by Anne Carsley
“I commend your soul to God.” The priest lifted his hands and stepped back.
“Light the fires!” The queen was impassive, convinced that she was totally in the right, her face set in righteous lines.
In vain Julian tried to remember summer days at Redeswan, Charles’s face over hers in passion, the tenderness of her mother in the early days, the beauty of a Kentish garden. It was no use. There was nothing but blood-murder in front of her, and the drama must be played out. She had inadvertently brought Isabella to this, and now she must suffer as well. Her head rose and she did not turn away.
The torches dipped down. The flames caught at the dried wood first so that the crackle sounded hungry. The travesty that had once been a fair woman flailed and tried to scream but could not. Smoke now hung greasily on the motionless air, but it was not enough to suffocate the victim. The crowds were still; they knew their own danger after four years of this rule.
Julian saw the flames reach Isabella’s tattered skirt and flare up onto her arm. The white face contorted even more and then was seen through the sheen of fire and tears. It went on and on, for the fire burned sporadically, now savage, now fading away. The body tossed, twisted, burned, and burned. The smell of roasting meat and vomit rose acrid to the nostrils.
It seemed to Julian that she felt each flame lick at her own flesh. Three days ago she had feared that Isabella Acton held her own life in jeopardy. Now she was ashes and raw flesh in the cruelest of deaths. Nothing was worth that, she vowed, not any belief, person, or thing accounted holy. All that mattered was life and the quality of it. Fury burned in her until it seemed that she must cry out with it; in this time she hated everything and herself most of all. She felt bruised and torn; it seemed that she could not hold herself in check much longer.
The crowd was now murmuring the prayers for the soul of the dead, followed by those for the safety of the king and queen. Julian made her lips move with the others, for she knew that eyes watched. Then Father Sebastino lifted his arms for silence and began a long diatribe on traitors, heresy, and the necessity for the Church to root out all such. Under the darkening sky, the scent of burned flesh in her nostrils, the smoke causing eyes to water and smart, Julian thought once again of the pagan rituals described in the old books. Was this so different?
Time blurred mercifully after that as thunder rolled in the distance and lightning began to flicker. When the hot wind rose and rain fell in little drops, the litter was brought for the queen, and her ladies followed after. Julian’s last memory of Smithfield was the hideous stake with the smoking charred remains and the cries of the priest before his god of flame. She was so exhausted that one foot would scarcely move in front of the other, and when the woman brushed against her in the street, she almost lost her balance. Hard fingers caught hers for a second, and when she was released there was the rough feel of parchment in her hand. The woman, well cloaked, had vanished into the crowd that lined the streets to see the queen pass. There was no jeering, but Julian felt the dull weight of their hatred.
Once back at the palace, she went to the rooms she had shared with Lady Dalton, and there in the blessed release of privacy she read the Latin scribble in a hand she well knew. “The river bend at noon for your life. Osiris.” Her hand shook as she put it down. This could be no trap, for who would know of the incident when Charles had saved her life? She felt a little of her anguish recede in the knowledge that he was here and wanted to see her. The reason did not matter.
It was raining steadily as she approached the meeting place, but the oppressive heat still remained. She wore a black cloak and hood; her dagger was long and unsheathed in her hand and a shorter one, legacy of the ever careful Elspeth, was in her sleeve where it could be easily reached. She heard the warning growl and the soft command before the brown-clad figure rose up out of the wet underbrush and called to her.
“Charles! Oh, Charles!” Nothing else would come, but that was enough. His arms caught her to him as her own went around him, and they clung together, swaying slightly while the huge dog whined at their feet.
Julian felt her hard-won control slipping from her as everything faded except the warmth of his body and the gentleness of his touch. She burrowed her face down in the soaked cloth of his collar and gave herself up to the moment. Charles held her for another instant, then pulled back slightly so that her wet face lifted to his.
“Julian, I have learned that Isabella broke when she was put to the torment. She gave several names, yours among them.” He nodded at her gasp of horror. “She was a true servant of her faith and knew that she would die for what she attempted. Yet who can blame her for trying to lessen the agony? She said that you knew all along, that you were being paid to kill the queen in your turn, and that you serve those who would set the young queen of Scotland on the English throne.”
“That is madness!” Julian stared into the set dark face, where a new harshness shone. He was dressed as a common man, but his pride was that of a lord of the realm.
“This kingdom is mad. But, look you, there is no time to stand here exploring motives. Come with me to the coast. We have friends there who can keep you until a safe ship can be found for France, which shelters some of our exiles for reasons of her own. You can come as you are.”
“What of you?” He did not ask her to come with him out of charity, surely?
“Julian, for God’s sake! Can you not understand? Even now soldiers have been sent to arrest me for treason. You know the penalty for that! You will suffer it also!”
“Treason?” Her mind had gone blank and fuzzy. She heard the steady drip of water from the trees behind them and the snuffles of Osiris as he dug busily at a hole. “You and Isabella worked together, then? Geraldine was right about you? The gossip was right?” She was not really surprised, but the deeper implications shook her to the depths.
“I am one of many who work for the accession of the Princess Elizabeth to the throne. Mary is sick and mad. Philip of Spain is foolish enough to think that he may be able to rule in her name if she dies; he would set all England afire with the Inquisition if he could. He has been my friend, but I knew long ago that this cause to which I have pledged myself would demand sacrifices. Love, honor, friendship—there is no room for them. Can you understand that, Julian? All those who try to save England from foreign intervention and internal battles over religion know the risks we run and are prepared for them. France is dangerous, too, and her agents are here among us. The little Scots queen, Mary Stuart, will wed the king of France, and you know her claim to the English throne through old King Henry’s Catholic sister, Margaret. We must be ready for anything!” Charles’s voice rang with a passion that Julian had not seen behind the mask he always wore with her. All mockery and sarcasm were gone. This was a man devoted to one thing only.
“Thrones, queens, religion! I do not want a political lesson! Charles, you and those like you make scenes such as the one today, do you realize that? Why was Isabella not rescued or at least given something to make the agony bearable? Queen Mary has been kind to me; she has suffered so much and I thought only to save her life, not kill Isabella. You knew all the time that she tried to have me killed, did you not? What do I care for Philip of Spain or Geraldine or the makers of plots? One ruler is like another; your precious Elizabeth can be no different! It is human relationships that count.” She was crying now, but she did not want to stop the tears or the words. She was one of the betrayed ones.
“I owe you no explanations, Julian, but I have fought long with myself.” His voice went low for a minute, then rose and steadied. “You are an innocent, and I would try to save you if you could bring yourself to let me.” The very fierceness of his words made her look at him and see the tight cords in his neck, the throbbing veins in his temples. “Geraldine had a disease of the lungs that affects her family and killed many of them. Philip, my friend, could destroy this land. Do you think I came easily to plot against the ruler, I whose ancestors were at Hastings, or to f
orsake my word to a young girl and forget the hand of friendship given me when I wanted only to die? Why am I explaining all this? You will not listen!”
Julian saw the depths of his pain and wanted only to assuage it. “Charles, I am listening—do not tear yourself so.”
He plunged on. “My wife, my Beth, died in a religious brawl between Catholic and Protestant. There was a street fight, and she was caught in it with only a servant to protect her. They raped her; that knows no religion! Seventeen years old and big with our child!” He controlled himself and spoke firmly. “The princess is the true heir; she is both devious and intelligent. She has borne herself well under the reigns of her brother and sister. She is the hope of England. Under her rule it would be possible to live sanely.”
Julian shook her head. “You are just as fanatical as those who burn in the name of the faith. No one tried to help Isabella, and yet she was as much a zealot as you.”
“She wanted to die for the Protestant cause.” Charles gave a low whistle and Osiris came running to him. “We must go. Enough of this.”
“I am not going.” She drew the hood up over her head and faced him. “The queen promised that, in return for saving her life, I might have the ordering of my own. She said that this had been promised by intervention of the king but that she would now give me dowry and land in my own right. I was to think on the matter, she ordered, and speak to her again after .. . after Isabella . ..”
“And you count yourself better than I in this?” Charles caught her arms and shook her. “By what reason?”
“I will have Redeswan, my home, my people, in security.” As she said the words Julian saw the house lifting up before her, the dwelling of her fathers, and it seemed to symbolize the endurance of the Redenters. “She will give it to me. The queen has given her word. They will know that Isabella lied.”
“You sign your death warrant, Julian. Why are you so stubborn?” The gray eyes were mystified. “Is it because I have not lured your body or promised you a passion that is no longer within me?”
His words seemed to strike Julian, but she saw the torment in his face. He fought his own feelings and she knew it. “There is no difference in people like you and those who follow the queen. Let all of you destroy yourselves. I am sick to death of politics and cruelty, Charles!”
“Then there is no more to say.” He drew the wet brown cloak around his shoulders, and the raindrops dripped on his dark head to slant down the high bones of his face. “Go with God, Julian, the God in whom I no longer believe. I hope that you live long enough to know that the battle, as you say, is every Englishman’s and every Englishwoman’s battle, and until it is won no person in this land is safe or deserves to be!”
“With God, Charles Varland!” Her voice trembled in spite of all her efforts.
He pulled her to him then and their lips met in a fusing kiss that ignited the fires between them once more. His mouth shaped itself to hers as their bodies crushed against each other so closely that they might have been one flesh. Their tongues probed and locked. His hands wrapped themselves in her tumbling hair and her breasts began to burn. Julian felt her senses swirl as the honey began to trail languidly in her veins.
The stiffening began in his arms and gradually transferred itself to Julian’s own so that she remained within the circle of his embrace, an individual apart and made of ice. His mouth shifted from hers and his head turned very slowly toward the river. Now that she could think again, she saw that Osiris was poised and looking in the same direction. There was the slap of oars and an indistinct murmur of voices, a loud curse, and then more sounds of rowing. She turned her glance to Charles’s shuttered face, and he nodded grimly.
“We may have been seen but then, too, we may have seemed any man and maid.”
Julian hesitated, wondering if she should not go with him even now. But he would send her to France and exhaust himself in the wars that always came of religion. There was passion between them, but his cause would come first. She might never see him again. Then, too, she acknowledged that she was afraid of the immolating love that could destroy. Love him she always would, but her life was her own. Julian Redenter was alone as she had always been. But Redeswan still stood, and she could have it if she were careful.
“Julian?!’ The question was in his voice again.
“I cannot be other than I am. No, Charles.” Her flesh yearned toward him as she spoke, but her common sense won out.
He shrugged, their eyes met for the last time, and then he was gone, Osiris with him, and only the waving branches marked their passage.
Julian wrapped both arms around her bosom and looked after him, the pain tearing at her. She regretted her choice even as she knew that there was nothing else she could have done. He did not care for her; had he not said as much? Any man might try to help a woman with whom he had had pleasure such as they had shared. She put the agonizing thoughts from her, knowing that she must live with her choice from now on.
She retraced her steps in the rain which had now begun to come down even more steadily. The bitterness of this day would remain with her always, she thought. In the agony of Isabella Acton’s death a new hardness had come to Julian. Now she would fight for her safety as she had always done, but the future lay bleak before her and she knew it. It was devoid of illusion and love, but life remained, and that was the dearest thing of all.
Her chestnut hair streamed down her back, the black gown clung to her supple body, but her face was a mask. She would have welcomed tears, but they would not come; there was to be no release for her that way. She was so intent on her thoughts that she almost slammed into the young man who was striding up and down in the rose arbor that led into the gardens proper. His recoil from her and the roar of thunder seemed to occur in the same moment, and she jumped back,'hampered by her wet skirts.
The man was very blond, his eyes so blue, they appeared to fade into gray, and his features might have been polished by a sculptor. Recognition flared into malevolence and was revealed in Julian’s own face. He was George Attenwood’s lover, the man of the forest, he who had whispered of women as though they were vermin. Where Attenwood went, there would his lover follow.
If this were fresh danger, Julian’s battered spirit could take no more. She spoke recklessly, “Forgive me, sir. I have not intentionally walked in your path, nor would I ever do so.” Her aquamarine gaze locked with his. Suddenly she felt bold and savage, the events of the day having pushed her beyond endurance and into wildness.
The young man stared, all expression leaving his face. One smooth hand went to adjust the already immaculate lace at his throat and dropped to the silver chain on his chest. “My dear madam, I fear I do not understand you. Our paths are divergent.” The blue eyes drifted over her figure. “They will remain so.”
He rounded the corner and was gone, his stride purposeful and rapid. Gone to report to Attenwood? What did it matter so long as they left her alone? Julian reveled in the next crack of thunder and leaned over to pick a drenched golden rose. The heady scent drifted upward and her spirits with it. Survival was what mattered, and she had won over odds that might have destroyed another.
Julian repeated that to herself as she went into the palace, the storm at her heels and the unknown before her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“Good health to you, my lady of the sea.” The elegant figure in scarlet and gold swept an impossibly low bow as he doffed the tiny mask in the last figure of the dance.
“And to you, most powerful lord whose dominions must be beyond all counting.” Julian spread her skirts wide and twirled before Ortega, who now caught her nimbly and led her in the beginning measure of a new dance.
“You are fair this night, Lady Julian.” The red lips and the knowing eyes laughed down at her. “If there are many more masques and mummings in honor of the peace, I vow I shall not know how to speak in ordinary language.”
She smiled and uttered some inanity to which he responded in kind. It was
well over a month since Charles had vanished, ostensibly to his estates, and there was no word of the treason he had declared was against his name. The watch around the queen was trebled, and she remained more with her older ladies, but there had been no move against Julian or anyone else. The court attitude toward the girl was one of cold politeness, and she had grown to expect nothing else. Ortega had been a godsend in these weeks, courteous, amusing, friendly. He sat with her at table often and danced with her in the evenings, even strolled with her in the gardens in full view of everyone. Julian knew that she must be on her guard with him, but she was still glad of his presence.
“England is still at war with France, I wonder that we celebrate so long,” She spoke idly. Ortega was far too experienced to give anything away, but she enjoyed prying at him. The queen’s suspected pregnancy was openly known now and caused much speculation in view of her age and health. “The king’s own troops are disbanding on the Continent.”
He leaned closer. “No talk of politics this night. I vow, your eyes are the waves at dawn.” His sardonic smile invited her to laugh with him and she did, thankful for the camaraderie that she had not known she could share with another.
Julian’s thoughts went back to part of that brief audience with the queen several days after the burning at Smithfield. Her Majesty had indeed promised all that she had told Charles, and it had been reaffirmed then. But the horror of that fearful death hung between the one who had ordered it and the one who had inadvertently brought it about. “I would leave the court, madam, and return to my home, mine by your kindness.” She was sickened by all that had once enchanted her and only wanted the queen to fulfill her promise and let her go.