Winsor, Kathleen (52 page)

"Amber,
for the love of Christ!" he growled at her. "Now stay here! Don't
move!"

Helplessly
she stood where he had left her. Bruce and Rex both had unsheathed their
swords, and with Almsbury and the
officer they were talking in low tones.
At last, giving a shrug of his shoulders, Almsbury moved back; Dillon took out
a white handkerchief and indicated where each man was to stand. The Earl looked
at her with a scowl.

"What
is it?" she asked him anxiously. "What's the matter?"

"Carlton
wants to consider it settled when blood has been drawn, but your noble champion
won't be satisfied until one of them is dead."

"Dead!
Why, he's out of his mind! He can't! I won't let him!" She broke away from
Almsbury and started forward at a run. "Rex!"

Almsbury
caught her arm before she had gone three steps and brought her up with a jerk.
"Stop it, you little fool! A duel's no game between children! Keep your
mouth shut or go back home! You've got no business here in the first
place!"

Surprised,
she obeyed him, and stopped perfectly still. The two men now stood facing each
other, poised, sword-tips touching, and Colonel Dillon held the handkerchief
over his head.

"All's
ready!" called Bruce and Rex in the same voice.

"All's
ready!" Dillon brought the handkerchief down with a sweep.

Both
of them were quick, fierce, and graceful, expert swordsmen. But the English
style of fencing was to cut rather than to thrust, as the French did, and as
they were almost of a height neither had the advantage in that respect. Rex,
however, was not fencing but fighting with reckless fury, and obviously
intended to kill or be killed, while Bruce was on the defensive— protecting
himself but making no effort to wound his antagonist.

Amber
stood watching them, her eyes darting from one to the other; her throat was dry
and she twisted her skirt in her fingers. But her fears were all for Bruce—she
might not have even known the man he was fighting. And when Rex's sword pierced
his right upper-arm, just below the shoulder, and drew a quick streak of blood
she gave a scream and staffed forward. Almsbury threw one arm about her waist
and dragged her back.

Bruce
had lowered his sword and Rex, refusing to seize an unfair advantage, dropped
his own to his side. The blood from the small gash was streaming down Bruce's
right arm, staining his shirt and making red rivers along the exposed brown
skin, and the sight of it filled Amber with terror and remorse.

"Oh,
Bruce!" she wailed. "You're hurt!"

Rex's
jaw set tensely, but Bruce ignored her.

"There,"
he said to Rex. "That should satisfy you."

More
furious than ever since Amber's impulsive cry, Rex answered him through
clenched teeth. "Nothing could satisfy me but to see you dead."

Amber
gave a terrified scream that momentarily drew all
eyes to her but Almsbury clapped
his hand to her mouth and gave her a rough shake.

"If
you don't shutup you'll distract him and he
will
get killed!"

Already
the swords had begun to ring out and clash again; now there was no doubt that
Bruce was fighting in earnest, no longer merely defending himself. For several
minutes, the men moved rapidly back and forth, slashing and hacking, without
either one being able to touch the other.

And
then all at once the swords met, engaged, and locked. For a long tense moment
they strained to get free, both men pouring sweat, their faces contorted with
the intensity of effort. Then, so swiftly that it was not possible to see it
happen, Bruce forced his sword free and thrust it into Rex's chest until the
tip showed through his shirt in back; and then he withdrew it, red with blood.

For
an instant Rex stood as though stunned, and then he fell slowly, crumpling. The
surgeons ran toward him and Amber rushed forward, dropping to her knees beside
him where he lay on the grass. Her throat muscles were so stiff with horror
that for a moment she could not even say his name, but she took his head into
her arms, cradling it against her breast, and then suddenly a mournful
frightened sob broke from her and her tears splashed onto his face.

"Oh,
Rex! Rex!" she moaned. "Speak to me, darling! Speak to
me—please!" Her mouth touched his forehead, his temples and eyelids, with
frantic passionate kisses.

Behind
her, Bruce took Almsbury's handkerchief and wiped the blood from his sword, jammed
it back into its case and buckled the belt around his hips once more. By
tradition the sword of the defeated man was forfeit, but he made no move to
take it and Rex's fingers were still loosely clasped on the hilt. Bruce's
surgeon was tearing open his shirt and binding the wound with a strip of white
cloth while Bruce stood, hands on his hips and feet spread, looking down at
Rex. His face was dark and grim, bitter but not triumphant.

Rex
was moving restlessly, as if to escape the pain, and though he coughed and
turned his head to spit out blood there was very little blood coming from the
wound in his chest. Amber was sobbing hysterically, covering his face with
kisses and stroking his head with her hands.

"Rex,
darling! Look at me! Speak to me!"

He
opened his eyes at last, very slowly, and as he saw her he tried to smile.
"I'm ashamed, Amber," he said softly, "that you saw
me—beaten."

"Oh,
Rex! I don't care about that! You know I don't! All I care about is you— Are
you in pain? Does it hurt you?"

A
quick spasm crossed his face and the sweat started suddenly, but his features
relaxed again as he looked up at her. "No—Amber. It doesn't hurt. I'll
be—" But at that moment he coughed again and turned his head to spit out a
great glob of
clotted blood. His mouth was splattered with it; his eyes shut and one hand
pressed hard against his chest in an effort to stop the gurgling cough.

Bruce
slid his arms into the doublet Almsbury held for him, gave Rex a last look and
then tossing his cloak over his arm started off, with the Earl and his surgeon,
toward where a young page held their horses.

Amber
looked around suddenly and saw him walking away. She glanced swiftly at Rex. He
lay now quiet and with his eyes closed; she hesitated only an instant and then,
very gently, she laid his head onto the grass. Hurriedly she got to her feet
and ran after Bruce, calling his name in a soft voice so that Rex would not
hear.

"Bruce!"

He
swung around and looked at her, incredulity on his face and violent anger. When
he spoke his teeth were clenched and the muscles at one side of his mouth
twitched with nervous rage. "There's a man dying over there— Go back to
him!"

Amber
stared at him for a moment in stunned helplessness, unable to believe the
contempt and loathing she saw on his face. As though from a distance she heard
Rex's voice, calling her name. Blind fury raged in her and before she knew what
she was doing she had drawn back her hand and slapped him squarely across the
mouth with all the force in her body. She saw his eyes glitter as the blow
struck but at the same moment she whirled, picking up her skirts, and was
running back to kneel beside Rex. His eyes were open now but as she bent over
him she saw that they stared without seeing, his face was expressionless—he was
dead. And in his hand, held closely as though he had been trying to lift it
high enough to see, was the miniature of herself which she had given him the
year before.

Groping
Lane was a narrow dirty disreputable little alley on Tower Hill. The houses
were crazily built and old, and the overhanging stories leaned across the
street, almost touching at the top and shutting light and air from the
festering piles of refuse that lay against each wall. The great gilded coach
tried to turn into the lane but, finding it too narrow, was forced to stop at
the entrance. A woman, completely covered by a black hooded cloak and with a
vizard over her face, got out and with two footmen on either side of her
hurried several yards farther up the alley and disappeared into one of the
houses. The footmen remained below, waiting.

Running
swiftly up two flights of stairs she paused and knocked on the door just at the
top. For a moment there was no reply and she knocked again, hammering
impatiently, glancing around as though some unseen pair of eyes might be
watching her there in the pitch-dark stairwell. Still the door did not open,
but a man's voice spoke from behind it softly:

"Who
is it?"

"Let
me in! It's Lady Castlemaine, you logger-head!"

As
though she had given the magic formula the door swung wide and he bowed from
the waist, sweeping out one hand with a gesture of flourishing hospitality as
Barbara sailed in.

The
room was small and bare and dark, furnished with nothing but some worn,
cane-bottomed stools and chairs and a large table littered with papers and
piled with books; more books and a globe of the world beside it on the floor.
Outside the night was frosty, and the meagre sea-coal fire which burnt in the
fireplace warmed only a small area around it. An ugly mongrel dog came to
reassure himself by a curious sniff at Barbara's velvet-booted feet, and then
returned to gnaw at a bone.

The
man who admitted her looked little better than his dog. He was so thin that his
chamois breeches and soiled shirt hung upon him as though on a rack. But his
pale blue eyes were quick and shrewd and his face for all its gauntness had a
look of enthusiasm and intelligence, combined with a certain slyness that was
revealed in the shifting of his eyes and the unctuous quality of his smile.

He
was Dr. Heydon—the degree he had bestowed upon himself—astrologer and general
quack, and Barbara had been there once before to find out whom the King would
marry.

"I
apologize, your Ladyship," said Heydon now, "for not opening the door
immediately. But to be honest with you I am so hounded by my creditors that I
dare not open to anyone unless I first make certain of his identity. The truth
of it is, your Ladyship," he added, heaving a sigh and flinging out his
arms in a gesture of despair, "I scarcely dare leave my lodgings these
days for fear
I
shall be seized upon by a bailiff and carried off to Newgate! Which God
forbid!"

But
if he hoped to interest Barbara in his problems he was very much mistaken. In
the first place she knew well enough that there was no ribbon-seller or
perfumer or dressmaker in London with a trade at Court who did not hope to
enrich himself at the expense of the nobility. And in the second she had come
there to tell him her troubles, not to listen to his.

"I
want you to help me, Dr. Heydon. There's something I
must
know. It means
everything to me!"

Heydon
rubbed his dry hands together and picked up a pair of thick-lensed spectacles
which he perched midway down his nose. "Of course, my lady! Pray be
seated." He held a chair for her and then took one himself just across the
table, picking up a pen made of a long goose quill and beginning to caress his
chin with the tip of it. "Now, Madame, what is it that troubles you?"
His tone was sympathetic, inviting confidence, implying a willingness and
ability to solve any problem.

Barbara
had removed her mask and now she tossed back the hood and dropped the cloak
down from her shoulders. As she did so the diamonds at her throat and in her
ears and hair caught the light and struck off brilliant sparks; Dr. Heydon's
eyes widened and began to glow, focusing upon them.

But
Barbara did not notice. She frowned, stripping off her gloves, and for several
moments she remained silent and thoughtful. If only there was some way she
could get his advice without telling him! She felt like a young bride going to
consult a physician, except that her scruples were those not of modesty but of
angry and humiliated pride.

How
can I tell him that the King's grown tired of me! she thought. Besides, it's not
true!
I
know it isn't! No matter what anyone says! It's just that he's so pleased at
the prospect of having a legitimate child—for once! I know he still loves me.
He must! He's just as cold to Frances Stewart as he is to me—! Oh, it's all
because of that damned woman—that damned Portuguese!

She
raised her eyes and looked at him. "You've heard, perhaps," she said
at last, "that her Majesty finally proves with child?" She
accentuated the word "finally," giving it an inflection which
suggested that the delay was due to Catherine's own malicious procrastination.

"Ah,
madame! Of course! Haven't we all heard the happy
news by now? And high time it
is—but then, better late than never, as they say. Eh, your Ladyship?" But
at Barbara's quick disapproving scowl he sobered, cleared his throat, and bent
over his papers. "Now, what were you saying, your Ladyship?"

"That
her Majesty proves with child!" snapped Barbara. "Now, it seems that
since it was learned the Queen is pregnant, his Majesty has fallen in love with
her. That must be the reason since no one noticed that he paid her any undue
attention before. He neglects his old friends and scarcely goes near some of
them. I want you to tell me"—suddenly she leaned forward, staring at him
intently—"what will happen once the child is born. Will he go back to his
old habits then? Or what?"