FLAME OF DESIRE (38 page)

Freedom. After weeks in prison it was a heady draft. Tethering his horse, tossing his head back with a feeling of triumph he headed in the direction of London.

Chapter Fifty-Three

Richard spurred his horse along the London road, not even deigning to look behind him as he rode. If he was being followed, well, so be it. It would be no easy task to take him captive again. At last he reached the city, seeing the stones of the old roman wall before him. He was not prepared for what he found beyond. Total chaos.

More than a hundred people crowded the streets while others peeked from shuttered windows, all crying out questions. “Is it true that Wyatt’s troops have marched into Southwark? How many men does he have with him? Will we be safe?”

Children clung to their mother’s skirts, wives held to their husband’s hands, seeking to keep them from joining battle, and voices of young as well as old blended in a tumult of chatter.

“Who would have ever thought that I would live to see such a thing as this?” Richard said aloud, his voice blending with the noise of the crowd. “Be damned to Wyatt and his rabble!” He rode up and down the street, gathering information. The old Duke of Norfolk had been relieved of his command for having been beaten at Rochester, and Bishop Gardiner had convinced Mary to appoint the Earl of Pembroke and Lord Clinton in his stead. Their orders were to blow up the bridges if it became necessary.

“We’ll blow up the bridge. Blow up the bridge…..hold back the rebels!” came the shout of the throng. It was as if there was magic in the air, a feeling of unity that made the barriers of social position, religious or political views, vanish for the moment. Even those who had been known to view the Spanish marriage with alarm, who had condemned Mary, now shouted out her praise and the view that they would fight any invasion.

“Thank God Heather is safe in Norfolk,” Richard murmured beneath his breath, looking about the crowd. What would she think of all this? He tried to second-guess this Thomas Wyatt. What would be his plan of attack? Would he row boats across the Thames? Would he try to take the Tower? Or was it his intent to march his men across one of the many bridges? If so, which bridge?

“London Bridge,” Richard swore. He could hear a sound like thunder and knew instinctively that it was the noise of guns and cannon. Despite his chattering teeth, his fatigue and the frost upon his eyebrows and eyelashes, he rode in the direction of the sound, intent upon doing all he could to offer protection from the invaders. Not since the Wars of the Roses had London been so endangered.

Reaching the bridge, Richard saw that Wyatt had indeed reached London Bridge. Joining the throng of hundreds of men who stood upon the northern bank, daring the rebels to cross, he looked sadly at the floating pieces of the center drawbridge. So that had been the cause of the explosion he had heard. He watched and waited to see just what would happen now. As cold as it was, he could be certain of one thing: they would not want to try to swim the river.

“Why, they seem to be diggin’,” shouted one old man, shading his eyes with his hand. “Do they hope to reach Cathay? Ha! ‘Twill be a good place for ‘em after we are through with ‘em.”

Richard strained his eyes to see what was happening. They were indeed digging. He was amazed to see that there were even some of the enemy who were attempting to repair the bridge, ignoring the blast of the cannon. Digging, pick-and-shoveling at the frozen earth, they looked like worker ants, their numbers growing all the time.

From somewhere came the shout: “Rise you Londoners! To the aid of the queen! Rise!” Looking behind him, Richard could see that the words were having their effect. The number of men who offered their response to the cry was staggering. Wyatt would find that London Bridge would be stoutly held against his attack.

As if sensing that he was defeated in this phase of his attack, Thomas Wyatt gave the signal to his men to turn back.

“They’re leaving. We showed them what stout-hearted Englishmen can do when provoked!” shouted a youth in triumph.

Richard was not so fooled. Being older and wiser than the young man behind him, he knew that they had not seen the last of Wyatt and his band. Where were they marching? Surely they must realize that each of the bridges crossing to the city would be just as difficult to cross and just as rigidly guarded. His question was answered in just a few moments. Thomas Wyatt was headed toward Kingston, to make his way from there into the city.

“To Kingston!” Richard shouted, leading a band of men that way. When they arrived they could see that Wyatt and his men had marched upriver, crossed the Thames at Kingston, and were now marching down the north bank through Westminster. They were armed with gun carriages and a few handguns, and Richard damned the advantage gunpowder would give them. He and the men riding behind him had only swords, clubs, and stones.

The black of the storm clouds rolling over London set a mood of gloom as the men of the city gathered along the banks of the Thames. A few of the defenders were shot, and some of the invaders were wounded by those most brave souls who ventured forth with fearless frenzy.

“The French are coming to our aid!” shouted Wyatt, as if to bolster his men’s courage. They had no doubt heard the news that the Duke of Suffolk had turned tail and hidden in the forest of Warwickshire. Richard could not help but admire the Wyatt’s courage and the way he sat his horse, like a prince. How sad that it had come to this. Men like Wyatt should have been fighting for the queen, not against her.

“Englishman fighting against Englishman. Aye, ‘tis a sorry sight for these old eyes,” shouted a man near Richard.

The fighting was raging through the streets of London. Striking out with his sword and felling an opponent, Richard was surprised to see the old man Perriwincle up ahead, riding in his wagon.

“Perriwincle!” he shouted, feeling an instant fondness for the old man. “Over here, Perriwincle!”

The old man took off his hat, waving it frantically in the air. The sound that he emitted from his throat was a poor attempt at a war cry, a whoop more comical than threatening. It was as if he sought to frighten these men with his hollering.

“Perriwincle!” Richard shouted again, riding in the man’s direction. This time the old man heard him. Leaping from his wagon, he ran to Richard, pushing and shoving his way through the crowd, grinning from ear to ear. It was as if the years had been suddenly washed away and the old man was a young and spry soldier again.

“We’ll hold ‘em, we’ll hold ‘em,” he shouted, striking out at a man twice his size who tried to block his way. He looked in Richard’s direction, judging him friend or foe, and only then did he recognize the man astride his horse. He stopped, yelling and fighting and stood with his mouth wide open in shock. “Richard?”

“It’s me, though I doubt that you can recognize me with all this mud splattered about my head and shoulders. Are you ready for this fight?”

“Aye, I’m ready. But you? Mistress Heather has been worried nigh out of her head over your whereabouts.”

“Heather? She has written to you?”

“Written? No! She is here. In London. Searching all over for you, she be.”

“In London?” He reached down to grab hold of the old man’s leather doublet. “Are you certain? Have you seen her?”

“Aye. She’s staying at her father’s house, if you will. Though I doubt it not that she is running about the town asking everyone if they have seen you.” Perriwincle clucked his tongue. “A woman in love is hard to manage. She is nigh frantic, she is.”

“Running about London? She’ll be caught up in this and injured.” Richard’s face turned pale. He could think of nothing else but that Heather might be in danger. “I must find her. I must.” She would not know of the danger which swarmed in the city streets.

Leaving Perriwincle, he rode in the direction of Ludgate Hill with the rebels at his heels.

“There’s one of them now! came a shout. Blocking the way were several robust Londoners armed with stones and clubs. “Leadin’ his traitorous bastards.”

Richard was not prepared to be met by resistance from the front. His fear for Heather’s well-being had made him careless. He twisted away just as a wooden club struck forward, knocking him from his horse.

“Get him. Get the traitor. He will not get the best of us.” Voices. Noise and tumult and pain. Two hulking giants jerked his arms up high behind his back, forcing him to his knees. He bucked and struggled like a wild stallion, only to feel a searing pain, agony, as he was struck full force upon the head. His body convulsed and grew limp as blackness closed over him. Down, down into a darkened pit he seemed to fall, plummeting into the depths of oblivion.

Chapter Fifty-Four

Heather pushed impatiently at the corpulent form of the richly clothed banker who blocked her way. She had to reach Whitehall before Wyatt and his followers did. If Richard was anywhere in the city he would be near the queen.

“If.” The word tasted bitter on her tongue. Where else could he be? The possibility that some ill had befallen him made her shiver, and she reached down to pull her cloak tightly about her. “He has to be all right. He has to be.” The all-consuming urge to find him  pushed her on.

She found Mary where she had expected her to be, in the chapel, down on her knees in prayer. Mary’s guards were even now begging her to flee, imploring her silently from beyond the door. Mary would not do so. Rising from the ground, she looked them squarely in the eye.

“I will not turn cowardly now,” she said with furious zeal. “God will not turn his back on me. I promised him that if he but gives me the strength I will bring England back to him. It is my fault that this tragedy stalks us. I have been too weak, too soft on heretics. No more the gentle queen. No more.” Her eyes were gleaming as she jerked at the crucifix. “Kneel! We will ask again for his protection and divine help.”

Without through to propriety, Heather rushed forward. “Your Majesty. Richard. Is he with you? Where….”

Mary’s eyes narrowed as she looked upon the intruder, and her face turned pale as she crossed herself. “You! How dare you enter thus?” There was no trace of kindness, only pain. “I thought you a sweet and virtuous child, but you are as evil as Salome, that evil temptress.”

Heather bowed so low that her forehead nearly touched the floor. “Think what you will of me. I care only that Richard is safe. If you know his whereabouts, please tell me. This I beg of you.”

Mary’s voice was low and hoarse. “I have not seen him for months. Not since he fled with you to the northlands. If you seek him, it must be elsewhere.” She flung her hands about in frustration. “Go!”

She had not seen him. It had been Heather’s last hope. Putting her hand to her mouth, Heather stifled a cry of desperation. Why had she ever let him leave Norfolk alone? “My fault,” she whispered. “My fault.” The sound of the queen’s voice saying her Paters and Aves drowned out the words.

Heather walked to the doorway. The gust of winter wind nearly took her breath away as she left the palace, but she hardly noticed. It was as if she walked in a trance, as if the sights and sounds around her were not real, only a cruel pantomime. Only the sound of Perriwincle’s voice could cut through her silence.

“I found him. He’s here. I found him, or rather he found me, he did.” Over the rocky cobblestones he ran until he was by her side. “Richard. He’s here. I should have bloody well known he would not let her queenship down.”

“Richard?” It was as if some fairy queen had waved a magic wand. Laughter bubbled forth from Heather’s lips. “Richard? He’s all right? He’s safe?” She hugged Perriwincle with such a ferocity that he nearly lost his breath.

“He’s looking for you, he is. I thought for certain he would find you before I did.”

“I was inside with the queen.” Heather gestured toward the palace. “She has not quite forgiven me, but then, I am not surprised. Perhaps someday she will know what it is like to love beyond all reason.”

Perriwincle led her to the wagon, helping her up in the high wooden seat beside him. “We had best go home. Things are getting a bit rough, they are. Besides, that is the best place for Richard to find you.”

His reasoning was sound. There was scuffling and fighting everywhere. The streets had become a battleground. “Perhaps when we get home he will be there to meet us.” She smiled, wondering how her father would react to Richard. He had been as a lamb lately, after his wife’s threats to leave him if he uttered one unkind word. It had been pleasant around the house for once, without his moods and tantrums.

Tabitha met them at the door, her blue eyes wide with fright. “I thought you might have been injured, Mistress Heather. I was worried nigh unto death.”

“Where is Mother?” Heather asked, looking about her.

“Up in her bedchamber, looking at the carnage from her window. She sent me to find you, but I was afraid to go too far down the street. The rebels are everywhere!”

“Ha. They are outnumbered,” Perriwincle growled. “They will soon be put in their proper place. Why, there must be at least twenty-five thousand men who have come to Mary’s aid. That brave lady’s words have mustered a veritable army. We’ll bloody well show these rebels, we will.” He fled out the door again, anxious to be back in the midst of the fighting.

“Richard’s here,” Heather exclaimed to Tabitha. “Perri saw him. He’s safe.”

“God be praised!” Tabitha squeezed Heather’s hand with a familiarity she seldom expressed, then quickly let go, as if suddenly remembering her station. “I’m sorry, Mistress Heather.”

“Don’t call me Mistress Heather, Tabitha. We are friends, you and I. Let there be no barriers between us. When I go back to Norfolk I would like you to go with me. It is not right that you must stay here and work your life away. You are young and pretty and deserve much more. You deserve happiness and a man to love you.”

Tabitha shook her head. “I am not pretty, I am plain. No man will ever want me. I am content here, really I am.”