Defiant Desire

by Anne Carsley

  Julian curtsied again and backed away as the royal couple walked on. Matters of bed, she thought coarsely, for had she not worn that look herself? Did all life come dawn to that? Why not act truly on her improvisation of the moment? Why not seek the cloister and be free of earthly entanglements? Or at least make a retreat there? She would surely be safe and no one would look askance. One of the older ladies bent to Susan Clarence, and Julian heard the whisper as perhaps she was meant to. “Convent, indeed! That one has greedy eyes for our pious king and other gentlemen as well.”

  She heard her laughter rise high and shrill as she swung back to face them. “I leave you to the shredding of reputations, ladies! Is there so mortal a sin as youth?” Their shocked gasps followed her as she spread her skirts and ran over the grass toward the palace.

  Julian walked up and down in the Long Gallery, careful always to remain where there were plenty of other people. She felt as though she were being hacked to pieces inside as her mind filled with pictures of Charles with his bride as they slept, loved, and lived together. What was she to do now? It was not as though she had ever thought they would marry; did she intend to be a victim of passion, helpless before it all her days? Never! She would live with the wound of love, for there was little choice, but her destiny would be her own.

  That night the court was very gay with songs and mummings and the more lively dances of the English countryside. Queen Mary normally did not approve of such things, but now she cared for nothing but the smiling man at her side. Julian, brilliant in cream-colored satin, danced and sported, drinking deeply of the cool wine that was always being offered the dancers, and laughed at the sallies of English and Spanish alike. Her normal reserve left her, despite her announced yearning for the cloister and peace, so that many eyes followed the queen’s lovely lady, wondering how they had missed her before.

  She danced with a mincing young man who kept addressing her in bad verse as they whirled close together and spun apart in the measures of the dance. Her eyes, it seemed, were the very lights of heaven and her skin like the new-fallen snow. His cold, damp hands clutched her hot ones, and suddenly the whole dance seemed very funny as the room revolved around her. Odd, his lank golden hair and sprouting beard were upside down. And how shrill the music was! What were the musicians doing?

  He said, “Is my admiration of your beauty so very funny? I vow, lady, your amusement is unseemly!”

  Now she was upside down with him and they were both spinning into darkness where there was no sound. But wait! Someone was laughing, an angry laughter that went on and on. She, Julian, was being pulled down into a wet hole by eager hands. They were trying to kill her!

  Reality caught briefly at her, and she saw that she was lying across a couch at the end of the hall. A ring of faces, curious and amused, was above her. She heard someone say “too much wine,” “flown with it,” “silly chit.” Or were several people speaking? Nausea roiled up in her, and she fought it back as the darkness floated nearer.

  “Take her to her rooms.” The cool, authoritative voice of Isabella Acton silenced the others. “I will tend her.” Julian saw her shadowed against the candlelight and fancied that she smiled at her victim.

  “No. I will have none of her. No.” Her voice grew weaker as she realized that she had not drunk too much wine. One or more of the cups must have held a poison! Her death would be accomplished one way or another. She tried to sit up and could not. Already servants were approaching to obey Isabella. “No!” The cry faded as she began to shake.

  “Not so. She goes into the private sickroom of the queen, there to be tended by her servants. Lady Redenter wrestles with her soul and must be near the priests in this travail.” The tall woman who spoke appeared as another blur to Julian, but power rang in her words.

  Isabella snapped, “She has had too much wine. I can deal with it.”

  Before the whirling mist took her utterly, Julian heard the woman say, “Those are the orders of Her Majesty, Lady Acton.” A cold hand touched her sweat-beaded forehead as if in salvation, and Julian wondered who should be thanked for both life and death. Then she fell into oblivion.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Julian awoke to a white world; covers, walls, bedgown, even the ivory image of Our Lady in the side niche and the flowers climbing in the far window appeared all the same shade. She sat up so suddenly that her head reeled and her whisper seemed to hang on the air. “Is this the very anteroom of eternity?”

  The earthy laugh that rang out reminded her of Elspeth, but the tall, spare woman who rose from the stool a few feet away was at least in her sixties, and her face was severe though her snapping brown eyes held merriment. Her gown was of black cloth and might have been thrown upon her in the dark. She leaned over Julian to touch her forehead, and the girl caught the scent of roses.

  “You are better. I knew you would be. I am Mistress Wheeler, a caretaker of this retreat for those who fall ill and need privacy; it was established by the queen’s own mercy.”

  “How long have I been here?” She was amazed at the fact that she still lived and felt reasonably well, though very weak. “I thought Lady Acton asked to care for me.”

  Mistress Wheeler said, “You cried out in your pain as you were purged of the black bile. That delicate lady would not lift a hand in such circumstances, I can tell you.” She gave a large sniff and surveyed Julian appraisingly. “You’re far too thin. Men don’t like it. Well, you were brought here late the night before last, and it is now early morning. Can you drink some broth, take a little wine?”

  Julian felt her stomach contract. “I did not drink too much wine. There was something in it.” She met the woman’s eyes unwaveringly.

  Mistress Wheeler laughed again, the warmth surging into her face. “It is not for me to say, surely, but you are young and your marriage delayed. What more natural than faintings and imaginings?”

  “What more natural than the will of God seeking to express itself over frail flesh? Have a care, woman.” The priest who entered soundlessly was black-browed and swarthy, his flesh seamed by harsh suns, his eyes dark lances as he watched them. He waved a thin hand and Mistress Wheeler, shaken, scuttled away.

  Julian pulled the sheet up around her neck, conscious of her weakness as well as the first pangs of hunger. Only she could know how close to death she had come. That realization made her shiver, and she dropped her eyes before the stare of the priest.

  He said, “Madam the Queen is ever concerned for souls. She has bidded me speak with you daily and help prove you fit—if indeed you are—for the cloister, since you have shown yourself doubtful over marriage. If you are chosen, then the troth will be broken. Our God can be a harsh master, Lady Redenter. There has been gossip about you. Her Majesty feels seclusion will be beneficial.”

  Julian felt the chills rise even more. Obviously the man was chosen because he was a fanatic, probably one of the more serious in the train of Philip of Spain, even one of those who encouraged the queen in her policy of burning heretics. This would be a dangerous road, she knew, but the only one to take. Caught between evil marriage and the cloister, a man she did not want and a man betrothed to another! Trapped by her own device between a dangerous bargain and a killer with only her wits to save her! Play for time and take each day as it came; she had heard that advice often enough from Elspeth in her youth. Now it was to help her again. She composed her face into an expression of dutifulness and looked at the priest.

  '‘Truly, sir, I am drawn and repelled by this world, yet lured by another. Counsel me, I pray you, in this that I may not sin.”

  The hard stare did not alter nor did he move from his rigid stance beside the bed. “First, pride must be removed and the soul...”

  Julian heard his voice rise and fade as he spoke on and on, dwelling always on the difficulties of faith and the terrible penalties waiting for those who sinned in thought or deed. What had the gentle Nazarene to do with this? The thought cried in her brain, but she dared not show the sl
ightest glimmer of doubt. All her senses warned that danger was near.

  “I will come again on the morrow. I can see that you will need much instruction.” He gave her another sharp look, then strode from the room as she fell limply back against the pillows.

  Mistress Wheeler was beside her as soon as the door clanged shut. There was no laughter about her now, and the odor of fear was in the air. She put her mouth close to Julian’s ear. “That one is Father Sebastino, very close to the king, very watchful for heresy. Why, it is said that on his counsel one of the maidservants from the palace was recently found in deepest sin and burned for it!”

  Julian drew her breath in with horror but knew that she must not give it credence; that way lay madness. She said, “I could eat, I know, if I might sit in yonder garden and ponder all that has been told me.” She was proud of the fact that her voice did not tremble. More than ever, she must keep her outward demeanor calm. She saw that Mistress Wheeler was as afraid as she and this, strangely, gave her courage.

  For the next three days Julian partook of the peace of this retreat as she walked in the little hedged garden where white flowers of alyssum, climbing roses, edging plants, and pale lavender blew in scented masses. She was left alone by the now cautious Mistress Wheeler, but the priest reminded her of a great bird of prey as he exhorted by the hour, his baleful eyes unblinking even in the summer sun. She saw no one else and was thankful for it; here she was at least safe.

  The strain of the past weeks left her in this time; her strength came back and with it her resolve to win this game of balance. There was a spring to her step, a new sheen to her hair, and the slenderness of her face rounded enough so that she could tell it even in the still waters of the tiny pool in the garden. She was sitting beside it on the morning of the fourth day, dreading the appearance of the priest and fearing he would know it, when Mistress Wheeler entered.

  “Lady! Lady Redenter! You are quite revived, I know!” Flags of color stood in her sallow face as she peered anxiously at Julian, who had risen to her feet at the excitement shown. “I thought you ought to know ahead of time so that you could be properly grateful to the good Father. It might be helpful for you.”

  Julian knew that her face was white. “What is it. Mistress Wheeler? What news do you bring?” She would have sworn the woman held little liking for such people as Father Sebastino or Isabella Acton. Was she, too, a dissembler?

  “I have servants to mind, you understand, this is not my only task. Well, what with the king and queen off to Dover day after tomorrow, and there being less work to do then, it seems that the Lady Abbess of St. Marguerite’s will take you for a retreat. Father Sebastino’s request. The queen will be so pleased!”

  Julian felt as if heavy gates were shutting out all light and air. Was it to this that her impetuosity had brought her? The convent of which Mistress Wheeler spoke was a small one, a severely cloistered order in a poor section of London, famed for its rigidity; few who entered ever left it on any pretext. Life there was said to be harsh yet a blessing to the truly dedicated. The queen might be told that Julian had chosen that life and believe it. Doubtless Father Sebastino had an interest there, ascetics all, and believed that to place a court lady would bring benefits on earth and heaven.

  She spoke carefully. “I believe I have heard of this convent.” So she had, words given in casual jest for comparison of a lady’s virtue. An odd remark at this court, and she had chanced to ask Nan. The girl’s recoil had told her enough. But for that she might have thought this a blessing, a quiet time in a comfortable atmosphere, talks with a worldly Abbess grateful for Mary’s return to the ways of old. Did fate hang on a chance word?

  “Aye, lady. The holy man is most interested in your soul.” Again, Mistress Wheeler spoke as by rote.

  Julian suddenly caught the meaning of her earlier words. “Why does the court go to Dover? Does it have to do with the war?”

  “The Spanish fleet was sighted in the Channel a few days ago. The king leaves with it. The younger ones of the court will go; it is said the queen will need all comfort when her husband leaves. We who remain will order things.”

  “Strange that I was not summoned.” Here was Isabella’s hand again; she felt the bite of that lash.

  The woman came close to Julian and took her hand. “You are known to be ill but recovering. The Father has explained all. Come and rest now and ponder your good fortune.” She pulled slightly, and the girl did not resist but allowed herself to be led inside.

  Julian knew that if she had once nearly had a friend in this woman, she had one no longer. Gold, security, or simple fear had touched her, and like Julian herself, she was forced to yield as best she might.

  “Mistress, would you summon the girl, Nan, to me this afternoon? I need another gown, and there are books that I would request which she can fetch for me.” Julian had only the thin white robes provided for the sick, and now she felt that this would be regarded as a reasonable wish.

  “You are supposed to be sequestered here, but I see no reason why you may not see the servant.” Mistress Wheeler hesitated between being the taskmistress and the watcher. One look at the girl’s quiet resignation sufficed. “She shall not stay long, however.”

  Julian walked back out into the garden, but she dared not give vent to the fright and rage that rose in her, crowding out the yearning for Charles that rose unsuspecting in her stress. The bold anger of the Redenters that had driven Lionel against his king and taken another ancestor on Bosworth Field now came to their daughter in her need. She would not allow herself to be pummeled by fate or traitors or even kings who wished dalliance. So much depended on Nan and how loyal the girl was to her. Indeed, why should the servant care? What argument could Julian use? She did not know if Blanche were back at court and, if she were, what a court lady could do in such circumstances as these. A small, savage grin curved Julian’s lips. She herself was of the court, but she also had survived much and was yet unscarred.

  “Except by the wound of love.” She spoke the words absently into the scented wind. “And I can endure.”

  The afternoon sun was low in the west when Nan came to her, the freckled face pale and fearful. She had the closed manner of the servant before the master, dull but willing. Perhaps a year or so younger than Julian, she bore the marks of hard work and caution. It was to that caution, so familiar to herself, that Julian spoke.

  “Tell me what you have heard of the happenings the other night. What do they say about me?” Much depended on the answer, and she watched Nan closely as they walked up and down the paths of the white garden.

  “Oh, lady, I know it is not true that you drank and flirted and are to be kept in seclusion for unbecoming conduct. Lady Acton talks much of how shocked she is, and the older ladies agree. Others think you most daring. Some say that you have chosen religion. But now the talk is all of the trip to Dover.” Artless eyes looked up at Julian.

  The last emphasis on the word religion caught Julian up, and she stared at the girl. “I have not chosen religion; it is being chosen for me.” Quickly she outlined the events of the past few days and saw Nan draw herself further back into caution. “Will you do something for me and be silent about it? I cannot do this thing. It is my own fault; I wanted only to think, and now I am being forced. If I am there when the queen returns, she will never argue with an accomplished fact. I can offer you nothing, Nan, for I have nothing except by largesse of the queen. You may be punished if you help me. I mean to run away, you see.”

  Nan said, “I would help anyone to escape the bonds of the old faith. You have been kinder than some in this place. What do you want me to do?” She slumped a little, and the light of intelligence blurred in her eyes. “I will be safe, lady. Can you think they would question me long?”

  “Are you Protestant?” As soon as the words left her mouth Julian was sorry that she voiced them. What if the girl were in league with Isabella and that party? Had she inadvertently walked into the camp of the enemy? “Forg
ive me, I did not mean to pry. I am overwrought.”

  The mask of the servant lifted and fire transformed the girl’s pallid manner. “I and those like me must live, Lady Redenter. How can we afford such luxuries as thoughts? I do as I am told. I will do as you tell me. Is that enough for you?”

  “It will have to be.” Julian looked her straight in the eye and decided to give herself away completely. “Is Lord Varland still at court? You must know him, he ...”

  “I know him. He is kind to those who serve him and generous as well. A worthy gentleman.” Nan tossed a strand of hair out of her eyes and averted her face. “He has ridden on ahead with others of the king’s party to see that all is in readiness. His betrothed remains at his house here, suffering, it is said, from exhaustion.”

  Julian thought quickly. Charles was powerful and in favor with Philip of Spain; any request he made would surely be granted, and Mary would uphold his promise. Charles could not refuse her his protection, not after all that had been between them. There was no other to whom she could turn, and this coil was not to be resolved by herself alone. She remembered Nan’s silence on the subject of her bruised neck and the incurious way she had produced coverings for it. Did she think Julian sought Charles Varland in passion for an illicit relationship?

  She said, “There is no more time, Nan. Will you bring me these things?” Her instructions were swift and to the point as the servant nodded in instant comprehension. “Again, I must thank you for the risk you run.”

  Nan’s eyes darted back and forth as her face assumed the dull look once more. “Aye, lady. I have it. Yes, yes.” She counted on her fingers with a maddening slowness. Julian looked past her and saw that Mistress Wheeler was approaching. How had Nan known? She herself had heard nothing.