FLAME OF DESIRE (15 page)

During the last few days Perriwincle had kept Heather well informed as to the fury of the storm that was taking place in government. He would keep his eyes and ears open as he drove his wagon about the city, picking up bits and pieces of gossip and some information at first hand.

On the eighteenth he had been told some enlightening news, that Northumberland was sending out urgent messages demanding reinforcements, but that the councilors were turning to Mary.

“Every lock, stock and barrel of ‘em, I say,” Perri had said with a laugh. “They’re meeting tonight at the Thames-side Palace of Baynard Castle. Richard will be home in no time,” he added, flashing his toothless smile.

“So the councilors soon turn tail when they see that the country is not behind them,” Heather had exclaimed.

The afternoon of the following day there had been more news. Perriwincle had stood before her as she dried herbs in the sun, talking so fast that she could hardly understand him. “Lord Arundel gave an impassioned speech saying the crown is due to Mary.” He chuckled. “The same Arundel who only a few days ago offered to spend his blood at Northumberland’s feet. This bloody well assures Mary the crown.”

It seemed that all England had now turned against the duke; even his loyal friends and followers said the crown was rightfully Mary’s. Heather had watched from her window as the royal herald, bedecked in the lilies and leopards of England, had ridden up and down the street proclaiming the news to all of London that the council had proclaimed Mary the rightful ruler. The order had gone out for Northumberland’s arrest. There would be no more fighting. The nine-day reign of Queen Jane was over. The diminutive red-haired lady was now confined to the Tower and Heather wondered how soon it would be before Northumberland and Hugh Seton joined her.

“All has been set to rights now,” Heather murmured, brushing several strands of her dark red hair from her eyes. And yet, she could not help but remember the kindness of the young queen that day at the Tower. How could Heather be indifferent to the fate of the young woman who had been reluctant to take the crown, that young woman whose eyes had met hers and softened, sparing Heather any punishment for her deception? Lady Jane had been but a pawn in the game of ambition, and this made her fate all the more pitiable.

From below the third-story window where Heather stood watching the rejoicing, several young men among the crowd waved up at her, some even throwing their caps up in the air.

“Come down and join us, fair lady,” said one of the bolder of the men. As if to further entice her, he flung up a handful of gold “angels.” Heather watched as those coins fell to the ground, only to be snatched up by the paupers dressed in their tattered garments.

“No, I cannot!” she called down. She was answered by loud pleadings from below and hastily stepped away from the window lest she be tempted. Thomas Bowen had given strict orders that neither Blythe nor Heather join the “rabble” in this revelry.

“Look at them. Look at them.” Heather turned to find her father standing behind her, the one man who did not feel elation at Mary’s victory. He had tried his best to hide his resentment, but only a fool would not see that his heart was not in the festivities.

“They are ready to give Mary their love, loyalty, and even their lives,” Heather answered. She wondered how many people knew of her father’s dealings with the man who had sought to be the ruler of England—Hugh Seton and Northumberland himself of course, but who else? Would her father be punished or forgiven? Even though Thomas Bowen was not always kind to her, she still did not want to see him suffer in any way.

As if reading her mind, he said softly, “Aye, their lives. I pray to God that I will not forfeit mine.”

Heather hastened to his side, laying a gentle hand upon his arm. “I’ve heard that Mary is most forgiving. All will be well, Father.”

He pulled away from her, fighting to gain control of himself and the terrible fear which threatened to turn him into a trembling mass of flesh. “Nary a one has bought my cloth these last few days. They know. They know. No doubt they saw me with Northumberland. Oh, curse the day I first set eyes upon him. I will be undone. Undone. My fortune will dissolve away like moistened salt. I cannot stand the thought of being poor.” He walked to the window and looked down at the street. “That traitor. That churlish traitor. Northumberland. How he fooled me. I am a loyal Londoner, a loyal subject. I witnessed the coronation of Edward, of Henry, and served them well.”

As a cheer rose again, a hailing of Mary, he quickly leaned out the window and joined his voice to the din. “God save the queen. God save Queen Mary!”

“All will be well, Father. You will see,” Heather said softly. If the situation had not been so dangerous, she might have been amused. How easily for some men to change their loyalties, as easily as a snake shed its skin.

He turned to her, his eyes haunted. “Yes. It will. It will. No one will know. Why, even now Northumberland and Seton might be prisoners in the Tower, but perhaps they will not tell. If they do, I will refute their story. I will. I have always been loyal to Mary. You know. You will tell them.”

Heather sighed. “Yes, Mother and I will be behind you in this. Now, get some sleep.” Leading him over to the door, she opened it and Saffron bounded inside.

“That cat!” her father said sourly. “He is the cause of my troubles. Witches and cats. Bad luck!”

Heather could not contain her anger. “It was not Saffron who brought this upon you, but yourself. Your greed.” She waited for his anger, but he merely looked at her, and then left, closing the door behind him. Heather stood watching the door, wondering if the elation she felt at Mary’s victory would be bittersweet.

Lying down upon the bed, she closed her eyes in an effort to forget her father’s actions and words, tossing and turning on the straw-filled mattress. It was impossible. Thoughts swirled through her brain; the noise, the heat of the night, and her own anxieties made slumber out of the question. All she got for her efforts was frustration.

“’Tis not possible to sleep!” she cried at last, bounding from the bed to return to the window. The crowd below was celebrating, setting up tables as they picnicked beneath her window and danced in the streets to many a fine tune. At last Heather found her own feet tapping in time to the rhythm of timpani, recorder, fiddle, and lute as she wished for a moment to join them. Already there were songs abounding about the valor of Queen Mary, jovial songs and those of a more serious air.

Once such song caused her anger, for it credited Sir Nicholas Throckmorton with being the one to warn Mary of Northumberland’s intent, when Heather knew very well that it had been Richard Morgan who had ridden the night of the king’s death to warn the queen.

“Richard,” she murmured, hugging her arms around her body. When would she see him again? “Soon,” she whispered, saying a silent prayer that he would return for her.

Chapter Nineteen

Richard Morgan ‘s every muscle ached as he arrived at the rickety back door of the small village inn. He would not have stopped at all except that he was not as strong as he needed to be for such a journey.

As he reached out to open the door, he noticed a proclamation nailed upon it which red: “Jane Grey Dudley, Queen of England.” Yanking the missive from the door, he angrily tore it to shreds as self-incrimination surged through him. “Things might have been different if I had not suffered my wound and had fought beside my queen. What if I am not in time and Northumberland is victorious?” he mumbled half-aloud.

At the sound of the creaking wooden door he looked up into the face of the tavern keeper, a man of enormous girth with a thick black beard and a patch over one eye.

“Do you have a room?” Richard asked, letting the shards of the proclamation filter through his fingers like the snows of winter.

“A room? Ale, a hot bath, the round curves of a woman, and a much-needed rest, eh? In that order, I would wager,” the tavern keeper replied with a smile which changed his image into that of a jovial jester. He opened the door wide and motioned for Richard to follow him.

The murky wooden dwelling smelled of sweat, grease, smoke from the kitchen stove, and stale wine and ale. A young boy led him to a seat at a corner table and while Richard waited to be served his eyes scanned his surroundings. The south wall was stacked with large barrels which looked as if they would topple over at any moment. The plaster was chipped, the hard planked floor covered with dirt, but he was glad to be at rest for at least a little while. Perhaps if he supped and tasted a mug of ale he would find sleep a welcome companion.

He closed his eyes, and the memory of Heather’s lovely face drifted before him. Guilt that he had left her tore at his heart, although she had told him to do so, thinking of him all the while. Was her mother even now angry with her? If only he had been able to bring her with him, but it was folly even to think of such a thing. War and battlefields were no place for a young woman.

“As soon as I can, I will go back,” he vowed silently. She was as precious to him now as a rare and beautiful jewel, indeed more so.

“What will ye have, me lord?” asked a shrill voice, bringing him out of his reverie.

“Fish, a loaf of bread, and ale,” he answered, looking up to find himself the object of severe scrutiny. The woman made it very clear that she had more than serving food on her mind. She leaned over, affording him a look at her pair of enormous breasts which seemed about ready to tumble out of their binding at any moment. Thinking of Heather’s delicately shaped breasts, so soft and alluring, he knew it would be a sacrilege to even cast his eyes in any other woman’s direction and so he made his lack of interest for the woman plain to see. She stalked away in silence, at last bringing him his food and casting him a sullen look.

As Richard ate he wondered if these people around him were on Mary’s side. Would they give him shelter, hide him if the duke won the battle? He tried to remember just how much farther it was to Framingham Castle and decided that it was half a day’s ride. Before the sun rose in the east he would set out again.

“Fifteen miles from the coast,” he mumbled to himself. The castle was situated in a position so that if, heaven forbid, Mary were to lose, escape would be near at hand. “Escape?” The word sounded bitter upon his tongue. He would not leave England without Heather. No, he could not. Life without her by his side was unthinkable to him now.

Scanning the crowd, Richard saw among the dun and brown-clothed villagers a fisherman or two, carrying with them the rewards of their patience, perchance selling a few of the fish to the tavern keeper or trading them for an ale. He listened to their talk about ships and nets and the open sea, wondering at the freedom their words portrayed. Perhaps one day he and Heather could find such freedom, a life together without worries of warfare and politics.

“Together.” He liked the word. Taking a drink of his ale, he let his mind wander with dreams and visions. Even the loud crash of the door being thrown open hardly unnerved him. Was he growing careless? Had love made him daring and frivolous?

As if to heed his own warning, in an effort to take precautions lest this intruder be one of Northumberland’s kind, Richard shrank back into the shadows, watching as all eyes turned toward the new arrival.

“Did you hear? Did you hear?” the man shouted, grabbing hastily for a goblet of wine. “London’s proclaimed Mary as queen. The council has spoken the word. Northumberland is even now being hunted down for the dog that he is!”

The onlookers gave a gasp in unison; then choruses of chattering broke forth as everyone vented their questions and opinions.

“So, there will be no fight!” grumbled a man at the front door. “I had thought to serve Mary.”

“Northumberland declared a traitor. ‘Tis a just proclamation,” snorted another. “His ambition was as a wart on the nose of England.”

“Ah, Mary has suffered,” said a tavern maid. “My mother told me that even when the queen’s mother, Catherine of Aragon, was dying, Mary was forbidden to go to her. Surely then she will show her people mercy, knowing well what injustice is.”

“Aye. I do not have much love for her papist leanings, but I do honor my queen. It is only right that the real Tudor heir be upon the throne.”

Richard could sit silent no longer. Rising to his feet, he sought out the new guest. “How long has it been since Mary was proclaimed queen?”

“Two days,” the red-bearded man replied.

“Two days?” Richard repeated. Had he known of this turn of events, he would have stayed by Heather’s side. Even now the urge to retrace his path, to go once again to London, overtook him. But he had traveled so far already. He was nearly to Framlingham. Wouldn’t it be better to keep on with his journey? The queen would have need of him, still, and what of Northumberland and Hugh Seton? They were still roaming about, a danger to everyone as long as they were free. Grabbing his cloak, he strode to the door, pushing aside the horde of yeomen, sailors, fishermen, and villagers who stood about.

“You! Where are you going?” shouted out the tavern keeper. “What about your room? Do you intend to come back?”

Richard tossed his head and grinned. “No. Give it to one of these fine people. I am off to see my queen.” Feeling as if the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders, he sought out his horse from the stable hand and began the ride to Framlingham upon the rocky road.

The rough pink stones of the castle walls loomed in the distance against the purple haze of the dawn as Richard Morgan rode forth to Framlingham Castle. The stones of the walls formed a circle, looking strangely from the distance like the ringed stones of Stonehenge, that mystical druid sanctuary from years gone by.

Approaching the castle, he could hear even at his hour the riotous rejoicing. He smiled, knowing well how pious Mary was and how she abhorred such outpouring of emotions. But even Mary, even the queen, would have little control over such an enthusiastic crowd.