FLAME OF DESIRE (21 page)

“God knows I try to remember that she is my sister,” the queen whispered, reaching up to pass her hand before her eyes. Heather had heard it said that Mary suffered from migraine headaches. “But how can I forget that
her
mother replaced my own as queen or that the
concubine
, Anne, had me called bastard when it was her own child of a bigamous union that was truly illegitimate? Elizabeth!”

Heather soothed the queen with gentle words of understanding, remembering the stories she had heard from her mother regarding Anne Boleyn, yet Elizabeth could not be blamed for what her mother had done. Elizabeth had been but a mere babe.

Heather knew that Simon Renard fanned the flames of resentment between the two, speaking of the queen’s sister as dangerous and crying for her imprisonment. He spoke of Elizabeth’s power of enchantment, but Heather suspected that it was just that the princess was pretty and had an air about her that drew people to her.

Renard. From what Heather had heard whispered last night at dinner, nearly everyone at court was ill-at-ease about the power this new ambassador was gaining. That he was foreign caused ire, and the fear that Mary would heed his advice and marry a foreign husband seemed to cause the others at court to be wary of this Spaniard. No one wanted England to be brought under the domination of another country.

“You are deep in thought, my child,” Heather heard the queen say, and looking up, found herself the object of scrutiny. “Let us hope that your thoughts are not of Richard.”

“Richard?” Heather was flustered, averting her gaze from those searching eyes. “No….no…I…I…”

“I hope that I need not remind you that he is married. I will have no infidelity at my court. Let us hope that you are not of the ilk of Catherine Todd.”

“Catherine Todd?”

The queen waved her hand in annoyance. “Enough said. Now leave me. I am overly tired and seek the blessed peacefulness of slumber.”

Heather took her leave of the queen, pondering her words, the name Catherine Todd branded on her mind.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The sun had not yet appeared upon the horizon when Heather heard the clang of a bell through the haze of her deep sleep, a bell bidding all to arise for the morning Mass. Thrusting aside the curtains of her bed, she shivered in the slight chill of the damp early-morning air and hurried to start a fire in the small fireplace in the room. Going to the window, she could see that it was raining, a light mist only, but the moisture seemed to put an emerald green hue upon the world beyond the walls of the palace.

A second bell sounded as she washed her face and hands with water poured from a pitcher into a small china basin. Her eyes were drawn to the roses in their glass vase nearby, and she thought again of Richard. His eyes had been gentle as he had looked at her, and she had wanted him to put his arms around her. Was she still clinging to her dream that one day they would be together? Yes. She wondered what he wanted to tell her, and realized that he had not had a chance to explain. Yet, what could he say? How could he change the truth?

Hastening to dress, she nonetheless took special care with her person, choosing a gown of white velvet with red-and-gold brocade underskirt and fur trimmed sleeves. Combing her hair, she plaited it into two thick braids which she wore in coils on either side of her head.

The same page who had interrupted her meeting with Richard the night before was there to greet her outside the door, urging her to hurry.

“The queen is already rising from her bed,” he admonished, opening the large paneled doors for Heather’s entry.

All the ladies-in-waiting gathered around as the queen was dressed, twittering excitedly as each went about her duties. Mary at last silenced them with a harsh word, wanting to keep her mind upon celestial matters and not on the court’s latest tattlings. Heather was quickly growing fond of Mary, despite her strict discipline. She seemed to be honest, and unlike Northumberland, seemed to have a care for the poor of her land.

As if sensing Heather’s goodwill, the queen gave to her the honor of putting the crucifix, fastened by a long chain to the queen’s belt, upon Mary’s royal person.

When the queen was dressed, all the women curtsied, bowing low before her. She bid them rise, saying, “We must hurry to Mass to show our Lord that we are eager to offer him our most humble prayers.”

Heather noticed how often the queen spoke of “we”. We must do this, we must do that. Often she used the term “we” when talking about herself. It was a curious thing.

Surrounded by other ladies-in-waiting and an assembly of officials and dignitaries, Heather followed Mary toward the chapel.

“Ah, the merchant’s daughter.” The words were said as if in insult and Heather turned to find an extremely beautiful dark-haired woman beside her. At the thought that this might be Richard’s wife, her heart stopped, but it was green eyes, not dark, that regarded her. Hugh Seton had told her that Edlyn Morgan had dark eyes.

The woman forced a smile. “At last we meet. I have heard much about you.” Her eyes scrutinized Heather’s apparel. “Ah, white, the color of purity. You and the queen will get on well together.”

Heather was taken aback by the woman’s forward manner. “I beg your pardon?”

“It is said that Mary is a virgin, and I do not doubt it. Were she not, she would most likely not have such a sour disposition nor spend so much time upon her knees. A lover would do her a world of good,” she said softly, looking at Heather as if wondering the state of Heather’s virtue. Heather found herself blushing profusely.

They continued down the long corridor, Heather maintaining a careful silence, unnerved by the woman beside her. Who was she? Why did she keep staring at her? Reaching the chapel, she put great distance between herself and the dark-haired beauty, kneeling beside the queen as the Mass began. It was a long service, the chapel damp and stuffy. When Heather thought her knees could stand no more, another bell rang out. Mass was over, but so was Heather’s respite from the piercing green eyes. In a moment the woman was by her side again.

“My name is Lady Todd—Catherine to you,” she said, as if their conversation had not been interrupted. “How are you called?”

So shocked was she at hearing the woman’s name and remembering the queen’s words that Heather could barely get out the words. “Heather. Heather Bowen.”

The woman laughed. “Heather. Why, even your name is pristine. I wonder that Richard was ever attracted to you. He has always before been fond of more experienced women.”

“Richard?” Heather stopped walking.

“Why, yes, Richard. Don’t tell me he hasn’t mentioned me to you.” She reached up a slender hand, putting the fingers to her mouth. “Oh, I hope I haven’t spoiled anything. I thought you knew. I’m afraid our Dickon is somewhat of a collector. You weren’t the first woman, nor will you be the last. He moves from flower to flower like a honeybee. Is it any wonder he keeps his poor
wife
away from the court?”

Heather fought against her fears, not wanting to believe this woman. A spasm of pain moved through her—confusion, disbelief, and finally anger.

“Of course I understand. That is part of Dickon’s charm, but an innocent young child like you…. Well…”

“I am not a child!” Heather’s voice, usually soft and pleasant, took on a shrill quality. It was as if this woman had slapped her.

Catherine Todd reached out her hand, placing it on Heather’s arm as if in sympathy. “I’m sorry. I only meant to befriend you, not cause you any pain. By saying that you are a child I only mean that you are unschooled in the ways of the court.” She smiled again, moving in quickly for the kill like a cat. “A man can love his
wife
very much and still seek the bed of a
mistress
. It is, I fear, the nature of the brutes.”

Heather was helpless against the storm of pain which swept through her. There had been other women he had kissed; she had not been special to him after all. More than his wife stood between them. Her eyes asked the question that her lips could not form.

Catherine Todd smiled in answer. “Yes. Dickon and I are lovers. His wife means little to him.”

So, that was what the queen meant by cautioning her. In an effort to hide her pain, she whispered, “What is his wife like?”

Catherine Todd knew little of the matter, yet she expounded upon what she did know with the skillful mastery of the schemer. “From what I have been told, it was a match made in heaven, uniting two very powerful and rich families. John Renfred was one of King Henry’s closet advisers, appointed by the king himself to be one of Edward’s guardians. Our Dickon was wise to align himself with such a family.”

Was that then what Richard had wanted to tell her? That he had married for political gain? Perhaps Edlyn did not love him. Heather’s conscience was pricked to find that this thought was soothing to her. Silently she scolded herself. Richard was married. It was something that could not be denied, and no matter what had joined him to Edlyn, the woman was his wife before God and the laws of the country.

“It was a marriage of convenience then,” she murmured more to herself than to the other woman.

“Yes. But had it not been, Richard would still have strayed. One woman is not enough for him, I fear. But I am content to be his mistress and willing to share him with you.”

Mistress! Share! The words rang in Heather’s ears. Never! She was not like this woman who stood beside her. Heather would never be satisfied to be one of a collection, no matter how much she loved a man.

“I thank you for your concern, Lady Todd,” she said, looking directly into the woman’s eyes, holding her head up with a dignity that would have rivaled any queen’s, “but I assure you that I am not nor will I ever be Richard Morgan’s mistress.” Heather walked down the corridor, fighting against the anger which threatened to spill over. Anger at Richard for playing her for a fool, anger at this woman for her smug attitude, but most of all anger at herself for being such a naïve fool. She had loved him, had thought he felt the same, while all the time she had only been one more conquest, a diversion to keep him entertained while away from his wife and home.

Storming up the stairs, she ran headlong into Edward Courtenay, and it was only then that the tears which had been threatening became a flood of despair.

“Did I hurt you? Don’t cry. I’m sorry,” he fretted, running his hands lightly over her body as if to find the source of her pain. “I am a clumsy fool. I should have seen you coming.” Usually so light of heart, he had no sign of a smile upon his face now, and his concern deeply touched Heather.

Through her haze of tears she looked up at him. “I’m all right, really. You did not cause me any injury.”

He sighed in relief. “Thank goodness. I would never have been able to forgive myself if I had harmed such a beautiful lady.” Taking her arm, he escorted her up the stairs.

“I…I think I am just a bit homesick,” Heather murmured, explaining away her tears.
I will never shed tears over any man again
, she vowed silently.

Courtenay laughed bitterly. “As am I. Homesick. How I miss London. It is so dreadfully dull here, though I know that I am fortunate
to
have escaped Northumberland’s fate. He was beheaded yesterday.

Heather winced at the news, wondering what her father must be thinking right now. Was he still worried that a similar fate awaited him?

“I lived in fear that Henry would part my head from my shoulders, longed for the day when I might be free, and yet now… Strange, but after fifteen years in the Tower it seems home to me, prison or no.”

“I’m sorry..I…I had forgotten about your confinement there.” How she wished that she could take away those years. What kind of man had this King Henry been to lock away a young boy, to cheat him out of his life?

He laughed again. “Don’t be sorry for me. I want another emotion. I want you to admire me, nay, to love me.” They stopped before Heather’s chamber door and he took her hands in his. “Could you?”

She shook her head. The pain of Richard’s betrayal was all too recent. “I will never love again,” she whispered.

Disappointment showed clearly on his face, but he was undaunted. “Never is much too long, Heather. I am not a man to give up when I want something, yet. I will not pressure you. I offer you friendship with the hope that it may blossom into something more fruitful.”

They stood there looking at each other, feeling serene in this new fellowship, just as Richard bounded up the stairs. At last finished with his paperwork, his matters of state and arrangements that dealt with the Spanish ambassador, he sought out Heather to tell her once and for all the truth about Edlyn.

“Courtenay!” He swore aloud, filled again with jealousy. The man was harder to get rid of than a cold. “Has the queen given you no duties man? Must you constantly moon about this door?”

“Richard!” Heather was infuriated. How dared he?

Courtenay pulled away from Heather to face Richard squarely. “I like
this
door, it has special appeal for me.” His eyes were challenging. “I ask of you what you have asked of me. Have you a special claim on this territory?”

“Yes! Dammit, yes.”

“I see. Interesting…” Edward Courtenay looked from Heather to Richard and then to Heather again as the truth dawned on him.

“You have no claim to me,” Heather stormed, remembering all too clearly the words Catherine Todd had spoken. “Your duty is to your wife. Or had you forgotten?”

Her words were like the drops of a cold rain showering on him and washing away his anger. “It is about my wife that we must speak,” he said, reaching for her hand. She pulled away from his grasp as if he had the dreaded pox.

“There is nothing that you can say…”

“But there is. You have to know. Things are not always as they seem.”

“How well I know.” Opening her chamber door, she was anxious to step inside before he created a scene. Already there were those who stood about looking over in their direction. Sensing her intent, he quickly stepped in front of her to block her way.