FLAME OF DESIRE (48 page)

Tabitha ran to his side, having heard Heather’s cry. “Rafael. Rafael,” she sobbed, gathering him into her arms. “No. Please no.” Gently she tended his wound as Heather rushed to Richard’s side. The Spanish were now flying the flag of surrender, allowing the Englishmen to board.

“We can hide, Richard,” she whispered, reaching out to him.

“Hide? Where? No. No more running. It is time we faced Seton. Surely God cannot let a man like him be the victor. It is against all that is holy.”

“He will kill us both!” she fought against her all-consuming fear. “But we will die together. I will never again be parted from you, Richard. Not again. Never again.”

They stood together on the deck like two carved figureheads, fearless in their love. It was thus that Hugh Seton found them, the sound of his laughter floating in the wind like the cry of the devil himself.

“I have you. I have you. I knew that you would take to the sea.” His eyes blazed with hatred as he stood before them. “This time it will not be the painless executioner’s axe for you, Richard Morgan,” he hissed. “I will see to it that you face the fiery flames of the stake!” He gestured to one of his men, who took hold of Heather, pushing her roughly along before him. Only then did Richard fight like one possessed.

“Do what you will to me, Seton, but leave her alone! She has naught to do with this hatred between us. Set her free.” Lashing out with flaying fists, he struck Seton once before he was subdued.

“Free?” I think not. I will not rest until I see you both aflame at the stake.” Gesturing again, he watched with glittering eyes as two well-muscled men inflicted punishment upon Richard for striking him. Standing with feet apart, Hugh Seton appraised his alleged half-brother. “Take him away.”

“May you rot in hell, Seton!” Richard spat, struggling with his captors. “Some way I will be free of you.”

“There will be no priest to save you this time,” Seton shot back. “I would have had Roderick’s head if not for the queen and her fondness for priests.” He would take them back to England, this traitor and his heretic, witchly lover. The taste of revenge was like the sweetest of wines. “For dressing as a priest you will burn, Morgan. You and your lover will burn!”

PART THREE:   The Law of Love

London 

“Who can give law to lovers? Love is a greater law to itself.”

---Boethius

Chapter Sixty-Nine

The stale odor of rotting straw assailed Heather’s nostrils as she looked about her at the cold stone walls of her prison cell. Clasping her hands together tightly, determined to be brave, she discovered that it was easier said than done, for the thought of the fires was terrifying. That she would be found guilty, she had no doubt, for after having witnessed Richard’s trial, she had no faith in the justice of trial by one’s peers. Perjury and bribery were all too common. Seton would win his guilty verdict by such measures.

And what of the queen? Heather knew that there would be no mercy for either Richard or herself in that quarter. Mary Tudor had changed from a gentle queen into a fanatic whose only thought seemed to be the punishment of those she considered heretics. There were those who were calling her “Bloody Mary” behind her back. No doubt Seton had taken a hand in her zeal to burn all those who might make England unsafe for Philip. Hadn’t he said as much when Heather had gone to the queen to plead for Richard? All might have been different now if he had not interfered. Mary had begun to soften toward Richard until he had spoken out. On the ship he had said that Richard would burn as a heretic because he had disguised himself as a priest. His eyes had blazed with hatred as he had said, “this time it will not be the painless executioner’s axe for you, Morgan!” The echo of his words still sounded in her ears.

“Oh, Richard, where are you? In which cell are you entombed?” Closing her eyes, she recalled the ordeal of their arrest. Arriving back at the London docks, she and Richard had been jeered by the crowds which had flocked to see the traitor and his “witch” lover. No doubt Seton had spread the word of their arrival. In the dark of night they had been rowed up the Thames to traitor’s gate, and Heather could not help but remember that other time she had entered by way of this entrance. If only she had known then what awaited her now, she would never have risked her life to carry forth the letter.

“A pox on Mary,” she whispered in anger. How could Northumberland have been any worse a ruler? Or Lady Jane Grey? At least that personage had shown her mercy. Mary seemed not to know the meaning of the word, at least in these days. Even Perriwincle had turned against her in a fit of righteous anger when he had visited Heather only a few days before. He had told her then that it was rumored that the council was debating a bill at the very moment which would reenact the Heresy Act of 1401, whereby heretics could be burned alive unless they recanted. So how could Heather think that she or Richard would be spared?

The walls were cold and damp and she clutched her woolen cloak tightly to her body. It was the only possession she had been allowed to keep with her. Even her jewelry had been taken from her.

Sitting down upon a small wooden stool, she fantasized ways to escape from her cell. Remembering all that Richard had told her of his own escape, she had to smile at the thought of the daring of his brother. But he would not be able to help Richard now.

Cold, hungry and miserable, she fought against her tears. Richard. Was he all right? Was he suffering similar pangs of hunger and thirst? What she would have given to have his strong arms enfolding her, keeping her warm with his body, but of course Seton had insisted that they be parted. How she loathed that man!

Rising from the stool, she sought the hard contours of her cot. Closing her eyes, she gave herself up to dreams and memories.

A rattle of keys jarred her from her reverie. Looking up, she saw the face of the guard peering at her through the grille of the wooden door. “I have a visitor for you.”

“A visitor?” If it was Seton, she would soon tell him what she thought of him.

But is was not Seton. Blythe Bowen’s face appeared at the opening of the door. “Heather, oh Heather, are you well?”

“Mother!”

The guard opened the door with a grunt, pushing the merchant’s wife within. “Only a few minutes now, mind you.”

Heather ignored the guard’s gruff voice and ran to her mother’s arms, clinging tightly to Blythe. Always as a child she had felt so safe in her mother’s arms, and now was no different. Her mother would protect her. She would see that no harm touched her.

“I want to get you out of this place,” Blythe whispered, crying softly, the tears mingling with Heather’s own. “A witch. What utter nonsense. We are no longer in the Dark Ages.”

“It is Hugh Seton, Mother. He is responsible.” She looked into Blythe’s eyes. “I would never have harmed Edlyn, though I would have profited by her death. I pitied her and sought to bring her what kindness I could.”

“I know. I know, my poor darling. You would not even seek to harm a mouse, and yet they are saying that you poisoned her. How can people be so stupid, so cruel?” She broke away from their embrace and held her daughter away from her, looking deep into her eyes. “You must tell me everything. Surely there is something that can shed some truth on this evil lie. Who would profit from that poor woman’s death?”

“Hugh Seton. She died long before Richard was judged a traitor. I think that he wanted to make certain that the manor would be his, one way or another. It would not be a difficult thing to bribe someone to do his bidding.” She bit her lip, trying hard to think of who might have done the deed. Agnes was gone, Matty would never have done such a thing, but what of Undine? The old woman had come from out of nowhere, throwing herself on Heather’s pity. No, Undine had treated Edlyn with tender care. Hadn’t she even thought to give her a potion to help her sleep? “A potion,” she breathed. Now she remembered the way the old crone had pulled the cup away from her hand that one day when she reached for the brew meant for Edlyn. Could it have contained poison? Had the woman been poisoning poor Edlyn under Heather’s very own nose?

“Yes.” The answer had to be yes. It was the only answer. How could Heather have been so blind, not to see the woman’s intent, despite her flowery words and smiling glances?

“Heather, what is it? Blythe asked, sensing her daughter’s stiffening movement.

“I think I know who poisoned her. Undine.
Undine
.” The messenger who had brought the news of Edlyn’s death had remarked that the old woman had stayed by Edlyn’s bedside, but that had not been out of affection, it had been to be certain the poor childish woman was dead.

“Undine? Tell me who she is and I will have Perriwincle seek her out at once,” Blythe said angrily. “Let us hope that somehow he can find her.”

“She is an old woman with the face of a shriveled-up apple and a head of white hair,” Heather said softly, seeing the woman before her eyes as if she stood in front of her. “Small like a dwarf, short legs. She has a nervous tic to her left eye and a nose which slopes down like the awning of the baker’s windows.”

“If anyone can find her, Periwincle can,” Blythe whispered. “But tell me, are they feeding you enough?”

“One guard has been kind to me, but the other has given me only moldy bread and water.”

Blythe clenched her teeth in anger. “Well, I daresay that shall soon be stopped. Money seems to speak very loudly here. These guards are as money-hungry as your father. I’m certain that with enough gold exchanged you will soon find the food fit for the queen herself. I will see to it.”

“Mother…”

“Yes?”

“Please make certain that the same is done for Richard.”

“It shall be done,” Blythe said with a wink. Hearing the footsteps of the guard, she looked sadly at her daughter. “Have you heard about your friend Anne Fairfax?” she asked.

“Anne? No.” Heather thought her to be at Whitehall with the queen.

“She has been found guilty of heresy. It seems that her views on God do not hold with Mary’s. Tomorrow at dawn she is to burn at the stake.”

“Anne? No. No. Never was there a woman who was closer to God. How can they call her a heretic?” Heather shook her head in shock. Anne Fairfax, the queen’s own lady-in-waiting, keeper of the bedchamber?  “Has the entire realm gone mad? What is to become of us all?” The news shook her perhaps more than her own danger, for Anne had always been so wise, a woman far beyond her time. Now she would be burned, and for what reason? What had she done?

“She was found with a copy of Cranmer’s
Book of Common Prayer
,” Blythe whispered, looking around her, lest someone overhear.

“
The Book of Common Prayer
…” Heather thought of her father. He too owned the prayer book. It was his treasure, with its letters of gold and fine leather cover. There must be, in fact, many people who had one in their possession, despite the foolish law that had been passed a few months ago. For years Londoners had read from its pages. Now Anne Fairfax was to die for doing that which half of London was guilty of doing. It was absurd.

“Nor would she denounce bishop Latimer. She has spoken out against the queen’s intent to burn heretics. Now she will burn.”

“And I suppose Catherine Todd has again worked her evil.”

“Yes. Her testimony was very damaging. She spoke of how Anne talked against the queen.”

“There was never a more loyal servant of Mary. Anne but spoke the truth, but it seems that to do so now brings one death,” Heather answered bitterly. She shuddered at the thought of what awaited her friend. It was too horrible to imagine, and yet she and Richard faced the same fate.

The guard came to take Heather’s mother away, but Heather seemed not to notice. Her eyes were vacant in her shock. Anne Fairfax. Laughing Anne, who had pushed Catherine Todd into the pond, who had been the only one besides Stephen Vickery to speak out for Richard at his trial. Anne Fairfax, her friend. With a dismal cry of outrage, Heather beat her fist against the prison door.

Chapter Seventy

The small bedchamber was swathed in light from the many oil lamps hung about as Tabitha tended the wounded man on the bed. She had cared for him with infinite tenderness these past days, her soft voice and gentle hands the only blessed thing he was aware of.

Surprisingly, Thomas Bowen had been overjoyed to let Tabitha bring him to the Bowen home to recuperate from his wounds, and had even shown Tabitha great kindness these last days. He constantly fawned over their guest, and though she had the suspicion that it was more than human kindness which caused this shift in Thomas Bowen’s mood, she hastily pushed such thoughts aside. The only thing that mattered was that the Spaniard regain his health.

“Rafael? Are you awake?” Tabitha asked now, leaning over the bed.

“
Sí.
I am awake,” he answered hoarsely. Swathed in bandages, he looked somehow ghostly, but under the linen was the man she loved. She could still envision that moment at sea when she had seen him lying on the deck of the ship covered in blood. At that moment she had thought him dead.

Rafael struggled to sit up. “Richard Morgan…” His voice trailed off as he asked the unspoken question.

“He and Heather have been taken to the Tower. Heather’s trial is to be in but two days.” She sighed. “Richard has been charged with heresy.  By this time the entire city knows that he masqueraded as a priest to escape his death. Seton has seen to that. As a heretic he will burn.”

“Can he be blamed for such an act? He is no heretic, only one who loves his life.” Rafael remembered well what Richard had done. He and Father Stephen had both formulated the plan.

“We do not blame him, but there are those who call it heresy in these troubled times.” As she put a glass of cool water to his lips, his fingers tightened upon hers in a gesture of thankfulness and caring.