Defiant Desire

by Anne Carsley

  Her knees felt as if they were cracking. Well they might be, she thought, for the queen and her ladies had knelt here for more than two hours, and the ordeal showed no signs of abating. Surely Philip of Spain could have been prayed out of Purgatory twenty times over with all the pleas that had gone up for him in the month since his departure! He was well, victories had been won, yet still the queen could not rest easily.

  She shifted one of the pained knees and heard an indignant sniff as Lady Clarence was jostled a little. Julian bent her head again, but now the crick in her neck was worse. Her eyes went once again to the window depicting the suffering of the saints: Sebastian and his everlasting impalement, Anthony and the flames, Teresa of the sorrows repeated. Did broken knees count for anything? Her lips twitched at the whimsy, but her nervous mind darted back at the idea of heresy.

  Sternly she lowered her glance and felt eyes on her. She could not help but look up, and then the dark gaze locked with hers in complete recognition. The man kneeling diagonally with several others of the court just across from the bevy of the queen’s ladies was the one who had stood with her in Dover and who had known her for a woman. He seemed quite at home at court. Now, as then, one corner of his mouth lifted, and the full red lips shone in the flickering beam of sunlight.

  She held her face steady and forced her glance downward. Her whole body was chilled, no need to fear for the new gown now. Life at court had been dull and predictable since her return, and she had even begun to feel bored. She had returned to the private room of the ladies with the quick help of a serving girl on the day following their departure from Dover. There had been no sign of Mistress Wheeler or Father Sebastino, although she learned later that the latter had gone to stay and instruct at one of the monasteries near the outer portion of the city. Orders had come from the queen that Julian was to attend her the very next afternoon. She remembered the soft words of Her Majesty: “You shall be instructed and taught as is best for a young girl. This is best done at my side.” Nothing more had been said, but now Julian prayed, walked, stitched, read, and waited with the older ladies. She even slept in the room of one of them, Lady Dalton, sixty if a day, and given to snoring. Nothing was said about marriage or the cloister—it was as if they had never been. Only Isabella Acton remained at the periphery of her vision, eyes shuttered and watchful. She was safe, Julian told herself, and that was enough for now.

  “. . . and the Father, forever.” The chant rose, drifted, and fell as the company surged to its feet. Julian pulled back from the past and moved on stiff legs behind Lady Clarence, who tottered and seemed about to fall. She put one hand to the lady’s elbow in the same instant as a strong, warm hand closed over hand and elbow alike.

  “Allow me, madam.” The soft accented Spanish voice belied the glittering eyes as he deftly maneuvered them toward the door and out into the comparative coolness of the hall. He said, “You can only be Her Majesty’s most redoubtable lady, Lady Clarence. Your servant, Alphonso Diego Ortega, late of the suite of His Majesty, King Philip.”

  Lady Clarence performed the introduction of Julian with the slight distaste that she always exhibited toward the girl; she had not forgiven the insult of the garden on the day Charles told Julian of his betrothal. Julian curtsied now, but her legs were shaking.

  “A pleasure, estimable sir.” Could he sense the strange repulsion she had for him?

  “The pleasure is mine, ladies. I must hasten, for I have been honored by private audience with the queen.”

  Lady Clarence could be deaf when she chose. “Are you new come to England, sir?”

  “Aye, madam, only within the past several days.” He bowed and walked rapidly away.

  “Come, girl.” Lady Clarence stalked along, and for once Julian did not bother to resent the abrupt command. What game did Ortega play, knowing as he did that Julian had seen him in Dover in July and this was now August? Where had he been in that time? All Spaniards came to court; they were not loved elsewhere. She could only hope he would not mention their earlier meeting. Her blood iced, for she knew that danger was once again near her, and this time there was no one to turn to. Charles had not returned to court, nor would she seek him out; it was done between them, and acrimony sat where love might have been. Her body did not know the way of her mind, however, and the nights were long, filled with heated dreams and shattering thoughts.

  The court had been quiet due to the war and the king’s departure, but some of the younger courtiers would have danced, as an old prelate had been heard to remark, “until the very Satan gathered his own.’’ That night was no exception, but the queen had looked in briefly and gone away to papers, granting her ladies permission to linger for a time. Julian wondered if she had gone to weep instead, so ill and frail did she seem. Yet her prayers were for a child.

  The Spaniard’s reappearance had roused Julian from the lethargy into which she had dropped, and the bloom shone on her that night. Her new maid, Joan—Nan had vanished, and Julian did not dare make inquiries—had dressed the chestnut hair high in front and on the sides but let the maiden curls fall free down her back. It was intertwined with white ribbons, and a band of pearls laced the curls at her temples. Her gown was white with a wide, trailing skirt of blue, the patterns picked out in pearls. The bodice was modest, but the scooping showed the full lift of her bosom. The long puffed sleeves ended with delicate blue lace that fell over her slim hands. When she entered upon her new state, several new gowns had been made for her inasmuch as she could not serve the queen in her old ones. Lady Dalton had volunteered this information quite cheerily; the queen always looked through Julian, for all that she was unfailingly civil to the girl. Julian knew the queen was familiar with all that had happened and had done, however reluctantly, as her husband wished.

  “Madam, would you honor me?” It was the tall Spaniard, elegant in violet silk and golden hose, his fingers glowing with the wealth of a dukedom, bending above her. “I will promise to return you right swiftly to the company of these illustrious ladies.” He gestured and bowed at the older group, who hemmed Julian in.

  She hesitated, then lifted her chin and met his amused gaze. One hand went out to him, and she did not falter as he led her in the graceful whirl of the English dance that allowed no time for conversation. What did he want of her? Of habit, her eyes swept the room, the small gallery with the musicians at the far end, and the side doors, for the dark figure of Charles Varland. She would cease to watch for him in time, she told herself, not really believing it.

  The music slowed and ceased. Ortega bent the knee to her and rose. Julian made as if to retreat to the company of the others, but he held her fast with the apparent light pressure on her wrist. “We will dance again, lady, this time in the music of my country, the zarabanda.” The slow clicking of castanets and tambourines began as Ortega’s feet began to weave with the motion of his hands. Julian had little choice but to follow him as best she could. Her teaching in this newly imported dance had been sketchy, the steps slow and seemly. This was an assault on the senses that teased even as it tantalized. They alone occupied the polished floor; they alone were the target of all eyes. The branched candles whirled before Julian’s eyes, and the tapestries seemed to grow into one swirl of scene and color. The Spaniard’s red mouth and black eyes might have been those of a demon from the plains of his hot land. She felt her blood rise and bloom in her cheeks.

  Ortega whirled closer to her now, and the smile was on his lips only. “Madam, I bear the compliments of the king of Spain to you. He has protected you and made possible your freedom in which you take such pleasure. There is, however, a reckoning to be made.”

  Julian hissed, “I have no idea what you are talking about, sir.”

  “Then I shall enlighten you.”

  “I am weary. Let me go.” Julian pulled back and put a hand to her head, the curls tumbling forward as she did so.

  Ortega caught the other hand and swirled her effortlessly toward one of the windows that stood open t
o the night air. She saw the moon glowing silver in the sky and caught the heady scent of flowers from the knot garden just below. There was no time to dissemble, for he stood in front of her, blocking all view of the others.

  “You are devious, Lady Redenter, and I admire that. You are in close attendance on the queen and are thus privy to the state of her health. His Majesty of England and Spain is naturally concerned as to the possibility of a child and the overall well-being of his dear wife. We shall dance together often and speak of these matters.”

  “Who are you to command me?” She forgot her pose as she flared out at him.

  “I thought you were stronger than you looked to be. You were a fine boy in Dover town.” He leaned so close that she saw the fine sheen of his skin in the close warmth of the nook. “There are ambassadors and emissaries aplenty in this land, all with pomp and state to be maintained. I am a gentleman, newly arrived from Spain, eager to see the sights of this country that belongs to us now. I am also a friend of His Majesty. I leave you to consider these matters.” He bowed elegantly, his long slender legs showing to perfection in the tight hose.

  Julian blew a sigh of relief. If occasional reports on the queen’s health were all he wanted, she would be glad to oblige, after suitable reluctance, naturally. It appeared that Philip had left spies in England; this was only one of them. She smiled inwardly; a handsome spy he was, and certainly no one could object to speech and dancing with one so obviously of Spain. Even the queen might approve! Her glance shifted toward the ladies who were whispering and looking, not at her, but at Ortega as he danced with Isabella Acton, regal tonight in green satin that became her pale skin. They were chatting amiably as they moved through the figures of the dance, but Ortega’s face was composed, his smile slightly fixed. Julian felt the warning chill, the frisson on her backbone, and wondered if it foretold the future.

  In the next few days Ortega was much in evidence from the several daily masses to the various strolls in the gardens and on into the evening dancing. He had seen the queen, it was said, and had been much impressed by her wisdom and devotion to duty. He spoke no more to Julian, but sometimes she felt the flickering heat of his gaze on her. This was a time of waiting and she knew it.

  One hot morning Julian was walking with Lady Dalton in the shelter of one of the arbors near this palace of Whitehall, where the queen had chosen to linger for a time. It was the grease season, the time of the hunt, and many of the remaining courtiers wished to go forth, but the queen disliked this activity and had all but forbidden it. The inactivity grated on everyone, and Lady Dalton was explaining her view of this to the uncaring Julian.

  Suddenly there was a burst of quick movement on the patterned path near them, heavy steps, and a shrill voice cried, “Hasten, I must lay my knowledge before Her Majesty! There is no time to waste, I tell you! Hurry, my head spins in this awful heat!”

  “Lady, please, not so quickly!” The heavy, pounding steps came again along with deep breathing and two figures, one very small and slender, the other large and rounded, came into view beyond the sheltering vines of the arbor. The smaller one stumbled and fell, gave a whimpering cry, and tried to rise as the other bent over her.

  Julian saw the fascination on Lady Dalton’s face and thought that perhaps it was repeated on her own. Any break in the dull routine that did not directly involve oneself would be welcome. Already the heat pressed down, and there were no breezes from the river that lay turgid in the sun. They had this little drama to themselves, for no one else was in sight.

  The large, plainly clad woman was helping the other to her feet as they emerged. Julian could not help the gasp of recognition as the small pointed face and tumbling curls came into view. The agitated girl was Charles Varland’s betrothed, Geraldine Rothsoon. No longer the poised beauty on the arm of her handsome intended, the girl showed the effects of strain and possible illness. The blazing sun showed tiny lines at her eyes and the lids were swollen from weeping; even the delicate skin was yellowish, though her cheeks still carried that bloom of red which seemed to show health.

  Her rolling eyes focused on Julian in the cool morning gown of white silk, her hair lifted high off her neck. The shrill voice cried out, “Lady, lady, I must see Her Majesty at once. He kept me there, you see, and I could not get out. I have to tell, have to . . .” The words trailed away, and she looked at Julian in dismay.

  The servant behind her said, “There, now, pretty one, come and sit down. You must rest, and we’ll think what to do.”

  Geraldine Rothsoon threw back her head and screamed twice, the high anguished sound bouncing off the far walls of the palace itself and so piercing and penetrating to those nearest that Lady Dalton put her hands over her ears. Then the girl, her face composed, said, “Prisoner, he kept me. You can’t do that, traitors can’t do that. Can they? Tell me, lady, can they?”

  Julian saw the stern face of Charles before her inner eye, the carved profile etched in her heart, the man she would always love regardless of his own feelings for her. What ailed the Rothsoon girl she could not imagine, but there was only one “he” that she could be speaking of, and Charles was not here to defend himself. Her decision was quickly made.

  She crossed to the girl and put both hands on the shaking shoulders as she made her voice very steady. “Of course not. You shall surely see Her Majesty, but will you not come into the cool with this lady and myself for a few minutes and refresh yourself? We will help you.”

  “Who is she? What are you saying?” Lady Dalton was dithering in the background, her hands raised nervously, gray head slanted to one side.

  Julian wanted to stamp her foot. Charles was menaced; she had to find out what this was all about before the girl spread gossip all over the court. Already the screams were bringing people closer. She could see two palace guards running toward them and several girls, their dresses bright shimmers in the heat, were hurrying along. She lifted her gaze to the servant and saw the urgent concern there.

  She said, “Lady Geraldine, I met you in the garden one day. The king and queen were there. You wore pink. Do you not remember?” Pray God the girl would not think of Charles and cry out again.

  The limpid gaze hardened and Geraldine said, “I must see Her Majesty. I want to talk to her about Charles Varland, my betrothed. The matter is urgent.” Her voice was rational, her face very still. “If you will help me, I will come with you. If not . . .” Her eyes rolled back again in a frenzied look.

  Julian leaned very close. “I will help you, but you must be silent and come. There are those who would prevent Her Majesty from receiving her people, you know.” She made her face conspiratorial.

  Geraldine nodded and held out her hand to the servant who took it. Just then the guard arrived along with two older courtiers and the young girls who had heard the cries. “What is it? What has happened? Who screamed?” The guard’s sword was out, and his fellow was just dashing up, his pike at the ready. Geraldine moaned softly, and Julian clamped an arm around her waist, feeling the sharp bones of her rib cage through the thin gray gown. Lady Dalton opened her mouth to speak, the sharp old eyes riveted on Julian, for whom she had little love. The group poised as antagonisms made ready to spill out.

  “Faith, ladies. Such cries frightened the beast so badly that my dagger made swift work of him. There is nothing more to fear, Alphonso Diego Ortega has slain the enemy.”

  The company swung as one to the elegant Spaniard, who was fastidiously wiping the slender blade in his hand with several leaves and smiling gaily at them all. “The ladies were walking together when this rat crossed their path. Naturally they were terribly frightened and screamed, as what lady of delicate breeding would not? I was taking the air and rushed to the rescue. All is well now.” He spoke the last words so firmly that the guards began to grin, but one of the other ladies caught her skirts close around her ankles.

  Geraldine’s weight bore softly against Julian, who had eyes only for Ortega; his dark gaze was riveted on her in a k
ind of triumph. In her own head there whirled again the movements of the zarabanda of doom.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  It took the combined efforts of Julian and the servant, along with Ortega’s soft-voiced comments, to get Geraldine to the room that Julian and Lady Dalton shared. The older lady yielded to his flattery about needing her and was now quite willing to help. Geraldine, however, was beginning to have second thoughts and resisted. In the end, it was Ortega who swept her up in his arms, murmuring about “the vapors,” and deposited her in the comparative solitude of the room. He then left the servant ministering to her with Lady Dalton’s almost useless help and drew Julian apart in the anteroom.

  “That girl is very ill. How did you come upon her?” His dark gaze was very serious and he seemed genuinely concerned.

  Julian spun a short tale dealing with Geraldine’s sudden appearance and obvious illness and her own wish to help. She kept her face serious as she talked. Surely the man would leave soon and she could find out what this was all about and how it concerned Charles. Charles was all that she had considered. She had spared no thought for the young girl and her desperation. What kind of person was Julian Redenter that she could not sympathize with one of her own kind?

  She ended, “Your help was most gracious, Senor Ortega. We do not need gossip rushing around the court at times such as these. Shall I walk back with you to the gardens?” He would have to take that hint!

  “Ah, no, you do not rush me away so quickly! I still send messages to His Majesty that do not go by official channels, you know. I will be brief. Is there cause to think that the queen may be carrying a child? The slightest chance?” A muscle jumped in his cheek and the red lips thinned a trifle as he watched her face.

  Thoughts ran wildly through Julian’s head. King Philip had many sources of information; Julian Redenter was certainly not one of them. Did Ortega play his own game? Everyone knew of the queen’s bitter longing for a child and the false pregnancies she had had in the past. A child would bind Philip to her, and England to Catholicism and the Inquisition. If the queen died bearing one, he would seek to rule through it in her name. He might return with fire and sword if she did not. Julian’s mind warned her to be cautious and confusing.