Defiant Desire

by Anne Carsley

  “Get below, lady! We’re attacked, betrayed more like it. They can’t get in here.” He was little more than a boy and continued to babble while Julian watched in horror.

  “Where are the weapons? Tell me!” She lashed her words across his and saw the pale eyes bulge. “Tell me— you’ll need all the fighting hands you can get!”

  The ship spun half around, and this time Julian saw a smaller one at the entrance to the inlet between the cliffs. It was the one that was firing at them to such advantage. Behind it loomed another in full panoply of sail, the arms of England and Spain. There was a belch of flame and smoke, a thundering roar, and the boards at her very feet kicked up. Somewhere a man cried in agony, and Julian was thrown flat on her face.

  She put both arms over her head and waited for the final blow, but nothing else happened. In the distance someone cried, “The small boats are coming in! Aim for them!” Opening one eye, she moved cautiously and saw that all her limbs were intact, but the sailor to whom she had been talking lay decapitated in his own gore.

  Red rage blinded her to the danger and the ghastly sight in front of her. She slithered on her stomach up to him and drew the short sword and dagger from his belt. Then she started to rise, but the listing movement of the ship threw her back down again. A curse escaped her lips, and she reached for the sagging railing to pull herself up.

  “What in hell’s name are you doing, you little fool?” The familiar voice came at her from behind, and she whirled to meet it.

  “Do not tell me to go below, Charles Varland. I fight with your men! We were tracked here after all, and I will not go back.” Her voice rose high and keening. One foot went out automatically to steady herself as the ship tilted again.

  Charles’s face was expressionless, the gray eyes unmoved by the carnage around them. He wore black, the heavy folds of a long cloak swirling over his shoulders. A sword and dagger were in his belt, and a long pistol hung from one side. He spoke so calmly that she had to strain to hear. “We are leaving the ship; she cannot hold out. It is not my men they really want. Come.”

  Julian cried, “What kind of a commander leaves his men in such peril and abandons his ship? What sort of man are you?” She knew it was ridiculous to stand in the midst of a battle and argue ethics, but a person had to believe in something, and for all their differences, she yet thought him a man of honor.

  The guns boomed again; one shot hit the far cliff and shale rained down. A man cried out in anger and then in pain that must have been unendurable, for the last gurgles of death began as someone started a prayer to the Virgin. Charles lifted his hand almost casually, and the blow, light though it was, made Julian reel to her knees. She snatched at the dagger without thinking, and he kicked it away.

  “Your head is stuffed with gallant tales. Sorry that I cannot oblige you.” His legs were spread wide as he stood over her. “Come if you wish, or stay here and wait for them to return you to prison. I delay no longer.” He ducked a fragment of falling timber and sail, then strode away.

  Julian sat in shock for several seconds. She had fought for life too long to give it up now. The ship was doomed; it did not take a sailor to know that soon she would sink. The cold wind sliced at her as she rose to look in the direction that Charles had gone. The ringing of swords on each other was very plain in her ears as were the shouts and curses. Smoke was heavy on the wet air and death was everywhere.

  She dashed for the cabin where she had felt so safe such a brief time ago and caught up the long warm cloak and thick muffler that had been provided, then picked her way back out on deck and after Charles. Her decision had not been made a moment too soon, for a small boat was already being launched from the front of the ship. Roger and the tow-headed boy were in it, and Matthew was going down the rope. Another young sailor waited with Charles, who was rapping out commands to an older man at his side. She saw that another small boat was vanishing into the mists that shrouded the cliff directly ahead and gave sudden thanks that at least some of the men would escape death or surrender.

  “ . . . knowing nothing. Paid for this voyage only and at the beginning of it. Be dull and dumb, as determined as they are. By all the gods, I wish it were different. . . .” Charles broke off as Julian ran up. “Changed your mind, I see. Get to the rope and be quick about it.”

  The gray-haired man to whom he had been speaking said, “You must be preserved for the cause, sir. God be with you.”

  Julian did as she was bidden, but her eyes saw the emotion with which Charles clasped the other’s hand, and she regretted her own outburst. Would she, in his place, have done differently?

  There was no more time for thought. The young man gave the rope into her suddenly slippery fingers, and she looked at the little boat far below, felt the shifting motion of the ship, saw the waves of the comparatively quiet inlet, and could not move. The wind tore at her cloak and whipped it about her body. The men below called up at her, but it was no use.

  “Hurry up! We can delay no longer!” Charles hurried over to them. “What is the matter?”

  “I can’t. I can’t.” Julian could barely force the words out of her mouth for shame, but she could not go down that tiny thread fastened to the edge of the ship. Her fingers would not bend. The enemy that was already boarding could slash it with a single sword thrust, and she would fall into the sea. She gazed at Charles in panic; he would leave her for certain.

  He was on her in a single stride. Before she could draw back, he pulled her into the crook of one arm, made a half salute with the other, then took the rope in that hand. and stepped over into space. Julian clutched at him but remained still, for she could not endanger them both with her terror. They went down, down, swinging out and back, going faster and faster. Then it was over, and Charles sank down with her in the boat. Another several minutes and the young sailor joined them, the oars were lifted, and they rowed rapidly away from the dying ship.

  Julian shifted her position and looked back. She did not want to look any of the others in the eye; she had fancied herself as brave as any man, and now she had acted as a puling maiden might. The ship was rearing high in the water, and flames cast brilliant lights on the low clouds. Men in boats were drawing nearer, and others fought on the decks. Another was setting out in pursuit of them but was having difficulty getting around the dying ship. Far beyond, and barely glimpsed, she could see the hulking outline of the ones who had pursued them to such advantage. The rearing, jagged cliffs, the destruction in the dark day, and the leaping fires that mingled with the cries of men in anger and despair, their own flight, came together in her mind, and she remembered her dreams that had foretold this. Julian shuddered even in the folds of her heavy cloak—she had felt so safe for a time, and now it seemed that fear would follow her wherever she ran.

  Charles bent to his own oar as they passed under an arch of stone which almost seemed to scrape their heads, and the wind from the other side appeared to be a northern hand holding them back. Julian huddled where she was, knowing that in these circumstances there was nothing she could do. She did not turn to look again, for she was thinking that past and future merged into destruction, and all slipped down to the darkness of death. What mattered?

  “I have frozen in the midst of battle and, had it not been for my comrade, would have had my skull cloven in two. Only the foolish are not afraid. Take that oar and do as I do. Every hand is welcome.”

  Julian looked up into the glittering eyes that were all light with no expression in them. Charles thrust the smaller oar into her hand and pulled his cloak up more warmly about his neck before bending over his own task. To the big back she said, “I thank you.” The words were nearly tossed away on the wind shafts and the noise that was beginning to fade behind them, but Charles heard, and one corner of his mouth lifted as he turned to her and made swifter paddling motions. Comforted, she bent to the task that was theirs.

  The little boat swept under another rock thrust, down a stream so shallow that at times the bottom
of it grated on stone, and around to a deeper pool from which the barren face of another cliff reared up. They heard the deep-throated boom of the surf here and the sucking noise as the sea withdrew. Julian thought fancifully that it meant to eat through the solid rock and drag them down.

  Oars ground on stone, and they drew up on a ledge that appeared to stretch out for a short way and then fall off into inky water. In a moment they all stood on the jagged stones, and the two younger men were carrying the boat behind a fall of rocks. Charles gazed up at the landscape of cliffs and boulders, out to the watery passage that led to the scene of his defeat, squared his shoulders and said, “The old trail up should still be here. I remember it well.” The half smile curved his lips, and Julian found herself answering it involuntarily. “Let us go.”

  And so they came to the misty land of Cornwall in the legendary domain of King Arthur for to seek their own version of the Holy Grail.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The hut loomed dark in the failing light that made it seem almost part of the hillside. Sheets of rain, driven by the icy wind, swept over Julian and Nim, the tow-headed boy, as they stood beside a large boulder and waited for Charles to return. A flash of lightning tore at the sky and vanished into the cliffs, and thunder rolled in the north. Julian beat her hands together in an effort to try to feel them and thought of every fire she had ever known.

  They had walked since landing yesterday with only a brief pause for exhausted collapse in a damp cave that Charles remembered from tales of his youth as being in this vicinity. Early that morning he had ordered Matthew, Roger, and the young sailor, Thomas, to separate. They were to go to several of the rallying places in this country and see, discreetly, what was afoot. He himself would find a safe place for Julian and meet them at a prearranged place four days hence. “If I do not come, you must assume the worst and go.” They had protested, none more fiercely than Julian, but Charles had commanded silence and was not to be disobeyed.

  Now the red-lit door swung open, and Charles stood waving at them. They joined hands and half ran, half stumbled over the rough ground, their wet clothes and heavy limbs impeding them only slightly at the thought of shelter from the storm. The woman who rose from the hearth to greet them might have been old forever or born that way. She wore rusty black that contrasted vividly with the white hair and eyebrows. Her head was sunk into her shoulders, her fingers were twisted with the stiffening disease, but her face was round and only partially lined, her teeth sharp and white in the smile of welcome.

  “Come, get by the fire. There is ale, bitter, but it will warm you. I am Clara, long of these cliffs. Welcome to my home.” Her speech had the same soft lilt that Charles’s had when he let his guard down, and it was far more educated than a simple woman’s might be expected to be. Julian suspected the wandering priests again; they had spread their learning far and wide after the dissolution of the monasteries.

  The hut was one-roomed, meanly furnished, cooking was done on the hearth, sleeping around it, and there was one stool for sitting. A small hole gave ventilation and let in some rain, but the pervading odor was somewhat musky, a staleness long present. Julian thought it as marvelous as Whitehall or Greenwich; shelter against the evil weather, warmth, one’s comrades close by, that simple did life seem now. She sat beside the leaping fire, watching her clothes steam with those of the others, and drew the old woman’s tattered cloak around her body. Here in the midst of the safety that had been so hard and bitterly won, listening to Charles as he spoke of ill-fortune, smuggling, the ship aground in the storm, why did she feel the prickles of a fear that was older than the fear for one’s dear flesh?

  She swayed with the need for sleep that was suddenly boundless, a veritable bludgeon against her. Nim had dropped forward, head on his arms, in a position that would surely render him agonized on the morrow, and his snores rang loud in the room. Clara’s gaze met Julian’s when Charles paused to drink from the horn cup that must have been as old as Clara herself. The girl felt the shivers increase and stretched out her shaking hands to the fire. Why fight the sleep she so hungered for? The black gaze bored deeper, and she could not move. Charles noticed nothing; he was yawning and reaching over to replenish his cup, which he had drained. In the last moments before she drifted into the void, Julian knew what she feared. It was one of the charges that was to have been brought against herself, that while one slept the soul might be stolen away, and in the moment of waking the person was vulnerable to a yet greater evil. Then the gaze pushed harder, and she faded from all thought or memory.

  She woke to the embers of the dying fire, the rush of the eternal rain, and a sense of being thoroughly chilled. The sense of aloneness was overwhelming as she jerked the dried cloak around her shoulders and rose hastily, the dizziness of sound sleep still on her. Had she been abandoned by Charles as one solution to the vexing problem of what to do with her? Strangely disproportionate to her feelings of both fear and safety the night before, Julian now felt that whatever had been intended was done; she had lost a battle because the weapons and the stakes were unknown.

  “How silly I am being. Too much has happened after months of nothingness.” She spoke aloud to give herself heart, but her voice rang shrill in the emptiness.

  She heard a step and her nerves gave way. Her hands sought the sword she had taken and kept with her, but instead of holding it as a weapon she involuntarily raised it against her breasts in the sign to ward off evil, the sign of the cross of the Christians.

  “Julian?” The familiar voice spoke from the doorway, and Charles stood regarding her with disapproval as he shook the rain from his cloak. “What is the matter with you?”

  Relief and delight at seeing him when she had expected she knew not what made her burst into laughter. Everything was the matter with her world and his, yet he could stand there in common irritation and ask such a thing. She opened her mouth to share the joke, and the salt tears ran into it, splashing onto her hands and the shining sword.

  Charles crossed over to build up the fire and, with his back to her, said quite matter-of-factly, “Women can weep and be the freer for it. A man is thought a weakling and a coward if he yields. He must ride out wildly, seek battle, or roar in anger. I have done them all and am no less.”

  “And rose to survive. You will survive this, too, and one day will be honored for it.” Julian dashed the tears back and put down the sword. How very much she seemed to have wept lately! Her feeling of helplessness was fading at this human contact, and he did not even seem to be angry for all that there had been so much discord between them lately.

  He turned around to face her then, and she saw the new resolution in the fierce eyes, the new quietness in his bearing. In some strange way he was more at peace with himself, more remote, far removed from the man who had abducted her those weeks ago and equally removed from the man who had stood looking down at her naked body, attempting to revile her for the pleasure they had shared.

  She spoke again, nervous in front of his scrutiny. “Where did everyone go? What is going to happen? I woke and felt an absence of everything . . . everyone.” She wanted to get dressed; she must look the very hag of the bog standing there with her hair mussed and the stains of the hearth still on her hands.

  “I sent Nim out to scout. Clara will be back soon. But you . . .” He hesitated with an uncertainty that was no usual part of Charles Varland. “Julian, I will find a place for you in one of the villages that dot these hills. You will have to act as one of the people, but you are adaptable and brave. You can do it. When I have another ship and crew and have discovered what went wrong that we were tracked down, I will set you safely in France. Then my responsibility will be ended. But do not be afraid now.” He leaned toward her, and she caught the fresh scent of wind and male warmth.

  “Why should you feel responsibility toward me? I should have gone with you when you risked much to warn me. It is my fault. Your ship, your men, destroyed!” She faced him with chin up, knowing that t
he burden must be borne. Was this the man she had teased and taunted only days before, this stranger with the closed face? Did she seem different to him as well?

  “Comport yourself, lady. We all know the risks we take. I would not have you think that I dared assault the Tower for your sake alone as we have said. You were told of the vast rallying it gave to so beard the queen—men will speak of it in years to come. But you are young and foolish, and I have taken your body in hunger and often given you short shrift. I vowed to stay away and did so try.” He watched the color mount up into her pale face and shook his head. “Let all that be ended between us, for there is much to be done otherwise and I will ask your help, knowing that you hold one ruler to be as another. Even so.”

  Julian had never heard him speak in this manner. Always the wildness had been between them, and she had not known the man. Perhaps it had been so for him with her. She said, “Truly, I cannot see that one ruler is better than another; they all persecute. Have I and my family not reason to know that? The god worshiped is one of cruelty, no matter that he wears their own faces. Were all your reasons so abstract, Charles?”

  “No. Isabella was full willing to die as she did; she was a fanatic, and there are many in all our camps. But you were a victim, and so was my Beth. So was Geraldine in her way. So are most people.” Weariness tinged the dark face, and Julian knew that he believed all he said. “I, I have only battle left. That can be surcease.”

  He stared down into the fire moodily, then whirled, hand on his sword as the door banged in the rising wind. Julian did not know what to say, for she perceived that he was fully as jumpy as she. Abruptly he sat down but poised, ready to leap up. Julian went across to the cups of the night before and poured out the dregs of ale, dividing them between herself and Charles.

  He said, “Cornwall is one of our rallying places, strong for the princess here, fierce for the queen in a dozen others. Here my name is powerful, and here, it has been said, the salvation of England will come when Arthur rises.” His eyes sought hers and held them. “We could have hidden and recuperated in these coves, been restored, but there is treachery in my own camp. Julian, Clara is no woman of the crags, but one schooled in the arts; she is an astrologer. I meant to seek her in private even before your rescue and our destruction in the ship.”