this for any reason that will suffice insofar that I remain at court, and I will say nothing of this.”
“You think to lure Lord Varland!” It was a hiss of pure rage.
“I care nothing for your popinjay lover, Isabella. Take your choice now.” Julian grated the words out, not knowing that her cheeks were flags of color in the dead white of her face and her eyes blue flames.
“I will do as you demand.” The agreement was reluctant but there.
“Swear it. Swear it by your Protestant faith.” Julian knew she had the mark there. Heresy meant the flames if proven.
“I swear by the true faith.” Isabella’s face lit up with fervency.
Julian swooped to the floor and began to gather the papers, and Isabella joined her in the quick action. As the little knot of men went by, one pausing to look longingly at the garden where the flowers were fully in bloom, they saw only two girls engaged in gathering up some blown materials and patting their gowns into place.
He called, “Best to take yourselves into the air, ladies. Tis no day to be indoors as we must be.”
“Aye, sir. We do just that.” Julian let her voice lag as if duty held her. They passed on, followed by several guards of the queen’s household who seemed to attest to their importance.
Julian said, “Another thing. Lord Attenwood spoke of almost immediate marriage. That course must be deflected soon. Within the next several days. You see, Isabella, my silence is cheaply bought. I want only my freedom.”
Isabella Acton stowed the offending papers in the billowing sleeve of her gown and started toward the garden, Julian at her heels. “I have given my promise, and it will be done. The queen heeds me in much, that is true.”
The sky was cloudless overhead as they emerged into the summer day. Pink and white flowers danced in one corner of the small garden, and a trill of birdsong lifted up. Julian breathed deeply and felt the heaviness lift from her spirit for the first time in many days. She asked, “What has turned you against Queen Mary? She plainly loves you, did she not say so?”
Isabella’s look held contempt again. “My husband supported her for the throne and died for her in Wyatt’s rebellion. I lost our child in the agony of it. She is obdurate and will yield nothing. There is no tolerance in her. It does not matter that many of her subjects grew up away from the Catholic faith as she knows it. They will still die unless her will prevails. My husband, my Thomas, believed in her right to rule and died for it; he did not believe she should order the souls of her people. Sooner or later he would have died a traitor’s death. It was then that I vowed to fight this tyranny. There are others, and we fight in whatever way we can.”
Julian sighed, remembering her childhood and youth, the promise she had given to the queen. “For all their sakes, keep your word. I shall expect to hear that Lord Attenwood’s attentions are elsewhere.”
“You shall be free. Do not belabor it. Do you care for nothing except yourself. Lady Redenter?”
“Nothing, as you shall find to your cost if you betray me.” Julian made her face hard and cold. She wanted to add wildly that she was pushed into corners and had to fight as best she could with whatever weapons that came to her, that the queen had rescued her and given her hope, that she had sworn an oath to the woman who had led so bitter a life, that Isabella did not fight alone as she, Julian, must do. But she could not; she could only stare at her enemy and hope that this opportunity would free her. The future must take care of itself, for now Julian could see only one day at a time.
“My first assessment of your character was not amiss, I see.” Isabella had recovered her nerve now, and her nostrils twitched with distaste. “See that you, too, hold your silence.”
“As the grave, lady, as the grave.” Julian spoke briskly, as if the matter were receding from the forefront of her mind.
“Aye, even so.” Isabella walked swiftly across the grass and vanished in the doorway.
Julian had won her victory, and strangely, she wanted to weep for the loss of honor.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The king and queen were much in evidence in the next few days as they moved about the court. He had eyes only for his wife, and she shone in brilliance for him, the years fading before the joy of a pleased husband. The ladies-inwaiting were sent away though he occupied her time as much with battle plans as with love, said the court wits in safety of their respective circles. Time passed agreeably with mummings, small hunts and hawking parties, flirtations, discussions of battle strategy among the men and gasps of admiration from the women.
Julian spent much of her time in Blanche’s company, for the other girl had returned the morning after the incident with Isabella. William Parton was pressing his suit and she was hesitating, excited by the renewed liveliness of court life arid not yet' ready to retire to the quiet country. The story that Julian told of being lost was accepted without question, especially in the light of the declaration of war and the fact that on the very night of the hunt party, news had come to the queen that an uprising, backed with French support, had occurred in the North Country. Philip was waging war on the Continent, and England’s support was desperately needed.
“Father explained all that over and over. All I did was ask if William might have to go.” Blanche sighed as they looked at gowns in her rooms. “How dull it will be here if the men go. What of your own betrothed, Julian? I saw him that night. He seems very well set up. Older, of course, but then you act much older than you really are.”
Julian turned off the query with a laugh and went to walk in the Long Gallery. Blanche was dear and uncomplicated, but she longed for someone to whom she could talk freely. She dreamed of Charles Varland often now, not in the passionate fury that had been between them but in the brief aching tenderness they had shared. What would it be to love truly and without fear?
“Madam!” The hard voice sent chills along her spine, and she whirled around to see George Attenwood, clad in brown velvet and fur, a great sword at his waist, walking toward her. A priest and several men waited a short distance away.
“What is it, Lord Attenwood? I
thought I had made myself quite plain when we last met.” She had nothing to gain by rudeness, but the man must be discouraged.
He faced her now, and she saw the leashed anger in him. “Our personal business must wait, Lady Redenter. The queen is sending me back into the north as her personal representative to investigate and deal with this uprising; pockets of it may still exist, and I am given full power to harry with fire and sword.”
He would enjoy that, Julian thought. “You leave now?” The thin lips moved in semblance of a smile. “Aye. I have expressed myself most pleased with you in the presence of Their Majesties. The wedding is being planned, and you will remain in attendance on the queen until I return. Try not to weep at this necessary postponement.”
“Why me? Surely you can get an heir from one who is willing?” Julian asked the question in honest bewilderment as she tried to fight back the distaste for him that must show in her face.
“You will be willing, my dear. It is the process of bringing you to that willingness that renders the spice.” He lifted her hand to his lips, and his tongue traced a pattern on her open palm. The slate eyes met her aquamarine ones, and Julian saw anticipation there.
“My lord, we must hasten.” The priest was walking forward, apparently he was to travel with them.
Julian pulled away and lifted her white face to him. “Holy Church protect us all from evil.” The shaking voice caused them to look at her, and she caught the brief suspicion in Attenwood’s glance before he bowed punctiliously.
“Hold that in your mind until we meet again, lady mine.” Only she could hear the derision in his voice.
The priest said, “Pray for us all, dear child. Our cause is just.”
“I shall go to the chapel now.” She turned as if she could not bear to watch them go, then walked on shaking legs in that general direction while they went from her. Curse him. Curse him. The words rang in her mind as she moved, and a thought began to take shape. There was but one path of safety now, and right gladly would she take it.
She felt the need for action. It would be a blessing to ride out in the park, but that would entail a change of clothes, grooms, servants, and explanations. A long brisk walk by the river on the far side of the grounds would clear her head and give vent to the emotions that she did not dare release openly.
Her brown velvet gown was too warm for the pace she took, but it did not matter. The path where she walked had not been fully cleared as yet by those who kept the palace grounds, and new growth rioted everywhere in tangled blossoms and dropping feathery branches. Ferns swayed in the warm wind that dimpled the water of the Thames. She paused to pick a flower from one of the bushes and held the golden blossom to her nostrils for a heady breath. As she did so, she caught a glimpse of the figure standing under the concealing branches of a tree close to the path and only a few yards from her. Something about the stillness of it held her back.
“Julian Redenter?” The question was low-pitched, and instinctively she moved a little closer. He moved out then, a short square man with a nondescript face and powerful body. “Lady Julian?”
A messenger? But she had not known that she would walk here. “Yes, what is it? I am Julian Redenter.”
He seemed to slide over the space between them. She caught her skirts in both hands so that she might run, for fear had begun to swell in her mind. Rape—and by a peasant! Then he had her in both hands and was pulling her back under the tree, one hand over her mouth. She bit down with all her strength, but it did no good; the skin was hard as horn. He was chortling happily to himself, and she realized with panic that her struggles amused him.
It was not to be rape, it seemed, for he was squeezing her throat, ignoring her twistings and thrashings. Thought was blurring for Julian when he lifted the fingers from her neck long enough for her to get a gulp of air and spoke to her in a hard guttural voice.
“Drowned because your lover couldn’t marry you, that’s it. I waited—they said you’d come out soon enough, and here you are. Can’t touch, just drown you—what a waste! They said you’d know why this was being done. By the time your body comes up none of it will matter.”
The inexorable fingers closed on her throat, but the brief respite had enabled her to raise her hand to his face. She brought the fingernails down the length of it with all the power that fear for her life could bring. He cursed savagely but held on to her. The world tilted, and he released her mouth to wipe the blood that she felt on her fingers. There was no power in her to scream; all she could do was flail with her body and arms. Death was very close and she knew it.
The thought drove her to a final act that did not take conscious thought. With the last of her strength she drove her fingers into the hollow of his throat in a trick she had seen fighters in the village do. He gagged but held on and began to pull her along as he moved toward the river. Darkness enveloped her as sounds faded away. Then she was thrown back onto her side, gasping and gagging in the river mud while growls and cries forced themselves into her consciousness. There was a final curse, a rattle of metal, something sharp digging at her, then a great splash. Hands were on her face now, and she opened her eyes.
The dark face of Charles Varland stared down at her, and directly behind him was a huge gray dog, its mouth bloody. Heaven or hell, how did he come to be there? But what did it matter so long as he was there? She opened her mouth to tell him, but nothing would come out except a tiny mewling sound.
His face twisted and he drew her to him, cradling her as the tears began. Her arms went around him, and they held each other close, her name a litany in his voice, a tenderness she had never thought to hear from the arrogant lord.
They stayed that way for a time until Julian’s shivers began to slow and the reality of his warm body, smelling of sun, and leather, the strength of his powerful arms, the dark curls fanning against her cheek, overcame the nightmare of the past minutes. She stirred tentatively, and he rose to carry her back in the depths of the greenwood where a shield of greenery hid them completely. He lowered her into a small cleft in the ground where ferns made a nest and then stood away to look at her.
“You are all right, Julian? What madness is it to walk alone this way with times as they are? You could have been killed.”
She tried to speak and found that she could only muster a hoarse whisper. Her throat felt on fire. “Where is he?”
“In the river with his throat torn out. He jumped at the last minute trying to get away from Osiris here.” The dog whined at the mention of its name, and Charles dropped a caressing hand to the smooth head. “Probably some lout thinking he could get away with several robberies or worse around the grounds here. You are fortunate that I happened to be giving Osiris exercise; few people come along here.” He bent to look at the bruises on her throat, touching them with an exploratory finger. “You will need to wear jewels or scarves for a while. You are not otherwise injured? He did not...”
“No. He meant to kill me. It was deliberate. He was waiting for me and said I would know why.” She had begun to shake again, the wet skirts and bodice of her gown making her chilled even in the warmth.
Charles shook his head. “I don’t wonder that you are upset. Most women would still be shrieking with terror. But who would want to kill you? Julian, lady, this is a terrible thing, but it is all over.”
“It was deliberate.” Julian knew that she would walk in fear through the days and lie awake in the nights waiting for the terror to come again. She could expose Isabella and her friends—she was both dangerous and expendable.
Charles saw her face go even whiter as the pupils of her eyes dilated and the hollows under her high cheekbones grew deeper. Her hands clutched convulsively, and her whole body went stiff. He sank down beside her and began to kiss her face, her fingers, her bruised neck, while his hands rubbed warmth into her chilled flesh. “You must get out of that gown.” He picked up a small flask from the ground where it lay with his cloak and held it to her lips. She turned her head away but he
forced it on her, lifting her hands so that they closed around the sides. Then he began to work on the laces of her gown.
Julian drank deeply and saw the shapes around her grow more distinct. She felt the sun penetrate the fearful cold that engulfed her, the warmth of the dog as he settled at her side. The weight of the velvet gown was removed from her unresisting body and spread in the sun to dry. Then Charles rubbed her partially wet hair with one corner of his cloak, paying no heed to the great stains left on the soft fabric.
“It is so cold, Charles. Cold as the grave. Is it punishment, do you think? What else could I do? She meant to have me killed.” Over and over the words repeated themselves as the aquamarine eyes stared beyond him.
“Julian. It is all right. I am here.” When she made no response, Charles set his mouth on hers, kissing her long and deeply, moving his long fingers over the swell of her breasts and onto the smooth bare arms. He trailed kisses over her face and murmured endearments. Then he drew the slender body to his own and held it the length of his so that every part of them touched while his mouth drew tenderly on hers.
Julian was wrapped and laved in warmth as she opened her eyes and looked into the green-gray ones so close to hers. They held only answering warmth and caring, his mouth and hands spoke of the same, and her own mouth softened under his. Her breasts felt as if they would burst free from the thin shift and bodice. Her blood, so nearly frozen, began to move freely, hotly, in her veins once more. She lifted her arms and touched the powerful shoulders, the pulsing muscles of his brown neck. He kissed the corner of her mouth and made as if to hold her while they rested.
“Charles. Charles. Dear Charles.” Her voice was clearer now, devoid of nightmare.
“You are sure? I do not want to hurt you.” His touch was a drifting feather, a cloud, a rose petal on her skin.
“I am sure.” Her eyes shone into his.
Then the greenwood faded for Julian as he gathered her to him, and their bodies met in the very restoration of life itself. This was gentleness and cherishing, flame running liquid under her skin, a yearning that built and grew until it encompassed all things. His fingers played in the soft curls of her hair, went along her chin, cupped her face for a moment, and went to the tumescence of her nipples as she murmured in the transport of pleasure.