FLAME OF DESIRE (5 page)

“How glad I am to see you, though I fear that I cannot prolong the visit. Edward is sick and has sent for me. Perhaps my brother and I can finally lay to rest the bitterness between us and heal old wounds.”

Richard quickly bent his knee to kneel before her, only to hear her voice pleading with him to rise. His eyes gazed upon her and he was filled with pity for this poor woman who had suffered so much because of the follies and vanities of her father. Had she ever tasted of happiness? He doubted it. She was barely two when her father took to mistresses and neglected his grieving wife, eight when he had asked for an annulment of his marriage to marry the ill-fated Anne Boleyn, fifteen when forced to go into exile, and still a young girl when declared a bastard and shorn of her title of princess so that the king could declare the child of his union with Anne Boleyn his heir. Was it any wonder that she resented her half-sister the Princess Elizabeth?

“I have some sad news for you,” he whispered.

Her pale face seemed to grow even paler. “Tell me quickly.”

“Edward is dead. He died last night. Northumberland plans a trap.” He hated to bring her more grief, but she had to be told quickly.

“Dead!” she touched her throat as if afraid that she could not breathe. The lines around her eyes and mouth seemed to grow deeper, and though she was but thirty-seven she looked to be a much older woman. She fought back her tears and held her head up proudly with the regal bearing of her rank.

Richard again bowed before her. “Your Majesty.” He could hear her ragged breathing as she fought for control, and he feared for a moment that she would faint. But she was a strong woman despite her thin and frail body. “We must leave here at once. Northumberland and his men are close behind me, no doubt hoping to intercept you upon the road to London.”

“Northumberland!”

“I overheard him talking. Edward’s death has been kept secret until he can see to his plans. We cannot tarry. We must go. Now.”

Her eyes looked upon him, eyes filled with trust. She did not doubt for a moment the truth of his words. “Let us go then.”

Gathering up what personal belongings she might need, Richard helped her prepare for the journey she must make, all the while shouting his orders to her staff and servants. Only when they had left the great hall, were safely hidden in the shadows of the trees, did he speak to her again.

“You will be safe at Kenninghall Palace in Norfolk, my queen.”

“Yes, I will be safe there, at least for a time. By then I will know exactly what Northumberland has planned, or will with your help.” Her eyes looked into his and he remembered the young woman she had once been before the cruelty of others and illness had stolen the bloom of her gentle beauty.

“I will do whatever you command me,” he answered, wishing that he could ease her pain.

“My brother always trusted you, despite the fact that you did not hold the same religious views. I will do the same, for I remember well how you pleaded with him on my behalf to allow me to continue with my Mass.” Forgetting for a moment her demeanor as queen, she reached for his hand, holding it only briefly before she let it go. “Go back to London,” she whispered.

“Back to London? But I must see you safely to Norfolk.”

She shook her head. “I will be quite safe with my men-at-arms to protect me. I need someone I trust to keep an eye on Northumberland for me. I know that you will be in great danger, but nonetheless I ask this of you.”

Richard hesitated, feeling a strong sense of protectiveness toward the woman standing before him. So much was at stake, least of all his safety.

Sensing his feelings, Mary said, “I will send you a message from Kenninghall Palace. Ere two nights have passed I will have made my decision. Your messenger will be at the Cap and Crown.”

“The Cap and Crown.” He knew that tavern well. Many a stratagem had been hatched there. “How will I know him?”

“He will wear both a red and white feather in his cap, for the blend of the roses that are Tudor.” He stood looking at her, wondering what it was she planned. “Go. Now.” She started to say more but instead turned her back upon him. As she walked away he felt a lump in his throat to think of all she must now face, she who wanted only to love and be loved and to say her rosary.

“God speed you, my queen,” he whispered.

He hurried to seek out the queen’s groom to procure a horse for his ride back to London. The stallion he had ridden to Hunsdon deserved a long rest. At last mounting a brown mare, he sought to retrace his path.

Chapter Six

Through the small window of her father’s counting room, Heather could hear the sounds of London: the clatter of the carts, the barking of the hounds, the din of the pedestrians as they wound their way past the shops, the voices of the peddlers hustling their wares, and loudest of all the pealing bells announcing a new sovereign. The entire country was in a state of shock. King Edward was dead and Lady Jane Grey Dudley had been proclaimed Queen of England.

“So the rebel told me true,” Heather said softly, absentmindedly tapping the quill she held in her hand against her fingers. She had doubted him, had felt herself the fool, when two days had come and gone and still no word had been heard about the fate of the king. But then London had been rocked by the news that the king was dead.

“Edward,” she murmured, remembering the red-haired young king. In his feathered hat and ermine-collared robe he had looked so young at his coronation. He had been but nine years old, his gentle face so like his mother Jane Seymour’s. So opposite from his father had he been that it had been said that an ogre had been buried to make way for a saint.

Heather looked across the room to where her father sat at his calculating board, that table marked out with horizontal lines on which bone counters were manipulated. He was busy at  his work, adding up the pounds of profit he had made the past few days on his wool and furs. He had been frightened at the news of the king’s death; certain that now his money would be in jeopardy, but had sighed with relief to hear that instead of the king’s sister Mary it would be the king’s cousin who would wear the crown. Always before her father had been concerned for only one thing—money—though now something else was taking up a great deal of his time. Several times now she had seen Thomas Bowen sneaking out at all hours of the night as if fearful of being seen. Whom was he meeting, and why?”

“Heather, fetch me my strongbox!” Thomas pursed his lips together as soon as the words were out, in the expression Heather knew all too well. The profit was not as great as he had thought.

Picking up the bound iron box, fastened with a large iron lock, Heather was surprised by the weight of the coins within. It was twice as heavy as it had been this time last night. Had she then misunderstood her father’s sour look?

“Ah, that’s a good girl.” With stubby, clumsy fingers he unfastened the lock, hesitating slightly before opening the lid a crack. He seemed loath to let Heather see inside, and this puzzled her, for since there was no son to work her father’s trade, Heather had helped Thomas run his business and more often than not had kept her father’s books.

I must be wrong, she thought, taking a step forward with the intent of tallying up the amounts contained within the box. Thomas Bowen seemed to draw back from her.

“Why don’t you go outside, Heather? A breath of fresh air would do you good. Your cheeks are pale.” His smile was insincere, more of a grimace. “How will I ever be able to find a husband for you if you don’t get some color in that pretty face of yours?”

Heather stood looking at him in confusion. Always before he had wanted her help in counting the coins. Why now would he want to do it alone?

“Well, don’t stand there.” His tone was one of irritation.

Shrugging her shoulders in indifference, she left the room. “I care not what the strongbox contains,” she said beneath her breath.

Walking through the workroom, she eyed the piles of silks, wool, brocades, and furs, wishing for a new dress, yet knowing well that her father would be hard pressed to part with any of his precious materials. Stepping outside, she squinted at the glare which met her eyes. The light had been poor in the counting room and now the sun nearly blinded her.

“Apples! Ripe red apples,” trilled a voice from the cobbled street.

“Mussels. Cockles. Oysters,” cried a male voice.

“Coo, try me fine tarts,” yelled an old woman.

The air smelled of fish, spices, and musty decay. The breeze tugged at her long unbound mahogany-colored hair as heather walked along the street, carefully avoiding the open gutters and slop pails being emptied overhead. The gabled roofs of the houses, the church spires, and the turreted towers rose from the mists of the chimney smoke and Heather’s eyes took in the familiar sight. London. Her home. Was there any other place quite like it?

Everywhere there were street peddlers and vendors. London had always been a marketplace before anything else.

An onion seller stepped in front of her carrying his pole across his shoulders. At each end were tied white and red onions. “Buy me four ropes of hard onions!” he called out, looking at Heather and cocking his brow as if to ask if she wanted some. She shook her head no.

There were stalls of fresh vegetables and fish—indeed you could find almost any wares on the street.

“Any knives or scissors to grind? Bring them here, my pretty, and I’ll make them like new,” a tall scissors sharpener implored her as she walked past his large-wheeled grinding machine. His little white dog ran toward her wagging his tail, and she bent down to give him a pat on his furry head. The animal sniffed at the hem of her gown and Heather laughed.

“You smell my cat, don’t you, dog?”

“Knives? Scissors? I will make them good again,” the scissors sharpener said, no doubt encouraged by her stopping.

“Perhaps later. I don’t have them with me right now,” Heather answered, walking away.

Strolling musicians wound through the crowd with their lutes and harps, strumming as they wandered about. One looked at Heather and gave her a bold wink, singing a song about a red-haired maiden. Smiling at him, but averting her eyes, she threw him a coin and went on her way.

“Violets.”

Turning around, Heather found herself looking into the large eyes of a ragged little girl. The child’s frail body and pale face spoke of deprivation, the unfortunate plight of the needy in the city. Sympathy swept over Heather.

“Please, mum. Buy me violets.”

Pulling three angels out of her apron pocket and placing the coins into the hand of the street urchin, heather gestured that she wanted one of the bouquets.

“Thankee, mum,” the child mumbled, biting one coin to make certain that it was real. Thrusting two bunches of lavender flowers into Heather’s hands instead of one, the child scurried off as if fearful lest the coins be reclaimed.

Heather felt pity for the poor child tug at her heart. It didn’t seem fair that some should have so much and others so little. Was it really, as her father had said, “God’s will?” She sincerely doubted it. More likely it was greed of the few which had caused such misery.

Henry VIII had swept away the almshouses, hospitals had been abandoned, priories, monasteries, and convents torn down and the bricks carried away to build houses for rich nobles. Now there was nowhere for the sick and famished to go, yet nothing was being done. To add to the misery, the currency had been debased and prices had soared. Was it any wonder that many of the poor had turned to a life of crime?

“Would that I could help them,” she murmured, but knew in her heart that there was little she could do. There were so many poor. What would be their fate with Northumberland in power? He was known for squeezing the poor of their life’s blood and had put to death Edward Seymour, the only friend in power who had shown them any sympathy.

Heather continued along her way, feeling the rough stones beneath her slippers. She passed the colorful wooden signs which marked each shop: a unicorn for the goldsmith, the head of a horse for a harness maker, three round pills for the apothecary, a white arm with stripes of red for the surgeon-barber. Standing in the doorway in his checkered apron, the barber raised his hand in greeting to Heather. She was well-respected in the area, being one who bought their wares.

Next to the barber was the baker’s shop, where an apprentice was removing loaves of bread from the oven with a long-handled wooden shovel. The whispers of the housewives standing in a circle around the baker came to Heather’s ears.

“Who
is
this Jane Grey Dudley that she call herself our queen?”

“A half-cousin of Edwards, the granddaughter of Henry’s sister.”

“Ha, she is no queen. Mary is our rightful ruler. She is her father’s true daughter and the king’s sister.”

“Mary is a papist. It will be much better with one of our own for queen. She is virtuous and learned, this Jane, though just a chit of sixteen.”

“Mary is just as virtuous and learned and she is of royal blood on both sides. Her mother was a Spanish princess.”

“Poor Mary. She has suffered so these many years. Would that she were to be our ruler. Perhaps she would govern us with gentleness. I fear this Jane and her father-in-law, Northumberland.”

Heather heard many rumors, that Jane was reluctant, had fainted, had protested that she was unfit for the perilous honor forced upon her, that she had accepted only after her relatives had pleaded with her, telling her their lives would be forfeit were she to refuse.

Heather felt pity for this young woman, only a couple of years younger than she. Perhaps the crown would prove a heavy burden for one so young. And Northumberland, what would he do now?

Northumberland. She could not think of him without being reminded of her father. Although she had tried to put it from her mind, Heather was bothered by her father’s actions, his reluctance to let her see inside the moneybox. Had it anything to do with the meeting of the Privy Council, that meeting that Northumberland himself had called? Her father was one of its newest members.