by Anne Carsley
In these days she thought often of Sir Guy and wondered about his fate, but she dared not dwell on it. Not even with Charles in their closest moments could she have shared that fear; the burden was hers to bear.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Rain lashed against the sides of the two-roomed house, and Julian heard the splattering which meant another leak. She sighed and resumed her pacing, the skirts of the old green gown snapping with the force of her movements. What was worse, she wondered wryly, to live at the peak of high anticipation or to perish of boredom? Once she had thought life with Charles Varland, arrogant lord of the realm, would give her all that she had ever wanted. Now she lived with him, yes, certainly that, but it was life with a stranger. A stranger who had touched her only twice in the weeks since August, and now it was late October. Then it had been out of need and he flown with cheap wine. Touch, grasp, and roll away, her own eyes blazing with tears. Julian could not regret what she had done, but she was facing the consequences of it now.
They had been lucky to find the ramshackle little house in the copse, set well back from the London road and not close to others. Charles, surprisingly handy for a lord, had mended as best he could, even found a girl to attend Julian now and again. The fact that she was an idiot made no real difference; she was handy and too foolish to ask questions that her harelip made difficult to frame. People did not ask questions these days in any event; they minded their own business and tried not to attract adverse attention. Each day Charles walked afield to earn what coins he could and listen to the other conflicting rumors: Spain had come in full force; the queen was better, worse, dead, fleeing; the princess has been executed, declared true heiress; largesse was proclaimed in the city. He would tell Julian some of the more preposterous ones in the flat tone he used to her nowadays, quaff the sour beer which was all they could afford, and collapse in the other room. And always his eyes returned to her stomach, the stomach that she tried to conceal by wearing her two gowns looser. What had he said only this morning?
“Your face is not swollen in the mornings. Have I not heard that women with child always have that sort of thing? And you are fortunate that you have not been ill, a comfort in these surroundings, of course.” Then his eyes dropped again to her stomach.
“Women are affected differently. Always it has been so.” Should she begin to be sick, then? Would that make any difference in his feelings toward her? He had banged away, but soon she would be unable to answer his questions. One thing comforted her, at least. Sickness was rife in the country, it rained a great deal, and the seas were rough. The political unrest grew worse daily, and it was not hard to imagine total anarchy. Anarchy, too, in the trampeled-down feelings of Julian and Charles. They had loved so fiercely and now only spoke civilly with an effort. She had tried, after the gypsies left vowing eternal friendship, to reach him again, but he retreated so far in himself that it was impossible. “Be assured that I will do my bounden duty, madam.” The freezing quality of those words had left her to be churlish if she insisted. “None has yet questioned the honor of a Varland.” After that there were only the most perfunctory words.
The devil fly away with this foolish brooding! She would go mad if she did not venture out into the world, see people if only from a distance, think about something other than love gone awry. The romances never prepared one for the aftermath; it would be amusing sometime to write a realistic romance with a bitter ending as a warping to maidens. She smiled a little—she and Charles had truly loved and nothing could take that away.
Impatiently she reached for her cloak and hood, then went out into the wet day that was not so much cold as dreary and chill. The lane was muddy, and water sluiced down her neck, but it was invigorating to be outside and not the prisoner of her own thoughts. She was reminded of another day such as this when the lean, dark-eyed man summoned her to London at the queen’s pleasure. Dear Guy of Edmont! What had happened to him? There was no way to know. For that matter there was no way to know if they had ever been dangerously pursued by those in search of Charles. All the gossip they had heard gave no indication. No one would think of a lord of England living on the outskirts of the city of London and working with his hands to earn his daily bread and that of his pregnant mistress. If any safety were to be gained it would be here.
She stumbled and almost went down in the slush. Her attention was jerked into the present by a troop of horses passing on the far road. They rode hard, oblivious to the weather, and curiosity stirred in Julian. She walked on to the road, heedless of the muck that covered her thin shoes and skirts. Several people stood in a knot talking, their words plainly audible to any who might be near.
“Won’t be long, I tell you, until there’ll be another bonny lady on the throne.” “Treason, watch out.” “Ah, you’re just an old woman.” “Those men are surely going to see the princess.” The babble swirled up, and Julian could not identify who said what. One comment rang over and over in her head. “Sick she is, dying she must be, and only a few left with her. Serves her right, the cruel witch.” Someone else shushed him abruptly.
Julian came up to the speakers and forsook all caution. “How does Her Majesty? What does rumor say?” Their faces darkened, and she knew that she must protect herself. “My husband went into London yesterday and has not returned. He is given to drink and his opinions are for . . . another. I fear he may have voiced them and been taken.” The wind blew her hood against her face, in part concealing it, and it took no acting ability to make her own voice high and shrill.
One of the men, fat and bearded, said largely, “Your husband sounds a man of sense in his opinions! The world will soon know, why should you not? It is said that the false queen lies dying in St. James’s Palace, and the rightful successor to the throne, our Elizabeth, has been acknowledged by her. There is no more reason to weep, lady.”
Julian put her hand up and found that the tears were streaming down her face. For the queen? For the princess, who would soon rule if gossip could be trusted? For Julian Redenter, who walked in the pathways of bitterness as she had in the summer’s glory?
“I thank you, sirs.” She hitched up her skirts and ran rapidly across the muddy tracks. She knew what she had to do. It made no sense; in fact it was the very height of foolishness, but no other course was open to her.
She slammed into the house and came to a full stop before the tall figure that rose up to meet her. No concealment was possible, for the wet cloak streamed over her shoulders and down her back. The front of her gown was mud-spattered and dripping. It clung to her body and outlined it clearly.
The hard, weary voice said, “I should have known that you lied for your own reasons. Fool that I was to believe you. Did you think that I would marry you? Was that it? Slut, why did you lie to me?” Charles lifted both hands as if to strike her, the gray eyes burning into hers.
“It was the only way! You would have gone abroad and been killed in the state of mind you were in! Believe me, Charles, I did not do it to trap you but to save you!” She put an arm across her flat stomach and faced him boldly. She would not cower before him.
Charles stood very tall and erect, the rough dark clothes he wore only accentuating the proud bearing and carved profile. The stolidity of the past months had faded, and now he was the epitome of the dark lord she had known in the beginning.
“Where were you running to, madam? Trying to get back before I returned and found you gone? I was preparing to seek you. I was worried about you, a rich jest, is it not?” He laughed and slapped one palm into the other.
“Well, do as you wish. I am for Dover and the first ship out.”
“Wait!” Quickly she recounted the gist of the gossip and added, “I am going to the palace to be with the queen when she dies. I owe her much, and the bitterness of her life is not to be believed. There will be no danger now. All look to the new queen even as you must.”
Charles stared at her and began to adjust his outdoor cloak. “You are mad. I should have know
n it. Bedlam waits for such as you, Julian Redenter. The dying are more savage in their last throes, and Mary Tudor has been the crudest of them all. Go ahead, all that is nothing to me. The new queen will be nothing to me.” He went to the door but turned at her cry.
“Charles, I have to go! How can I explain it? She has had nothing!” Julian felt her conflicting feelings, the enormity of her own loss beginning to bear down, and began to tremble.
“I do not think that Julian Redenter has so much either. I bid you farewell, madam.” He was gone then and the wind banged ceaselessly on the ill-hung door.
Julian put her head in her hands and began to weep. Sobs tore at her and she was whirled back to Lady Gwendolyn’s agonized death, to the loss and bitterness of that time when her mother screamed for Lionel and could not see the loving face of her daughter. The face of England’s queen was superimposed on Lady Gwendolyn’s then, and Julian saw once again the hopeless, passionate caring in both, the same sort of love she had feared would come to her and now had been her own undoing. The queen, single-minded and determined, had tried to destroy those who loved her as well as those who hated her in her attempt to turn England back to a lost world. Julian knew that her own mother had been much the same way—both had had so little. She, Julian, had had more and yet it all came down to nothingness in the end. The tears blotted out all reality as she stared at the door through which Charles Varland would not come again.
That truth came home all the more fully to Julian as she waited the rest of the day, all night, and into the early morning. There was no wood for fire and the little house was freezing, for the weather had turned colder. It was no longer raining, but a heavy chill rose from the ground, and mist was everywhere when Julian looked out. There was no longer any reason to delay her original plan, the force of which still drove her.
She put on her only decent gown, a rather faded brown velvet trimmed with a darker ribbon on the sleeves and skirts. The neckline was low, but some of the wider ribbon taken from the sides of the skirt tended to that. Her hair she plaited high and fastened with several of the hoarded pins she had. The old cloak and hood, the wet shoes, all would have to do. There were several pearls left; she and Charles had planned to save them until a truly great need arose. She had several coins of low value; perhaps they would be enough to enable her to reach St. James’s, and after that she would see.
“I would have gone to the queen even if things had been well between Charles and myself.” The words were all the more true as she said them out loud. Julian knew then that in some strange way this was her own expiation.
The road was still busy with much of the traffic going away from London, but the carter whom Julian hailed down by standing practically in front of his beasts was willing enough to take her once he had bitten on the coin she offered. Blessedly, he was not inclined to conversation, and she did not have to lie. A lone woman was no stranger in these times, especially one with a strained, worried face.
The palace stood away from the city of London, near some fields of marsh, and was within walking distance from there. Julian asked the man to set her down in that general vicinity and, ungraciously, he complied. When he creaked out of sight she pulled her cloak closer against the icy winds that swept across the barren space and battered themselves against the red-brick palace fronted with stone and decorated with turrets and battlements. '“Then she walked what seemed an endless number of steps, the bottom of her skirt growing even wetter and her shoes so mired that they had no shape. The late afternoon was gray and dark with occasional snippets of icy rain. The trees that normally formed a frame for the palace were barren and writhed in the blasts that shook them. A small group of people stood sadly at the gates, waiting for whatever news might be permitted to come out. A guard stood just inside, another flanking him.
Julian pushed through the people and called to one of them, asking entrance.
He approached and glanced at her curiously. “No one is permitted entrance, goodwife. Her Majesty will be grateful for the concern and prayers of all her people, however.”
“You do not understand.” She caught her breath and gave her life away. “I am Julian, daughter of Gwendolyn and Lionel Redenter. My mother served Queen Katherine of Aragon, and I served Her Majesty. I was forced to be away for a time, but now I come to be with her in the time of need.”
“You, a great lady?” He laughed, wide teeth showing in the broad face. “Go on with you.”
Julian thought back to a hunt and a fair, disdainful face. If one ever loved the queen, it was Jane Dormer, and by all accounts, the love was greatly returned. It was this girl who, it was said, would marry Philip’s ambassador, De Feria. There was danger in using her name, of course, but what did that matter? Only let Julian bid farewell to the queen and pay that debt that seemed to overhang her, then she could go to Wales if she lived. Armita had given instructions as to how the gypsies might be reached.
“Send to Lady Dormer. She will vouch for me.”
“She is ill and has great difficulty in leaving her own bed to attend the queen.” The guard was growing impatient.
“Send to her! Would you deny the Queen’s Majesty her friends in this time of horror?” Julian’s voice rose arrogantly and the others heard. Instantly they came flocking around to berate the guard.
“You heard her.” “This is no time for lies!” “Let her in! You never know!” One large woman crossed herself and began to pray for “that sainted lady, the queen.” The guard looked at the other and shrugged.
“You vow that you know Lady Dormer and are truly what you say? By the wounds of Christ?” He sounded rather bored with the whole matter.
Julian snapped, “Of course I vow it. Now open!”
Moments later she was walking down the road to the palace as though she owned it. Would she ever emerge again?
Once inside the ornate halls that now seemed curiously empty, Julian doffed the wet cloak and hood, then scraped some of the muck from her shoes. She hoped she looked the part of impoverished gentlewoman but thought, with a strange sinking of spirits, that few were likely to question her. This was plainly the last residence of the dead; the shifting of power had already begun.
She walked down corridors into beautifully equipped rooms which held ornaments, fine hangings, carved furniture and books, a chapel, past far fewer guards than she would have expected, and into a long passage where images of the saints stood in niches and candles bloomed. A gathering of men in black robes were walking toward her, talking anxiously as they came.
She flattened herself against the wall, head deferentially bent, but they took no heed of her. Phrases came to her ears and bore out all the gossip she had heard earlier. “. . . has to acknowledge the princess, only a matter of time.” “King Philip’s express wish, you know.” “Another Spanish marriage?” “Sinking, the physician says.” Then they were gone with no word from the woman herself.
Julian gathered all her courage then and went to the end of the passage, pushed at the door, oddly unguarded, and walked into a wide chamber hung all in purple and gold and lit with only one branch of candles. Two women sat on either side of the great bed which was draped with the arms of England and Spain. Both looked to be nodding off, and their faces were pale with exhaustion. But it was the woman in the bed who held her attention.
Mary Tudor had always been small; now she seemed tiny, her face wrinkled and thin on the high pillows, her hands shrunken as they held a book between them on the purple covers. The harsh lines around her mouth had deepened in the time since Julian had seen her, and the sandy hair was scantier. She sighed heavily and opened her eyes as Julian watched.
One of the women caught sight of Julian and rose slightly as she whispered, “Who are you, madam? Her Majesty is resting and cannot be disturbed.”
“I came to wish her well.” Any other words stuck in Julian’s throat. How could you say that you had come out of pity, pity for yourself and for the dying queen?
“Let her approach
.” The voice was weak, but the will was there. “Let Julian Redenter approach.”
The woman fell back, and Julian took her place at the bed, more afraid than when she faced George Attenwood. Fires still burned at Smithfield. Had she not caught the scent of burning flesh on her way here? Charles’s words about the savagery of the dying came back to her with full force.
“Why are you here?” The flinty Tudor gaze was still in possession. “Heard you were dead in some battle. A bold girl, I thought when I first saw you.”
“Madam. Madam.” Julian faltered as Lady Gwendolyn and the queen of England merged into one and shifted into the image that for Julian had ever meant peace, the shimmering hawthorn tree in spring. She shook her head and saw again the drawn face, the sunken eyes of the queen. “I did not want you to be alone, not now.” And because truth was upon her in this moment of extremity, she added, “Not everyone turns away, madam. Some come to wish you well even as I have done.”
Mary toyed with one of the rings on her hands, then sighed in exhaustion. “But Philip, nevermore.”
“I know, madam.” Because she did know of love and the agony it could bring, the assurance reached the dying woman, and the wide-open eyes stared straight into Julian’s.
“All desert me and go to her. All.” Her head jerked on the pillow.
“Not all, Madam the Queen. I am here, and here I shall stay if you will have me.”
“In God’s name, I will.”
So Julian Redenter returned to the service of Mary Tudor, queen of England.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Julian found it surprising how easily she slipped back into the old routine. She was scarcely noticed, and only once was her return remarked on, that by Jane Dormer, whose life stretched before her. Jane, red-eyed and shaken, said, “It is good that you have found your way back, but there are no rewards here for the backsliders.” Julian let it go and met the compassionate gaze of old Susan Clarence, once her detractor. Here in this gathering of the few who waited for death there was no place for old hatreds. Many of the other ladies were very young and easily frightened, fearful of their futures. Their number decreased by the day. Often the queen was visited by her ministers and members of the council, still more frequently by the physicians and priests. Jane Dormer was sent to Elizabeth at Hatfield, bearing instructions from the queen, and returned so distraught that she was put to bed immediately.