Defiant Desire

by Anne Carsley

  The man she loved loved her in return and spoke it with his dying breath. One fact outweighed the other for the instant, and all the trumpets rang there in that valley of death and despair under the heavy clouds. In the next breath she thought of all that they both had lost and of those who had triumphed. Bitterness and fury roiled together in her as she rose and flung herself upon the approaching Ortega, her fingernails raking his face and clawing for his eyes. She felt the flesh give way and the blood come. One fist hit his nose and the resulting squashing sound was delightful.

  Ortega slashed at her and roared curses, other hands pulled at her, and she felt nothing. When she was jerked away she rounded on that captor and kicked, clawed, and screamed. Someone caught the flowing hair and yanked it so hard that it was nearly torn from her head. She fell heavily and spat straight up into the leering face that bent over hers.

  “Can’t you fools subdue one small girl?” Ortega’s hated voice rang in her ears.

  Julian fought to rise, but this time the combined soldiers were too much for her and she was forced to lie still. Ortega came near, too near, and one of her booted feet caught him in the groin as she kicked out with the superhuman strength that had come upon her.

  “All the demons of hell curse you into everlasting perdition! May you drown in the black pit that is your very soul, you spawn of the fiend. I curse you, do you hear, I curse you!”

  Julian screamed the words into the ring of faces, the huddle of bodies that held her down, and at the dark figure that again bulked above her. This time Ortega’s temper and gut fury had taken total possession of him. She saw the heavy hands bunch together and come down toward her face, felt the blow that sent her falling into the outer darkness and felt the pain lift in a great red wave that peaked and froze, holding her burning within its depths. Something in her rose then and went in search of Charles Varland down all the highways of the dead.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  There were, it seemed, thoughts and impressions and feelings even though you were dead. There was pain, too, and such desolation as only the truly lost must know. But where were the flames of hell where the unbelievers roasted and cried out their woe for all eternity? The demons of Satan? The Evil One himself? Surely those still living needed to know that death was but a continuation of life in its more painful aspects of body and mind. Only the red haze was true.

  Julian drifted sometimes in such thoughts, and then she heard voices, both male and female, talking far above what she assumed to be her bier. The sense of the words never came through, but she had sensations of drinking, of taking in warmth, even the headiness of wine. She hurt and was jolted, she was turned and tossed, even wept and remembered the Scriptures saying that this would go on forever. The feeling of loss was so great. Was it for Charles, who lay dead, or was it for the loss of God as the priests taught? She saw the flames of the stake and Isabella’s contorted figure. Had this fate pursued her even in hell? What an ironic joke it all was. She wanted to laugh and did so in spite of the pain that savaged her chest.

  “. . . by the still waters . . . goodness and mercy . . .” The words wove themselves into the grayness of her lonely drifting. How strange that the comforting words should be spoken in the land of the dead, perhaps the anteroom to the more savage aspects of hell. “Who shall ascend to the hill of the Lord . . . clean hands and a pure heart?” A voice low and soft as that of Elspeth, who could not read but had remembered all the words she had been taught over a lifetime. “Thy word in my heart . . And again, “Rise, my daughter, and come .. .”

  Julian opened her eyes and stared into a proliferation of roses, red and white and Tudor, surrounded by angels blowing trumpets while a unicorn waited to bound into the nearby woods. She turned her head slightly and saw faded tapestries come into shape on a far wall, their depiction of a long done battle still gleaming in threads of a vivid red for the blood that survived. Blood! Battle! Memory rushed back, and she sat up so suddenly that her head rang and the room turned around. In that spinning she saw that the surroundings were richly appointed with other tapestries and hangings, carved chairs, a fire leaping in a hearth. The covers of her ornate bed were fur-lined, and the curtains boasted a crest of fighting animals surmounted by the sun and moon and intertwined with roses.

  “You will want to know where you are and who I am and what you are doing here. Well, I am not supposed to answer questions, only watch and report, so do not exhaust yourself by asking. Girl! Say that the woman is awake! Bring nourishment!”

  Julian stared at the portly figure by her bed, a priest from the look of him—the tonsure and the brown robe—but the querulous brown eyes and the purple-veined nose bespoke something else. He was perhaps sixty, but as he sat there something of the mischief of extreme youth remained with him.

  Because she was still alive, no longer in pain, warm and comfortable, with food and drink on the way and death a distant memory, Julian said, “This is not hell or ever was. I did dream.”

  The presumed priest stared in his turn, then burst into laughter that shook his whole body. Julian was forced to smile herself, because such mirth bred itself in another. Their eyes met, and the laughter rose again. She put one hand to her mouth and drew it away slightly. Still her hand, still real, but there was a healed scar across it that had not been there before. It looked as though she had grasped the bare blade of a sword and pulled. But how long ago?

  The priest sobered and rescued the illuminated book that had been in danger of tumbling to the floor. “Not hell, lady. But I think that you may have been there if one may judge by your cries. You have a very healthy and piercing voice in which you called out many curses of a most illuminating nature. I must confess that I tried, in the interests of my ears, to silence you. The fate to which you consigned me was fascinating. Your mind is most perceptive. How, I wonder, did our sovereign Madam the Queen enjoy having you as a lady-in-waiting?”

  “What did I say?” Julian’s voice was husky from disuse in normal conversation.

  “I, a priest of God, to speak so! I am shocked!” He laughed again and she with him.

  The door opened softly just then, and a maidservant entered carrying refreshments. Julian felt the pangs in her stomach and wondered how long it had been since she had really eaten. She remembered most of what had happened to her including the final blow from Ortega and Charles’s death, but it was much like a story or a dream, certainly not the stuff of reality. Reality was being safe and warm, eating, sharing a joke.

  She raised her eyes, and the curtain was torn away. She was back in danger and cold and terror. Reality was the bulk of George Attenwood standing just inside the door, the dispassionate eyes staring into hers.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  “Your servant, Lady Julian. I trust that you are better?” Lord George Attenwood advanced slightly toward her, noticed her recoil, and paused where he was.

  Julian saw the consideration, and a little of her wild animal fear receded. He still appeared as he had when she last saw him, the color of sand with penetrating eyes of the same shade, his face a little leaner and a small hunch to his shoulders. He wore green velvet, and two emeralds shimmered on his square, capable fingers.

  “Better, yes. But where am I? What has happened?” The words came out her dry throat in spates that seemed choking.

  “I will answer your questions, of course. But you are newly roused for the first time in many weeks. Rest and refresh yourself first.” The stolidity he had shown at the time Philip of Spain introduced them was entirely gone. Now he was any gentleman, concerned about the health of his guest.

  “My lord, now! I must know my fate.”

  “Madam, you are my honored guest.”

  “Prisoner! Better I had died on that field than live so.” She wondered when he would have his peculiar pleasure of her.

  George Attenwood smiled, and it served to soften the harsh cut of his craggy face, making him look younger than his fifty-odd years. He flicked his fingers at the priest
and the little maidservant. “Go, both of you. Emily, have the bath readied and summon the tiring woman. Have the new gowns brought out that Lady Redenter may choose the ones to be finished.” They scurried away, and he turned to Julian. “Drink the good Bordeaux, and there is capon freshly roasted. I will sit here, and when you are done you shall ask what questions you choose.”

  The scent of the food rose up to tantalize her nostrils and she reached warily for it on the chest where the priest had propped his book. As she did so the coverlet fell away, exposing her white bosom, for she was naked under it. She snatched the warm thing higher, and the flush burned in her face. Attenwood paid no attention but began to turn the pages of the book with a casual air. He had seen, she knew it; likely he had no interest in women, but where was his lover, the one who had been jealous?

  Never had food tasted so good. Never had she been so glad to be alive. Julian knew that for all her proud talk she would do anything to live. Deeply and dearly had she loved Charles Varland, but she would not lay down her life to be with him in the nebulous beyond of which the priests spoke. Shame painted her face scarlet, and she took a deep drink of wine, which made her head reel. Charles, I will love you always. That much was true and must be enough for the coming time of her life.

  Attenwood closed the book with a thump and said, “To begin with, you are in my castle of Altyn on the coast in the North Country and far from both London and Cornwall. It is February 1558. The final putting down of the rebellion in Cornwall was accomplished in December, the executions took place after the holy days were finished. Madam the Queen still looks to bear her child, and the war continues.”

  Julian stared at him. Why did he not get to the gist of the matter?

  “You fought Ortega and the soldiers until you were beaten into the very ground. Some of the scars you will bear all your life. 'The physicians thought that the fever must have been working in you already, and the injuries you suffered fanned it. You have a determination to live that surprised them. Well, you smashed the handsome Spaniard’s nose, and it was growing back with a definite crook. Moreover, one of the longer scratches would not heal for a time, and that scar will remain with him. Needless to say, he was not overfond of my insistence that I would have you just as you were, broken and raving about your lover.”

  “Charles, was he given honorable burial?” Julian leaned forward, all her anxiety shining in her pale face. If the body were carrion only, why did it matter? She only knew that it did.

  “Lady Julian, he was one of the foremost of the traitors, and an example was made of him. You must know that his head adorns London Bridge as is customary. He was a brave man who made the wrong choices. His name is honored that you loved him.”

  Wind, summer rot, the empty skeleton head to fall apart there, that mind and body that she had so passionately loved. All to nothingness and destruction, a bare place in the world and in the ages, her heart torn out as by the Furies. She fought the tears and could not. She bent over and the sobs began to shake her.

  The hard hand rested on her soft hair and Attenwood said, “It is best for you to purge the wound.” Just so had Charles spoken. Not to be endured! “And if it would comfort you, I will have masses said for his soul. One priest shall speak his name before the Virgin again and yet again. She is compassionate and will understand.”

  Julian muttered, “I do not believe that. He is dead forever.”

  “Listen. Take the forms of our faith and let the age-old ritual be done. Do not use reason. Let yourself be comforted, for is not our God greater than we?” He smoothed her head again, patted her back, and slowly the hard bonds of pain began to lessen.

  When Julian could sit up again, she found him ready with the restorative wine. She would weep often for Charles, she knew, but Attenwood’s unexpected kindness was blessed relief in her weakened state. She wiped her nose and tried to make apologies which he waved away. The words of reassurance he gave were strangely comforting, and for the time being she would cling to them. Her health was what mattered now. She heard the quiet voice speaking again.

  “Varland’s body was brought back to London as well as the wretches who had fought with him earlier. Those of noble blood were dealt with properly, the others as well, but you were another matter. Ortega wanted revenge, but one who was the queen’s ward, traitor or not, could not be summarily handled. He is, as I think you may know, one of the foremost representatives of King Philip in England, but this fact is not well known. He has kept his king well informed as to the thinking of the court and people. The king of Spain is not pleased; he means to take power here when the queen dies or, as has seemed likely, is deposed. Civil War is likely, and he will take advantage of it. Ortega was summoned for an accounting, and in his absence I, being then at court, asked for you that our betrothal might be honored. I swore to be responsible for you if you lived.” His light eyes watched her face; not a muscle stirred in his.

  “But the queen? The charges against me? That awful priest cited all manner of fearful things. I so feared the fire.” Julian felt the trickle of sweat on her back and knew that she had burned many times over in her dreams.

  “Her Majesty has reason to trust me, for I hold much of the north and am of the Old Catholic loyalty even as your family. I told her of Varland’s bravery, which none ever denied—and pointed out your many difficulties, that you had fallen in love and been led astray. She said she understood but that an example must be made.”

  He paused to sip wine and Julian could see the small set face of the queen, obdurate for what she believed to be the right. Yet she had given Julian her life and this delivered her to the man she dreaded.

  “So then I remarked that she was well known to love and honor the king of Spain; what if he had been such a one as Varland? Was one to be punished for love? She, the queen, had come through great tribulation and had won her throne and love as well. Could she not be merciful? She stared at me with those strange eyes so like King Henry’s and told me that she had come to drink of the cup of bitterness a thousand times over. ‘Take the girl and remain from this court, but hold the north ready if I ask it. Keep her straitly.’ Then she sent me away. I and my men brought you here by ship, and so the tale is done.” Because it must be asked, Julian whispered, “And what now is your will?”

  The red flush came up under his skin and he looked past her, then down at his fingernails. “Forgive that I speak this way, but you are no maid. The things that you said proved that amply.”

  “I would have told you had you asked.” Her head went up proudly, and the small chin never wavered.

  Attenwood met her eyes then. “Very well, I will speak out. Until there is no chance that you might bear Varland’s child, I must ask you to remain here unwed. The women have told me that no flux came, so you could be with child. If so, you will have it, and it will be sent away. If not, I will marry you and you will have my sons, my heirs. It will be a quiet life for a time, but when matters of state are settled ...”

  “You could not destroy the child!” Julian felt the glory rise in her at the thought of bearing a son ,to Charles Varland. Such had not even entered her mind. Of that passionate last loving something must come!

  “Be sensible. He would be reared apart. There would be other sons.” He watched her, and she knew that on this point he would not yield. “I will not give house to Varland’s bastard!”

  She would deal with that when and if it arose. Behind his kindness, she sensed a strength of purpose that could not be shaken. It was not the time to question or push. As to his lover or lovers, that did not seem to interfere with his intention to have sons. He had saved her life and he was older; with a little more luck she might rule here. Take things as they came. Julian let all these things run swiftly through her mind as she said, “My lord, I am most grateful for all that you have done. Naturally I shall obey you in all things.”

  George Attenwood laughed and reached forward to clasp her fingers. “You are a veritable hellcat, Julian Redenter,
and you fought as that warrior queen, Boadicea of old. Our sons will be wild and brave.” His gaze sharpened on her face. “You must rest and grow strong.”

  It was easy to smile at him, for he was both perceptive and kind. Had it not been for Charles Varland and what she knew of Lord Attenwood’s penchant for boys, it might have been simple enough to rest in what could have been caring. If he wanted the shell of Julian Redenter he was welcome. “As my lord commands.” How very much she had changed, she thought with a shiver.

  The bath water must have grown cold and the gowns remained unaltered, for it was another week before Julian could rise from the bed for longer than an hour or so. The spinning dizziness would come upon her unexpectedly and fling her into the void. The physician, an angry bantam of a man, muttered in Latin and gave orders to her maid but simply told Julian to rest and not think. “Your wound is of the heart. It will heal.” Brother Robert bade her call him Rob—“far simpler, that way”—and became her close companion as they read and talked, sparring with each other in a wry way. Edith, the maidservant, soon lost her awe of Julian and chatted guilelessly of her Tom and the family they hoped to start. Julian relaxed and the war in her ended. The day she knew that she would not have Charles’s child marked the end of her resistance to this new way of life. She could not weep, but her mourning would one day cease.

  “I have changed, Edith.” Julian surveyed herself in the Italian mirror backed with gold, then put it down and twirled before the longer one that would have been the envy of any great lady in London.

  “Madam is beautiful.” The little maid touched the box of glimmering jewels and jerked her hand away as if it were burned.

  Julian wore a flowing gown of creamy beige satin which made her waist very small. The sleeves were long and full, edged with lace of a deeper shade that was almost brown over her hands. Her bosom was full and white at the low bodice, which was also framed with pale lace. Her underskirt was palest yellow, her slippers the same color. The chestnut hair had been dressed high in coils threaded with pearls and small emeralds. One perfect diamond crowned the pure parting in the center of her head and threw back the reflections of deep color. Her hair had been washed and polished with silk, combed and polished again. But it was her face that held Julian. The white scar on her cheekbone had been powdered over but it would remain with her while she lived. That half of her face had been laid open, Rob told her, and the physician had used all his skill to restore it. “His is a talent that fled from the Inquisition.” There was another on her back that went from one shoulder down to her buttocks. In time it would vanish. The one on her hand would not, for it was very deep and still pained when the weather was wet.