Defiant Desire

by Anne Carsley

  “Don’t, lady. What could you have done, after all? She was always frail.” His dark eyes, almost black in the light, glittered at Julian in direct contrast to the soothing voice. He hissed under his breath, “Weep, wail. Hurry!”

  She stared at him, wondering if he had taken leave of his senses and what she should do. The fingers on his reaching hand waved toward one wall that was covered by a tapestry depicting the Last Supper. He let it fall as though she had stepped out of reach and whispered again, “Wail!”

  Julian obeyed instantly. What more natural than that they should be thrown together and an eavesdropper placed close by? How had Charles known? She began to sob, gasping out a little of the tale, speaking of the fever and all that had been done for Geraldine. Her voice rose higher and dropped as though she fought to control herself. She let it rise with an intensity of emotion that was not entirely feigned as Charles murmured soothingly.

  “Geraldine saw you with others at your house—heard something—convinced of treachery—came to inform.” The disjointed phrases came between her sobs, and she saw the dark face above her go white. In an impulse of tenderness she added, “The queen looks with child—that is her main concern. Be careful.”

  Charles moved well away and said, “I will summon your maid to you. I thank you, madam, for all that you tried to do for my betrothed.” His eyes bade Julian weep more strongly, and she did so even as she looked out from behind her sheltering hands.

  One of the tapestries was in her line of vision. At first it was a shimmer of blue and gold, then it resolved into the faces of the disciples, and one of them had human eyes. She swung away, then lifted her face to Charles. His lids dropped in agreement, and she began to appear that her feelings were controlled.

  “My lord, forgive me. I was overcome.”

  “Aye, lady. I, too.”

  A step glanced off stone, and they looked up to see a slender priest whose fringe of white hair gave a halo effect. He hurried toward them, his hands outstretched and his eyes warm. “My son, I have heard the most grievous news. Let us go to the chapel and seek God’s comfort.” Julian said, “I must return to the queen very soon. I wait on her now.” She bent her head respectfully to the priest and went into the hall. As she walked she felt the eyes of the disciple figure boring into her back and wondered who it might be. If Charles were truly suspected of wishing to destroy Geraldine Rothsoon, then both she and he stood in the greatest danger from the several court factions. She almost wished for Philip of Spain, who at least knew how to control those he ruled. The queen of England swayed in several directions and could be trusted in none. Indeed, she was the wounded lioness made vulnerable by love.

  In the next weeks, which saw August grind deeply into September, Julian was kept more closely in attendance upon the queen, who seldom spoke directly to her but watched when the girl least expected it. Isabella was often present with the older ladies, her manner restrained and deferential. Julian still feared her, but there were no more attempts either to discredit her or to take her life. The courtiers were cool and few spoke to her except when necessary, but Julian was always conscious of the danger that waited to pounce and yet toyed with her.

  She learned, as all knew from the gossip and talk, that the body of Geraldine Rothsoon was interred in the church of her fathers on the Cornish coast and that masses would be sung for her soul in perpetuity. Charles had gone with the cortege as was seemly and would return to the palace soon to confer again with the queen, who would either give him the estates by virtue of the fact that he had stood almost as husband to the dead girl or claim much of it, as was also feasible, by right of the crown.

  “He ought to be banished at the very least! If you had seen that poor child gasping for breath there at the end. . .” Lady Dalton always had the power to gather a group around her, and these days were no exception. “A man like that is dangerous!”

  Julian was passing at the time and felt her stomach knot in anger. She knew that they wanted her to flare in response, and once she would have done so. Now she went close and spoke as if to Lady Dalton alone, “Dear madam, do forgive this intrusion, but I vow I did hear Her Majesty asking for you. Quite sharply, as a matter of fact.”

  Among her ladies the queen continued openly to say that she would bear a child, and her temper was short these days. Julian knew that she was even now closeted with papers from Philip; it was a safe gamble she took, and the white face Lady Dalton raised was sufficient for her own ease. If she could not defend Charles openly, she would do what she could in other ways.

  Lady Dalton was forbiddingly silent that night as they lay in their beds, but she did not speak again of Charles that Julian could hear. Perhaps the queen had rated her; at least that was a normal relationship. In these days Julian sometimes longed for the days of Blanche’s careless friendship or Elspeth’s caring. She saw Ortega at times, but his eyes were hooded, his manner remote. He, too, was waiting. All her instincts told her that.

  Ortega sought her out one night as she sat idly at the virginals remembering the night she had sung of Greensleeves to Charles and felt the fire between them. He wore brown velvet slashed with fur in spite of the heat, and his smile showed the tips of his white teeth, giving him a feral appearance. His smooth-tipped fingers brushed across her hand as it lay on the instrument.

  “You are much alone these days, Lady Redenter. How can that be with so fair a lady?” He smiled down at her. “What of Her Majesty? Does she continue in health? Will His Majesty truly have cause to rejoice at the birth of a child? One hears much of that possibility these days.”

  Perhaps it was the loneliness and the ostracism she had undergone, the days that passed without a civil word or glance, but Julian found herself forgetting caution and thinking only that the man before her knew of her passion for Charles and might someday help them. She said, “Aloneness is good for the soul, sir. I do sometimes think that Her Majesty needs more of it, however. She labors long for one who may be with child. And yet . . .” She paused and her words went ahead of her wisdom as the doubts took shape. “Yet, I do doubt it. She is too gaunt, too jutting in shape, and the fever besets her, for I have seen her wet with it in the mornings.”

  She stopped as Ortega bent to her, his face serious as she had never seen it, earnestness in every line. “Is this idle speculation? Verify it for me and you shall not regret it. If anything happens there will be civil war at the worst, and Philip can intervene to hold the country stable. If there is a child, what could be more natural than that the father, a prince of the true faith, should rule rather than the heretic, Elizabeth? If she tries for power there are ways . . .” His words trailed off, and he gave Julian a calculating glance. “The king’s friends will be remembered. Lady Julian. If you want Lord Varland it is possible for you to have him.”

  In later days Julian was to be proud of her reaction to the bait. It made up in some small manner for the way she had felt about Geraldine. She answered, “I do not deal in human lives. I am a maiden and know little of these mannerisms of breeding women. Seek elsewhere for your informer, sir.”

  Ortega stood up and smiled quietly. “I spoke honestly to you and see that instead I should have hedged my words round with sentiment and protestations of propriety. The loss is yours, Lady Redenter.” He bowed elegantly and left her looking after him.

  When Julian was summoned to wait on the queen the next afternoon, she was conscious of the heavy atmosphere that pervaded the private chamber when she entered. Several ladies-in-waiting sat sewing near the open window that looked out onto a garden; their spread gowns drooped in the heat that pressed down, and the altar cloths on which they worked trailed on the floor. Lady Clarence had given the queen a fresh coif and now sat beside her mistress as she wrote a lengthy letter. Thunder mumbled in the distance, and the tree by the window swayed in the hot wind.

  “Play softly on the lute. Nothing jangling.” The command was sharp, and the queen did not turn, but all knew that Lady Clarence spoke with her
voice.

  Julian touched the instrument, sank to the stool, and drew forth the notes of an old ballad that ran water soft into the ears of her listeners. It helped her to forget how hot she was in the green satin gown with the puffed sleeves and the lace over the bodice. Her hair was partially hidden under one of the plain coifs the queen liked her ladies to wear and it, too, was hot.

  “ ‘The prince of Spain, he came over the sea. The prince of Spain he will come no more to me. Never, never, to me.’ ” The gruff voice spoke into the silence and hung there. Mary the Queen turned to face them and spoke the words as though to a close friend. Lady Clarence, greatly daring, reached for her hand and held it as the small face twisted. “They chant it in the streets, I am told. ‘Mary, Mary, quite contrary.’ All the rhymes. Ungrateful! And I have tried to do so much!”

  “Madam the Queen has done much! Is not our country returned to the true faith? Do not the holy priests and nuns rejoice in their restoration to honor? Are the souls of the faithful not at peace?”

  The ladies swung as one to the slender figure standing in the doorway that led from the queen’s chamber. Isabella Acton, her pale beauty enhanced by a flowing white gown, her hair a coronet about her head, advanced toward the queen.

  “Forgive me that I am bold, but surely the Queen forgets that she endured much adversity and was preserved by God to rule? I have loved you long—I cannot bear that you hurt so, my dear lady.”

  The queen stood up, her very human pain gone, the ruler of England standing taller than her wont in the golden gown. Isabella sank to the floor in a billow of skirts, head bent in case the Tudor rage should break forth. Mary’s harsh laughter rang out, and Julian shivered at the sound of it. Then one hand went out to raise Isabella.

  “Dear friend, you have spoken truly. I will forgive the fact that you were also impertinent. Come, sit with me for a little while as Lady Clarence rests. These are not easy days.”

  Lady Clarence moved away at the queen’s wave, and the ladies resumed their chatter as Isabella sank on the stool at the edge of the table. The small drama was done. Julian watched, aching for her mistress and trailing one finger across the lute strings. The other woman was opening up a small packet of silk, saying as she did so, “Ah, Majesty, I should not distract you, I know, but will you see what I have found in the goldsmith’s row? The instant I saw it I knew you would be enchanted even as I.”

  Her voice was soft so that it did not carry to the others at the end of the room, but Julian heard a strange note in it and wondered as she tilted her head over the lute. So long as Isabella Acton was in her presence, the woman chilled her blood. She heard the queen’s pleased exclamation and the little laugh of discomfort she always gave when someone offered a present; she was poor in her youth.

  “I thought it would remind you of pleasant days.” Isabella held up a small rounded object, perhaps half as big as her own fist. It sparkled in the light, first faintly orange and then pale rose. A golden stem shone from one end and a jeweled leaf hung from that.

  “Ah, the pomegranate! My mother’s own device and the very symbol of Spain. I remember she had a necklace hung with these.” The queen was openly laughing now, the harsh lines of her face smoothed away.

  “And, do see, the little seeds are here on one side. Worked most cunningly, are they not? You need only to pull the stem and it will open up.” Isabella put the pretty thing into Mary’s palm where the light caught it and reflected off the polished sides. “Take it, madam, for it is my gift.”

  “Isabella, how can I? It must have cost you greatly. But how very thoughtful.” She held up the jewel and called to the others. “Ladies, come and see!”

  “Open it, madam.” Isabella rose when the queen did, and that queer note was in her voice again.

  Mary’s fingers touched the stem and drifted over the little leaf. She could take a child’s joy in a present and liked to prolong the moment of revelation. Julian rose to go nearer, smiling at the queen’s pleasure. The others were coming closer, murmuring as they did so. Isabella leaned closer, one fingernail pointing at the stem as the queen’s hand rose to it. Julian saw her face and the fleeting look of triumph that passed over it. Then she saw again the little garden and the lampoon of the queen, heard again the sick, angry voice speaking of the death of her husband and the Catholic queen who was the cause. Laughter had been on Isabella Acton’s lips then, and it was the same laughter of a few minutes ago.

  Julian Redenter wasted no time in thought. She cried, “Madam, no! Do not open it!” Her own strong hands that had scrubbed and worked at Redeswan had twice the power of either woman’s, and she slapped the jeweled fruit away from them so hard that it rang on the floor and bounced toward the oncoming women.

  Mary Tudor turned on Julian and her royal rage blazed out. “You are demented! I banish you from my sight, from this court! Count yourself lucky that you are not in the Tower! To raise your hand to the sovereign is death! Get out!” She put both hands on her hips and advanced toward Julian.

  The girl stood very still. Had it been an innocent gift after all? “Your Majesty, I feared for you. . . .”

  Isabella’s face was white to her hairline, and she was shaking as she cried, “The girl is mad to touch you, Majesty! I will fetch the jewel!” She turned a fierce face to Julian, then ran to fetch the golden thing.

  Julian ran for it as well, but both were too late. Lady Dalton, her curiosity always uppermost, had abandoned the horrified group and picked up the pomegranate. Now she pulled at the stem, and the globe fell in sections into her palm. In that very instant, her scream of mortal agony tore the air. She fell heavily, her face contorted and her heels drumming on the floor. Her breath rattled in her throat and then it stopped.

  Mary Tudor turned to face Isabella Acton, who stared at her, her face expressionless. “You meant to kill me. Why?”

  “You are Antichrist.” The words fell into the room as if they were huge stones. Isabella was carved ivory, beautiful in adversity though the dark eyes glittered with hate at last unveiled. “I serve God.”

  “Guard! Guard! To me!” She beckoned to Julian. “You shall tell me later how you knew. I am grateful, and you shall know the measure of that gratitude.”

  The guards burst in then and surrounded Isabella at a wave of the queen’s hand. The small woman whom some had disdained showed no emotion or fear; none had ever questioned her personal courage. The other ladies stood well away from Lady Dalton’s body and several were crying.

  The queen said, “I loved you well, Isabella. Now you pay the penalty of heresy and treason. Take her away!”

  Julian knew that Isabella could implicate her by association, but that was a danger that could be borne. What was harder to endure was the pure courage of the other girl as she said, “If you had died, I know that I would not have lived. I die for the true faith. May God destroy you for the murderer you are, Madam the Queen of England!”

  Julian thought then that if ever her time came to face death she could not do it with such bravery; she was the lover of life and would always place that first. She could not feel sorry for Isabella; the girl had tried several times to kill her, but she could honor her stance for her beliefs.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The people were tightly massed together in the place known as Smithfield. Children stood hushed beside their parents, and the usual collection of mangy dogs were silent and skulking. The early morning air was hot and sultry. Banked clouds seemed to hang close to the ground. The slow tapping of a drum was the only sound in the stillness that seemed a palpable thing.

  The queen of England, dressed completely in black and flanked by her guards, her ladies following in double file, crossed to the wooden seats that had been erected for them. They all sat, Julian slightly behind the queen and next to the watchful soldiers.

  “Let justice be done!” The gruff voice rang out, and the royal hand came down sharply.

  Julian forced herself to look at the tall stake and the piled wood,
some green and the rest seasoned. Several hooded men stood by with blazing torches, and off to the left, two priests conferred. She saw without surprise that one of them was Father Sebastino. It was so still now that she could hear her own heart hammering and the sound of the crackling torches as they were lifted high against the clouds.

  Soldiers covered the area, their weapons at the ready. Priests walked about in the crowd, and none dared draw away. Julian clenched her teeth; she could not pray to the God who allowed all this to happen. She could not bear it. How could Isabella endure such torment? All the stories she had ever heard about the death heretics suffered came back to her, and vomit roiled in her throat.

  Now the drum tapped more ominously, and a file of black-clad priests came toward the stake. In their center marched a tall muscular man with a black hood over his head. It was the small thing in his arms that drew the attention of the crowd. Julian’s keen eyesight brought every detail vividly into focus. The long spill of pale hair tumbled over his large hand and was the only touch of color in the procession. The bare feet were stumps that curved back on each other, and the dangling fingers were nubs of themselves. The small head turned back and forth, the mouth open in a scream that did not come.

  Julian put her hands over her face, but they were instantly jerked down by Lady Clarence, whose fierce, vengeful eyes glittered into hers. The old woman’s strength was surprising but the passion was not, for dearly did she love the queen. Mary gave Julian a sidelong glance then, and the same fierceness was there. The girl was forced to watch; there was no other recourse.

  Now Isabella was being chained to the stake, and those with torches drew nearer. She threw back her head, and this time Julian saw that her mouth was bare and bloody.

  Her teeth had been knocked out. They piled the faggots around her so that she stood on a tall mound, and then the priest was called forward. His murmur bore plainly on the hot air as he spoke of mercy and the true faith. The gurgling cries rose as Isabella fought the chains that held her in place.