FLAME OF DESIRE (50 page)

He grinned at her. “Makes me look more the rebel, don’t you think? His voice sounded toneless, belying his smile. He kissed her again, slowly with a fierce yet tender power. Her insides turned to molten fire at his kiss and her desire raged like an inferno. Naked and burning with passion, she flung her arms around him, holding him close as her mouth returned his kisses with a frantic urgency. All the days of anguish, of searching, of wanting, all the questions in her mind drifted into oblivion as he stroked her. He was maddeningly gentle, bringing her to a fever pitch before he covered her body with his own. So entwined, she slid her fingers across the broad hard-muscled shoulders, thrilling at the ripples of strength that emanated from him. She never got tired of touching him. Her hand explored, stroked, and enclosed the shaft of his maleness as she moved closer, arching to him, wanting him. She was like a blossoming flower, opening up to him.

He took her with a powerful surge as she drew him to her, needing him as she had never needed anyone, anything before. He sheathed himself in her searing satiny flesh. They were man and woman coming together, driven by their passion as man and woman had been since the first moment in time.

Heather cried at the wonder and beauty of their love as together they plunged over the chasm and into the flames of ecstasy. Over and over she called out his name as he took her with a tender fury. Clinging to him, her arms about his neck, she answered his movements with her own. She was like a wild thing, like the witch she had been accused of being. In the beauty of their joining, the darkness of the outside world was forgotten, and only the magic of the moment was real. Lying naked, their limbs entwined, they sealed their vows of love and knew at that moment that though they might die, the love they felt at this moment could never be destroyed.

Chapter Seventy-Three

Blythe Bowen fled down the streets of London with the wind at her back, heedless of the dangers. She had only one thought—Heather. She had to find Rodrigo. She had to. It was the only chance that Heather had for life, for happiness. So far it had been like a wild goose chase. She seemed to be just one step behind this Spanish envoy as they swept through London. Even now she could see the first rays of dawn lighting the sky. How much time did she have? How much time to save her daughter?

“Whitehall.” She cried aloud, remembering what the queen’s guard had told her. Philip was to arrive during the second week of July, and his Spanish advisers had much to do to get ready for his arrival. It was to be his wedding day. “His wedding. Bah. My daughter’s funeral it will be if I do not reach Rodrigo in time.”

Would he help her? He must. Surely no man would turn his back on his own daughter. She would plead with him by the love he once bore her.

Running up the steps, pausing only long enough to catch her breath, Blythe ignored the shouts of the guards as she swept into the hall. Aglow with lights which had not yet been extinguished, it was a breath-taking sight. A fire flamed in the fireplace, and wall sconces flared with light.

“Rodrigo de Vega. Where is he?” she demanded of an elaborately dressed young woman. At the woman’s stupefied glance, Blythe grabbed her shoulders. “I must see him.”

Wordlessly the woman pointed to the stairway, and before she could blink an eye, Blythe had already reached the steps. Taking them two at a time, she sought the right chamber. Two of the doors were locked and she prayed fervently that they were not the ones which housed the man she had once loved. She ran on a little farther, wondering what her punishment would be for so bold an act as entering the queen’s palace without invitation. It did not matter, if she could save Heather’s life.

She thought she heard voices down the hall. “Please God, let it be him.” Her lungs were nearly bursting, her heart thundered in her breast so hard that she feared she would die, still she continued until she was standing before the thick wooden portal. Taking a deep breath, she pushed it open with all her might.

The queen herself stared at the merchant’s wife, mouth open, eyes agog. “Who dares to enter unbidden?” she asked in full anger.

“Rodrigo de Vega. I must speak with him,” Blythe gasped. From the corner of the room a man stepped forward.

“I am Rodrigo de Vega,” he exclaimed.

“Rodrigo. Rodrigo.” She could not quite find the words as she looked once again at the face of the man she had so loved. He had changed very little. Wasn’t that the way of men? She had grown heavy and gray and yet he looked as if the years had scarcely touched him.

“Who are you?” he asked, searching out her face in the dim light. He reached for a candle and held it in front of her face. “
Cristo Glorioso
!”

“Hello, Rodrigo. We meet again,” she managed to choke.

He looked at her as if he had seen a ghost, his face paling beneath his tan. “It is not possible. It is not possible. You are dead,” he cried.

“Not dead. Very much alive,” she answered, wondering at his look of agony.

“But he told me you were dead. Señor Bowen. He said that you and the child were dead.”

Blythe’s heart lurched in her breast. What vile lie was this? Was this Spaniard trying to save his own conscience? “Perhaps you wish I were dead. Only then would you be free of your guilt. You left me with a child and a broken heart. Did you find your golden land? Was it worth it to leave the woman who loved you more than life itself? Tell me, was it?” Tears were running down her cheeks and she hurriedly wiped them away.

“I didn’t know. I didn’t know. He told me you were dead. By the blessed Christ, I swear this to be true!” They were oblivious of the staring eyes of the others in the room: there were only Rodrigo de Vega and Blythe Bowen upon the earth at this moment.

Blythe felt as if she could not breathe. She could not think, only feel. She had been betrayed, but not by Rodrigo de Vega. Thomas Bowen had told a most vicious lie to her and to this man she had once loved. Rodrigo had thought her dead all these years. He did not desert her after all. She wanted to laugh, to cry, but there was no time. She would take Thomas Bowen to toll after Heather was safe.

“Our daughter,” she murmured. “She is in danger. Even now she faces death. Please, I beg you to save her. She is not a witch, she is not. Heather is innocent.”

Before the queen and all assembled, Blythe went down on her knees. She asked for an extension of time for the man named Richard Morgan and for her daughter. Rodrigo de Vega voiced his own plea. “At least let me gaze upon the face of my child once. How can you deny me this?” he asked of Mary.

“This Heather, she is your child?” the queen asked, touched by the scene before her. It reminded her strangely of her own mother to see this woman down on her knees. She would grant this request for this woman, for this man.

“Yes. A better daughter has never been granted to a woman, except of course for your Majesty. I beg of  you to hear her out. And Richard Morgan. I know well that he fought for you, my queen. You are known for your wisdom and your mercy….”

“One week. I will give them one week. If at the end of that time they cannot prove to me that they are not guilty, I will see that their punishment is carried out.” Turning her back, Mary swept out of the room.

The rays of the sun shone through the window of the hallway and Blythe looked with horror upon its beams. Morning. Heather would even now be facing her terror alone. Taking Rodrigo’s hand, she said only one word. “Come.”

Chapter Seventy-Four

Nestled in Richard’s arms, dozing peacefully on the straw in the aftermath of their love. She looked as if she had not a worry in the world as she lay beside him, and he too had the look about him of a happy man. It was thus that the guards found them.

“God’s blood! What is this? How?” sputtered one guard, the one who had taunted Heather for so long.

“Oddsbody. Surely she
is
a witch to so come to her lover through stone walls.” He stepped away as if fearful that just looking at her would bring him misfortune.

The sound of their voices woke the lovers, and instinctively Heather sought the warmth and security of Richard’s arms, clinging to him as if their love would keep her from harm.

Recovering his nerve, one guard stepped forward to pull her away from the man beside her, while the other bound Richard’s arms behind him. There was no need to struggle; they would die peacefully and bravely side by side.

“Heather, I love you,” he whispered, longing to hold her at least one more time. She looked so vulnerable standing between the two guards as they bound her wrists too. If only he had the power to protect her. Her cloud of red hair hung about her shoulders like a halo, making her look more angel than witch, and yet these men did not seem to see her innocence.

“She even has the hair of a witch!” said the largest of the guards, pulling at the fiery strands until Heather winced. As she turned to scowl at him, he stepped hastily away as if fearful of her ire.

A dark-robed priest came forth, his eyes staring into Heather’s own as if to see into her very soul. She met his gaze unflinchingly, determined to be as brave as Anne Fairfax had been. He rambled on and on, much of the time in Latin, but she heard him say, “Repent of your evil!” Crossing himself, he too seemed afraid that she might cast a spell on him.

“I have done no evil. I have loved and been loved. There is only beauty in love, only beauty and peace.” Her eyes met Richard’s and she smiled.

Pushed and shoved along, Richard and Heather were led down the steeply winding stairs of the Tower to the gate below. Unlike Richard’s sentence when he was to have been beheaded, the burnings would not take place on Tower Green but in one of the Squares of the city instead. With this in mind, the guards had arranged to have two barges waiting which would take the procession downriver to the carts which were waiting beyond London Bridge.

Heather felt Richard’s eyes on her and turned to meet his piercing gaze. His expression told her more than words could have ever done. He loved her beyond life itself, just as she loved him. If God were merciful they would be together in the next life.

Shoved onto a waiting cart, driven through the marketplace, Heather tried to keep from looking at the goggling crowd, but it was difficult. Their hissing and booing was louder than the sound of the drums. Elbowing each other, pushing and shoving in their attempt to look at a red-haired witch, they seemed more demon than human. Some threw stones, others sticks, and all jeered as they looked upon the two beings in the cart. The burning of a witch was quite a spectacle.

The procession weaved through the throng of onlookers with a priest at the head, holding aloft his cross. His chanting was nearly driving Heather wild, but each time she seemed close to hysteria, she had only to look at Richard for her calm and love to be renewed. Nothing could harm them if they but believed deeply enough in their love and in God’s mercy.

Following behind the priest were two acolytes, the priest’s assistants, and behind them the mayor of London himself, strutting proudly as a rooster. The guards, all four, followed the wagon, looking from time to time at Richard and Heather as if fearing they would vanish at any moment.

The raised platform was clearly visible as they rode along. It was raised high enough so that the crowd could view the proceedings. Two stakes were already set up as if to welcome the victims, and the platform was piled high with faggots.

Heather walked with deadly calm to that place, her eyes meeting Richard’s with dignity and peace as she stepped upward to the platform.

“I love you,” she whispered as they tied her to the stake.

“And I love you and will forever…” she heard him reply.

Heather could see the barber looking at her from the crowd. There was great sympathy written in his eyes, as if he understood how deeply she loved the man beside her. Was he remembering that time when she had brought Richard to him to save his life? No doubt he was.

The faggots were piled around her, waist-high. Looking in Richard’s direction, she could see that he too was being surrounded by the large piles of firewood. A black-robed man stood ready to set them alight. Although her knees felt as if they would give way, Heather managed a brave front for Richard’s sake. If he sensed her fears, it would only make the ordeal that much harder for him to bear. Brave, she must be brave.

From out of the crowd Hugh Seton stepped forward, a scroll in his hand. He eyed both Richard and the woman at his side with equal malice. His voice was little more than a mumble to Heather’s ears. Over the din of the crowd she heard only “….witch…God…good of the realm…Mary’s decree.”

Richard looked at the man who so often taunted him. Strangely enough, he felt no hatred. He was too filled with love and concern for the woman bound beside him. She was amazing, this woman of his. Brave even unto death. If only they had had more time together. If only….

Usually bags of gunpowder were placed between the legs of the condemned prisoners so that the flames would cause a speedy death, but Hugh Seton would allow no such reprieve this day. He wanted to watch them suffer the agonies of the flames. “Light the fire,” he commanded.

The priest in the crowd chanted words to ward off evil, holding forth his golden cross like a charm. “The soul of a witch may well escape into the rising smoke,” he whispered to the crowd. “See that you do not stand too close.” Like ants on a disturbed anthill, the throng scurried back.

The dark-robbed executioner stepped forward to light the fire, and the crowd began to cheer. What kind of devils were they to so enjoy another’s misery? Heather wondered. She felt the heat of the quick-scorching flame and whispered a prayer. It was as if her life flashed before her eyes, all her days of loving the man beside her. He was her life and now she would join him in death.

The smell of burning wood came to Richard, the pungent aroma of the smoke as the fire crackled and sparked and choked Heather. It was as if the flames licked up to caress her. The smoke stung her eyes, leaving them burning and watery.