FLAME OF DESIRE (16 page)

The hooves of his horse clattered loudly against the stones of the outer courtyard, blending with the buzzing voices of those who celebrated their well-earned victory.

Dismounting from his horse, giving the animal up to the hands of a groom, he sought out the queen, finding her where he expected her to be, in the chapel. When at last she was finished with her prayers, she rose from her knees and turned in his direction, a smile lighting up her face as she saw him.

“Richard!” Her pale face flushed with color, her pinched features softened.

Kneeling at her feet, he kissed the cross she held in her hands, offering her his allegiance. She bade him rise and listened intently as his story poured forth, of all that had happened, of his brush with death, of the beautiful young woman who had saved him, taking on his mission of delivery of Mary’s letter to the council. He humbly begged her forgiveness that he had not been at her side when she had need of him.

“You are here now,” she answered gently. “How glad I am to see you. It is only fitting that you be with me to celebrate this victory. God was with me—how could I have ever doubted that he would be? May He forgive me. My people have proven to me that they long to return to the old ways, the true religion.” Her eyes gleamed with a fervor he had seen before.

“Well-spoken,” came a voice from the shadows. The queen beckoned the man into the light, and Richard, turning his eyes in that direction, gasped in surprise, for standing in front of him was none other than Hugh Seton.

Chapter Twenty

“What is he doing here? Arrest him. He is one of Northumberland’s men.” Richard Morgan reached for his sword, feeling outraged to see the leering face of his adversary. The gall of the man was unbelievable. Only Mary’s intervention prevented him from pointing the sword at the traitor’s throat.

“No! Richard. He is no more Northumberland’s man, he is my loyal servant. A miracle has been wrought.”

Richard laughed bitterly. “Your loyal servant indeed. I would say that like the turncoat he is, he fled to your banner to save his hide. Let me run him through like the
dog
that he is.”

The leer that Hugh Seton gave him was one of pure hatred, but he managed a smile for Mary’s benefit, his face a mask of noble subservience. “Calm, yourself, brother. I can well understand your feelings. It no doubt is difficult for you to believe my newfound loyalty. God works in mysterious ways.”

“Leave God out of this. He would not bother with the likes of you!” Indignity oozed forth from Richard’s every pore.

“Richard, I command you to hold your tongue.” Mary’s voice was sharp and angry. “Let him speak his mind.”

Hugh Seton smiled at the queen, bending his head in a noble salute. “Do not be angry with him. It is difficult for me to believe the wonder of it all.” He turned to Richard with an expression of the cat who swallowed the sparrow. “It was as if God himself spoke to me, told me to honor my lawful ruler.” The sun shone through the colored glass of the windows of the chapel, casting dancing beams of light upon the face of the man who now spoke with fervor. “Paul on the road to Damascus was blessed and like Paul, God made me see the error of my ways and led me back to the truth.”

“The truth!” Richard’s face twitched in agitation. It was not that he did not believe in miracles, only that he could never be fooled by one such a Hugh Seton. The man as playing upon Mary’s religious zest, upon her basic goodness and trusting nature. Knowing how much she longed to bring the country back to Catholicism, Hugh Seton had found the way to her heart.

Hugh Seton looked demonic to Richard, with his face cast in a swirl of colors from the mosaic window, but Mary did not seem to notice. “We must bring England back to the true faith.”

“Yes!” Mary cried, looking upward, raising her eyes as if to look God in the face. “My brother was young. A mere child. He was influenced by those whose minds were corrupt with sin and greed. My father broke away from the Church of Rome in order to commit a dastardly sin, to marry
that
woman. I can only pray for his soul that God in his mercy will forgive him.”

Richard too was a loyal Catholic, had suffered his share of persecution by the staunch Calvinists who had taken the young King Edward into their power. He had been forced to hear Mass in secret after it was said to be blasphemous idolatry and forbidden, had shed tears at the desecration of the monasteries, the destruction of the churches and holy statues. He had wept at the misery that his fellowman had wrought upon each other in the name of God. But fear now overcame him as he looked at the faces of the queen and the burly, self-seeking man who thought to gain his power by playing upon her heart’s desire. When would the day come when a man could worship God according to his own conscience? If Mary now sought to force her own beliefs upon others, there would be more suffering, more tragedy. This he knew in his heart, but for the moment he had to keep silent. He would talk to the queen when they were alone.

Sensing his mood, Mary sought to bring peace between the two men. Taking Richard’s right hand and Seton’s left, placing the two together in a gesture that seemed nearly ceremonial in magnitude, she spoke softly. “We are all on God’s side. You must from henceforth work together. That is my command. When we ride into London you will both be with me!”

Richard felt as if he were in a trap, as if a net were slowly closing over his head. He remembered Hugh Seton’s words to him that day when he had failed to kill him. Seton had said, “I swear that someday I will cause you such pain that you will remember this day and wish you had drawn my blood.”

This dastardly scoundrel had wormed his way into Mary’s confidence and for now there was nothing Richard could do about it.

Chapter Twenty-One

It was a glorious August day, the sky unfolding above London like a blue canopy, the golden sunshine radiating a glow which bathed the city in its warmth. It seemed that even the weather welcomed the queen.

The narrow cobbled streets were blanketed with flowers-posies, violets, and roses of both white and red. Flowers even floated down the open gutters, their perfume mingling with the smells of the city: smoke, decaying refuse, and the salty breeze. From far and wide through every part of London the bells pealed a joyous clamor. The people were greeting their queen and heralding her reign.

Heather had joined the throng of people lining the streets, listening eagerly to everything that was being said, looking intently for any sign of Richard. It had been over two weeks since he had left her. She had heard nary a word from him, and this silence had left her pale and nervous for fear that something fatal had befallen him, a state which had not gone unnoticed by her mother.

“Please, God, please let him be safe. I pray that no injury has come to him.” She felt an elbow poke her in the side and looked to see the baker’s wife pushing through the crowd. With a murmured apology, the heavyset woman was soon buried in the crowd which seemed to be a human carpet, shoulder to shoulder. There were those standing upon someone else’s shoulders, people leaned from windows, climbed poles, did everything possible in order to afford themselves a better view. Even her father was hanging out his bedroom window, praising the queen. Now an avid supporter of Mary, it was hard to remember that he had once been against the “papist.”

A horn sounded and all heads turned, jostling and shoving each other in eagerness to get a look at this queen who had won the throne against all odds, without foreign intervention or the spilling of her subject’s blood.

The staccato banging of the drums was echoed by the beating of Heather’s heart as she looked upon the great procession that was approaching. The Earl of Arundel rode in a place of honor beside Mary, and behind her….behind her….

“Richard!” He looked magnificent in his black velvet garments, hose, doublet, and leather boots. A breeze was blowing his black cloak about his shoulders and he appeared to Heather’s eyes to be of royal blood himself. Pushing through the crowd, she sought to get a closer look, stepping on dozens of feet as she managed to move a few feet from where she had stood.

“Mary. Mary. Mary,” the crowd intoned, chanting as she turned to look upon them. The cry of “God save the queen” became a roar.

Heather hardly noticed the purple and violet velvet which adorned her monarch; her eyes were too full of the man she loved. He was even more handsome than she remembered, and she flushed at the memory of his naked body pressed against her own.

“Richard,” she said again, willing him to look at her. He did, his eyes sparkling as he smiled. He mouthed the words “I love you” and tipped his hat to her as the procession rode by. There were other eyes which turned upon her, and Heather gave a gasp of surprise to see Hugh Seton riding beside him. She could not believe her eyes. How had he escaped his rightful punishment to now share a place of honor in Mary’s procession?

Heather followed the riders as if in a trance, only to be pushed back by one of the soldiers. She had to see Richard, had to talk with him. How could he not remember that Seton was his enemy?

The bells, the trumpets, and the pounding drums hurt her ears, and the shouts of the people nearly deafened her as she ran past the sea of faces. The Tower, the procession was headed for the Tower. That would be her destination too. She was glad now that her father had been generous in granting her the cloth for a new dress—that she wore today in celebration; for she could hardly go to the Tower in her old homespun. The dress she wore was a copy of those of the ladies of the court, a lemon-yellow linen with over gown held up by fastenings and belts, a starched headdress adorning her mahogany tresses.

Making her way over the Tower Bridge, she heard the many whispers, saying that the queen intended to reside in state in the Tower, and wondered if it would be Richard’s home now too. The hope that he would be near her was close to her heart.

It was easier this time to get inside the Tower. There were no red-clothed guards to block her entry, no soldiers to tell her to go away. With such a large throng it was merely a matter of  flowing with the tide as they pushed through the door. Mary had given instructions that none of her “people” were to be manhandled. Once inside, however, it was a different story, for the guards were thick and numerous, holding the crowd at bay. Still it was possible to see the proceedings, and Heather’s eyes were riveted upon the figure clothed in black, standing tall and proud beside the woman who now ruled England.

Four prisoners knelt before Mary, but neither Lady Jane Grey nor Northumberland was among them; instead it was whispered that these four were captives from the past—the duke of Norfolk, now an old man who had been put in the Tower by Henry VIII to await his death, Gardiner, a Catholic bishop also a prisoner of Mary’s father, The duchess of Somerset, the duke’s haughty widow, and a young graceful, handsome blond man who was said to be one of the Plantagenets.

“Why, its Edward Courtenay, great-grandson of Edward IV, “ whispered an old man standing next to Heather. “Poor lad. He was thrown into prison during the reign of King Henry just because of his royal blood.”

“Ha, there be a likely husband for our dear queen,” cooed a blacksmith’s gray-haired wife. “With him in her bed she would soon produce an heir for England, he being so fair and all.”

A hushed din of whispers echoed her hopes. Above all, this man was an Englishman, soothing the fears of a foreign husband for the queen.

Heather saw Mary motion for the prisoners to rise from their knees and felt tears sting her eyes. How terrible to be held captive, caged like a wild beast, and all because of the most trivial reasons at times. Henry VIII had been a tyrant in that respect, jailing even those whose only crime was to be of blood more royal than his own.

“People of England,” Mary cried out in a deep mannish voice, “I thank you all, my loyal subjects. God has answered our prayers.” Her voice broke and Heather could see that the queen was deeply moved by the sight of all those who showed her homage. At last regaining her composure, she motioned toward the four. “These are my prisoners, and as such I offer them their freedom. From this day forward let them see no more iron bars before them. Go. Bring England back to its former glory.”

The cry of “Long live the queen” surged and echoed like a roll of thunder, and Heather felt a shiver jolt through her. Richard’s queen, her queen—the future seemed assured to be a bright one, one devoid of the cruelty of Northumberland and his cronies.

Heather waited as the festivities continued, her eyes watching Richard’s every move, every gesture, until at last the ceremony was at an end She watched as he took his leave of the queen, walking in the direction of Tower Green, and Heather made her way toward him.

When she at last came to him, he stood near the green beside an ancient scaffold where many had met their deaths in the past. He was deep in thought and at first she hated to disturb him, but the longing in her heart to be near overcame her caution.

“Richard.” Her voice was barely more than a whisper, yet he heard her. She could see the worry etched deep in his face as he turned to her, and she wondered at the cause.

Running into the circle of his arms, she was engulfed within the cloak of passion his nearness brought forth. Her lips found his, her body arching against him as he crushed her into his arms, kissing her hungrily, fiercely.

“Dear Lord, how I long for you and now you are with me,” he murmured between kisses. Her weeks of worry dissolved at his touch. She belonged in his arms.

Richard’s mouth left hers to travel to her temple, brushing aside the silky strands of hair with his lips, breathing in the fragrant rose scent of her that had haunted his nights.

“You mother, did she harm you?” he asked in a whisper.

“No, she would never do that. At last she quieted down and we talked. She knows that I love you, and though she worries for my happiness, I think she understands. I think perhaps she loved once, though not my father.”