Defiant Desire

by Anne Carsley

  Fat hands patted the air and his eyes rolled back in his head as Julian took a step forward. Matthew touched her arm and shook his head. The man whispered, “I meant no offense, Father. I only keep the beasts; sometimes I forget how to speak respectfully. Your pardon.”

  Charles moved closer to her and spoke in rapid Spanish which was too quick for her ear, but she nodded and mumbled. Then he said in English, “He is ready for fresh air and did not really understand your amusement. Be thankful for that. Now, shall we go?”

  The fat man moved as far away as his bulk would allow and made an ostentatious sign of the cross. They started down the corridor and were brought up short by the tramp of feet and animated conversation as four soldiers, helmets speckled with water, came toward them. The men paused to stare, their eyes boring into the fugitives. Julian made as if to pause, but Charles drew her on.

  “Bad weather for burning today. Smithfield will be quiet.” The half derisive words hung on the air along with the sour odor of cheap wine. The soldier making the remark was younger than the others, his face hard even in the drunken slackness.

  The fat man’s hiss split the sudden silence. “Spanish! Careful!”

  The light of the torch that Charles held flickered long in the drafty passage as the three moved on without another pause. Julian felt that any minute they would be rushed upon and carried back into captivity. No walk of her life was ever longer; all her senses were acutely tuned. Let them kill me. I will not go back. She thought she might have spoken out loud and truly given them away, so real were the words.

  The men behind them began to shuffle, and Julian heard them begin to chaffer with the fat man, who was muttering uneasily. Then they rounded the corner and turned into another passage with a partially open door at the end of it. Beyond this was a narrow, smaller corridor redolent with the scent of animals and captivity. Julian felt that she would begin to scream and beat on the stone walls if this went on much longer, but there was no time to venture a question. The faces of Charles and Matthew were set and stern, the lines deep as they walked more rapidly now. She knew that time was becoming short; the instincts of the hunted were sharpened with the expectation of pursuit.

  The dimness became gray light which showed an arched wall in the distance where a lone guard sheltered under a cloak from the pouring rain. The first freshness in many weeks came to Julian’s nostrils, and she breathed so deeply that she almost coughed. Charles turned his head to look at her, and their eyes met with an impact that was nearly physical.

  The rain soaked them almost immediately, and the shock of the icy air made them all tremble as they walked swiftly toward the gate. The guard was cold and the night had been long. His challenge was half-hearted and faded with Charles’s brisk explanation. Well he might wonder that anyone wanted to walk on Tower Wharf in such weather.

  “Come, Father, it is too chill for you to remain long out here.” Matthew’s roughened country voice held a nice blend of deference and annoyance that made the guard’s lips twitch as he stood aside to let them pass.

  All boats going up to the city paused at the wharf as did most of those going out to sea. Normally it swarmed with activity, but on this freezing, rain-swept day only a few craft were visible, and in the distance several people walked slowly as they bent against the gale. Julian followed the others off to the side and around some stacked materials to a low wall. Beyond it steps led down to the turbulent water. Charles scanned the expanse and gave a low exultant laugh.

  Julian followed his gaze and saw that a small dark barge waited in shadows of the nearby building. At his high, piercing whistle it began to move toward them, the oarsmen rowing with rapid strokes. It seemed to be years that they stood there, silent and waiting, watching the rescuers come. Julian would not allow herself to think of freedom, not yet. It was enough to stand in the rain, drinking of the freshness, shivering and feeling the blood rise strongly in her veins.

  Then it was there, bumping and knocking against the old steps, seeming a toy in the wildness of the day. There were three oarsmen and a squat bearded man, who threw a rope to Matthew with the ease of long practice. Now pretense was ended as Charles scooped Julian into his arms and swung lithely into the little craft. Seconds later Matthew almost fell on top of them as they all retreated into the makeshift in the center, which was made of tattered cloth that rattled in the wind. They huddled down in a heap, and the oarsmen swung the barge around so that she headed downstream. An observer might have thought them giving way before the rough passage and retreating to brave the weather another day.

  “We’d given you up almost, sir, but Roger said you’d be coming, that we would wait all day.” One of the oarsmen, sober brown face intent, spoke to Charles. “God be praised that you made it.”

  The squat man, Roger, laughed. “And the bad weather and Fortune herself, plus my lord’s own ingenuity, had a lot to do with it. Best stay down, everyone. We’re not safe yet.”

  The arrogant Charles Varland, always in command of himself, slightly contemptuous of those who were not, looked up from his place beside Julian, and his voice shook with the power of his feeling. “You have put yourselves in great peril at my wish, and I shall be forever grateful. I could not have commanded you in such an enterprise; your choosing to come did me great honor.”

  Roger shifted uncomfortably. “Are you not our liege lord and good friend? Come, let us drink. I vow we are all frozen and will be for yet a while!” He produced a flat bottle and handed it to Julian. “Here, sir, you have been long in Tower, I am told.”

  She looked up at him then, and the cowl lifted away from her face. He could not stifle the gasp as his glance swung to Charles, who began to laugh. She tilted the bottle and let the fine French brandy run down her throat, reviving and restoring her to warmth and life.

  Now Charles spoke lightly. “We have rescued a fair lady from gaol, and she shall pay us with a song given in freedom. Is it not so, madam?”

  “A just fee, my lords all.” She was surprised that the court language remained in her memory or that she had any emotions left save that of anger, so long had she nurtured it. Now gratitude and relief swamped her, and she could only smile mistily at those who had risked much for her sake.

  Julian lost all sense of time as the barge went rapidly along. The fiery liquid she had drunk moved in her body and gave her a sense of well-being. Matthew settled himself to rest, but his eyes flicked everywhere. Charles and Roger carried on a low-voiced conversation a few feet away. The rain was sweeping the brown river in icy curtains, almost obscuring the dwellings on the banks and the few other craft that were out. The few trees she could see stretched torn branches into the hanging clouds and were snapped back by the wind. Now and then snatches of sleet were tossed in her face as the barge rode on the waves, and she was vaguely conscious of loss of feeling in her extremities. It did not matter; she could go this way forever, for it was the breath and taste of freedom.

  A torch flared briefly, was held up, and was as quickly extinguished. Another answered as briefly from a small brown ship moored with several others in a partial bend of the river. A casual observer would have thought them all deserted, missing the half-raised sails and the ready oars. He would have thought, as Julian did at first glance, the owner demented who did not tend his ships more carefully lest they break loose into the river.

  “Can you climb?” Charles was beside her, helping her up and balancing her swaying body as the barge rocked against the battered side of the ship, which now seemed enormous.

  Her legs buckled, but she stamped her feet in the frozen slippers and slapped her hands together. The wind and rain together blew back the priest’s robe and iced it over her flesh. She laughed in the face of it and answered, “Of course! I am only a little chilled.”

  Charles closed his hand over hers, and the gray eyes, the exact color of the clouds above them, slanted with an emotion she could not identify. “Then come.”

  The rope ladder, already wet and growing
icy, bounced even with their weight as Julian struggled to pull her suddenly heavy body upward. Charles behind and several men above would have helped, she knew, could have pulled her into the ship with lowered ropes and someone could have held her secure, but this was a thing she had to do for herself if she fell into the river. She thought wryly that pride could kill one, but she would not ask for help. Frozen hands grasped and clutched, all but bare feet scrabbled on the thin lines, and her nose scraped the wooden side as the wind flung her inward. She looked down and saw the waves lifting as if to pluck her down; the world spun and shifted as her grip loosened.

  “Shut your eyes, Julian, and hold still for a moment.” Charles could have rescued her, but he knew that this was a thing she had to prove for herself. The quiet voice calmed her and she obeyed. With it she felt again the summer sun and the tenderness they had had toward each other. Another, older voice spoke in her mind. “Peace, be still.”

  The ferocity of the wind and rain seemed to slow or else the activity had warmed her sufficiently so that she could regain her bearings. When she opened her eyes again she held their gaze straight in front of her and moved arms and legs in a stiff rhythm. She encountered a ledge and began to pull at it, but hands were on hers, and she was being lifted up even while her body continued the climbing motions.

  The several faces, old and young, of the seamen blended as they set her down on the windy deck, where she swayed until Charles vaulted over and came to cup his arm under her elbow, lending his strength to her sudden bonelessness. He called to one of the hovering men, “Sail immediately!”

  “Toward Cornwall, my lord?”

  “Cornwall.” The sudden lilt in his voice made Julian try to turn her head and look up at him, but her muscles rebelled. He felt the shudder that was pulling at her and picked her up in both arms. “Enough of this, Julian.”

  Moments later she was wrapped in heavy blankets and lay in a real bed with a brazier’s warmth close by. Charles rubbed her feet and hands with a swift competence, then held more of the brandy to her mouth while she drank. Immediately the world began to spin, the colors of the small cabin merging with the lights that came on in her brain. The dark face that bent over her twisted a little, and one hand rose to brush the hair from her forehead.

  “My fair one, you have suffered even as England does. You should have come with me when I asked. Foolish one to trust the Tudor.” He spoke absently, but his eyes had an angry glitter.

  Julian whispered, “What will happen now? I have a debt to repay to you, Charles.” The words were clear in her brain, but her lips were still icy and they emerged in a mumble.

  “You are still freezing! There is much to tell you, but we can speak when you are rested and refreshed” He swung up into the bed with her and pulled her close, adding his warmth to that she was already feeling. One hand rubbed the taut muscles of her neck. “You are safe for now. For now.” He repeated the words, his face grim.

  Something coalesced in Julian and she remembered, as if from a dream or prophecy, flaming ships, a cliff, and running men. Now bloody swords clashed in the red light, and a face that she knew well blazed up with triumph. “Dangerous, Charles, dangerous!” She tried to communicate her fears to him, but the body and mind that had served her so well during the long ordeal were collapsing. She was being drawn into a cave of darkness and heat, a womb of safety that she yearned for with all her heart.

  “Aye, lady. You have been wondrous brave.” The gentleness in Charles Varland’s words was more profound than it had ever been. “Lady mine.” He touched his lips to her forehead, and she carried that talisman into the cave with her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Julian ran before huge shadows, fell miles down into pits that opened to reveal stakes and burning women, shivered in the expanses of a snowy landscape, and climbed into a frozen sky. She started up in terror and sank back into oblivion, followed always by a low voice murmuring comforting words. Hands held hers, and she remembered pulling on them as she crept through endless passages that ended in blank walls.

  She opened her eyes to gray light drifting over a low ceiling to show a small room dwarfed further by the bed in which she lay and the chair beside it. A chair occupied by Charles, whose gray eyes regarded her quizzically, his hands steepled under his chin, his sober brown garments not detracting one whit from the proud demeanor that was always his.

  “Charles, have you been here all night? Surely you must rest?” She was surprised at the weakness of her voice.

  He laughed, the planes of his face breaking into warmth. “One night? You have lain here three, and your rest has been much broken. Are you able to take food and drink, do you think?” He sobered at the look on her face. “Ah, no, Julian, I have seen many exhausted and worn as you were. You will recover, I promise you that”

  She pulled herself up in the bed while he went to the door and called for food. The world spun, and she could see the thin shape of her hands, feel the sharp edges of her cheekbones. “Where are we?”

  He turned back to her, face remote again. “In the sea just off my own country, Cornwall.”

  She started to speak, but the rap at the portal made her jump. The tow-headed boy gaped at her and almost fell over his feet as he deposited a board with food across the side of the bed as Charles indicated. Julian put both hands across her stomach and felt the flatness of it. Saliva rose in her mouth; she could not wait. The rough bread that came with the cheese might have been the best of Whitehall’s own as she tore at it. Charles waved the boy away impatiently and opened a leather-stoppered bottle.

  “Broth. It will ease the pangs. You will be able to eat little for a time.”

  The tepid liquid gave her new strength, but she reached again for the cheese. “I do not wish to presume, Charles— so much has been done for me already—but I long for a bath. Is it possible?” She wanted to ask so many questions, but the time of ignorance must be drawn out. For this little space she wanted to think only of herself, of this blessed release. This warm cabin, this attentive man, safely—let nothing intrude.

  He smiled at her and went toward the door. “The bath will not be one of luxury, but it will clean you, and our smallest cabin boy has offered you his best clothes. We will talk when you feel ready.”

  The easy tears of exhaustion came into her eyes.

  “Charles, how can I ever repay what you have done for me?”

  “For you, Julian?” His glance was puzzled. “Not totally for you, foolish though you had been not to come when I warned you. There were other reasons; this is war, and every opportunity must be taken to harry the enemy.” He shut the door behind with an emphatic click, and she heard his boots ring as he strode away.

  There was no time to ponder his meaning, for the wooden tub half-filled with water was carried in by two of the crew who ducked their heads in greeting and then stared before backing out. The same boy brought clothes, a bit of cleansing substance with a dubious odor, and a furry robe almost the same shade as Julian’s hair. There was even a ladies’ comb and a vial of sweet ointment.

  She thanked them and then asked, “I feel no movement of the ship. Are we still at sea?”

  The boy’s gaze was worshipful. “No, lady, only in the private cove that his lordship always uses before going out to seek the queen’s shipping. Nobody knows it, you see, and ...”

  One of the seamen caught his arm and pulled him out in mid-sentence. “We must hurry, lady, forgive us.”

  The words were enough. Julian had known all along that Charles was truly outlaw; nay, pirate—traitor, if the correct word were used. Why did the word cause chills to go along her arms? Was she given in loyalty to the regime that had sought to destroy her? Had not her own father risen against tyranny? His daughter was no different, yet all the generations of Redenters who had served the rulers of England seemed to rise in protest. She pushed the thoughts back; she would serve her own cause and live.

  Now Julian laved herself in the rapidly cooling water, scr
ubbed at the long mass of hair, and rinsed it again in the second tub that apparently had been brought earlier before she woke and was now icy. No matter; she was clean for the first time in months. With a start she realized that she did not know the day or the month of the year, only that it was now deep winter and she had entered the Tower in early autumn.

  Her weakness was fading, and she folded herself into the furry robe as she finished the rest of the food and gulped the thin ale. The brazier still gave off warmth, so she settled by it and began to rub her hair with one of the shirts. The questions that seethed through her mind began to seem more answerable now; if only Charles would return and talk to her! She looked down at her ivory slenderness, the tilted breasts, the tiny waist; surely she was still fair, though ethereal. Longing began to beat in her, and she looked for something to distract her mind.

  A chest sat in one corner and looked to be securely locked, but two leather-bound books lay on top of it. How long since she had read anything? She crossed to it eagerly, pausing to enjoy the new steadiness of her legs, and picked up the volumes. Her knowledge of Greek was small, she could only barely pick out that one was the Republic of Plato, but the other was in Latin, Homer’s Odyssey. Never had she been so grateful for the language that had been hammered into her by the priests who fled the anger of the eighth Henry and sheltered at Redeswan. All that they had been able to give in return was the strength of their faith to Lady Gwendolyn and knowledge to Julian; that knowledge had, in part, given her the power and the will to endure the Tower of London, a place that had driven many to madness.

  Julian sat beside the brazier in the light of the flickering candle and let the winter world fade as she gave herself up to the canvas of gods and men that the old Greek had wrought so many centuries before. The poetry rang in her beauty-starved soul, and the wily Ulysses wore the face of Charles Varland. The daughter of Zeus watched over him, and he honored her before all the gods. Julian’s fancy drifted to the gray-eyed goddess, and she thought, as she often did, that the anger of the Christian God and his followers was never so appealing as the pantheon of the clear-minded Greeks.