FLAME OF DESIRE (25 page)

“Perhaps, but I wish…I wish…” Heather shrugged her shoulders. “It does not mater.” A page clothed in silver satin handed her a letter and she opened it hastily, hoping beyond hope that it was from Richard. It was not. She scanned it quickly, her face turning as white as the paper on which the missive was written.

“What is it, Heather?” Anne asked in alarm. “There is no illness in your family, I hope.”

Heather turned to her in anguish, her hands trembling violently, her voice a croaked whisper. “It…it’s from my father,” she said. “I am to marry Hugh Seton before the month of September is out.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

“Your Majesty. Please. I cannot marry him! Is there nothing you can do?

Heather knelt before her sovereign, heedless of the curious stares of Renard and the other councilors roaming about the chamber room. Seton was  a monster. To plight her troth to a man who was capable of cruelty was frightening. Even without the love she felt for Richard she would have been loath to marry Seton. Her father had waited all these years, only to wed her to a churlish brute.

Mary’s pinched features were unsmiling as she sat stiffly in her high-backed chair, her hands held rigidly in her lap. “I wash my hands of this matter. It is not for me to say whom you will or will not marry, child.”

“But he is a cruel man….”

The queen rose to her feet, denying Heather’s words with a shake of her bejeweled head. “No, not cruel. Decisive perhaps. You could do far worse than to marry a man of his strength. Your father, your family, has prospered greatly by my favor. An advantageous marriage would bring them even more prosperity.”

“But Seton….”

“In the first days of my victory I counted heavily upon his wisdom and loyalty. He is a good man. He will make you a good husband.”

Heather could feel the blood drain from her face as a cold nausea gripped her. Was there naught that she could say to sway Mary? Could the queen truly be so blind to the man’s character?

“Yes, your Majesty,” she answered in a choked whisper.

The queen’s cool hand touched her bare shoulder, bidding her to rise. “Is it that like all maidens you fear the marriage bed?” she asked softly. “I myself often tremble at the thought of my own wedding night. Now that I am queen there must be an heir to follow after me when I die.” Her eyes took on a determined glow. “There must be!”

The
marriage bed
. The words reverberated in Heather’s mind like a chiming bell. She would have to suffer Seton’s loathsome touch. She would belong to him, would be his property. It seemed a sacrilege even to think of kissing him when her heart, her soul, her body belonged to Richard. How could she ever let another man, especially Hugh Seton touch her? And yet she would be forced to bed him, were she to become his wife.

“No!” The word escaped her lips before she could stop it. She would not marry him. Never. Let her father do what he would.

The queen raised her eyebrows in dismay. “No! No what?” she regarded Heather critically. “Women must perform their duties. To marry well and bear children is what we were called to earth for. What more is there than this?”

“Love.”

“Love? You are young and foolishly romantic. The troubadours’ songs are just that. Songs. The perfect man does not exist except in our dreams. No, you will do what our women have done since the days of William the Conqueror, marry the man of your father’s choosing.”

Heather’s eyes darted back and forth like a trapped animal’s. “I will do what must be done. What must be done,” she whispered, preparing herself to suffer all that her father might do in his anger.

Mary misunderstood her answer. “Good. Good. I will look forward to your wedding.” She clapped her hands, signaling for her councilors to come to her. “I must get on with matters of great urgency now, Heather. A coronation awaits me and I want it to be a glorious one, heralding in our reign and God’s glory.”

The October festivities were fast approaching as September waned. The entire court would be moving back to the Tower to make final preparations, while Heather’s life took a different direction. She would not rejoice. Heather’s day of doom awaited. Her marriage. She remembered her father’s letter. “Before September is out you will be wed to Hugh Seton.”

Fleeing from the queen’s chamber, she sought out Anne Fairfax in the garden. August had gone by so quickly and now the leaves displayed their bright hues of gold and flame, replacing the petals of the flowers which had bid their adieu until the next year.

“Oh, Anne, what am I going to do? The queen will not aid me.”

“I feared that she would not.” Anne kicked at a small pebble in her path. “It is the way of this
man’s
world. They arrange our lives to suite themselves, with nary a thought to our happiness. I have been wed two times. Once to a man thrice my age and once to a drunken and cruel lout. In my stubbornness I vowed to outlive them both, and well I did. The next time I will marry for love or not at all.”

“I will not marry Seton1” Heather’s fists were clenched with determination.

“What about your mother? Is there any way in which she can sway your father?”

Hope gleamed in Heather’s eyes, only to grow dim again. “My mother dances to my father’s tune. All my life I have watched her bow and scrape to him. It’s almost as if he held some power over her, some secret.”

Anne shook her head, clucking her tongue in sympathy. “Alas, it is a pity. There are some women who have learned well how to dominate their husbands.”

“Thomas Bowen is no henpecked spouse, though I wish to heaven that he were.” But Heather would not bow to his wishes. Not this time. No, not this time.

They walked in and out among the yew trees in silence. It was so pleasant here. Heather dreaded the thought of returning, however briefly, to the hub of the city with its squalid poverty and noisy cobbled streets. Courtenay had been absent from the court quite frequently in the last days, and rumor had it that he was frequenting London’s brothels.

“Fifteen years have been taken out of my life,” he told Heather. “I but seek to live the remaining years to the fullest.” And from what Heather had heard from gossips in the palace, he was doing just that. She missed him, dear rogue that he was. Only Courtenay could take her mind off her troubles.

As if reading her thoughts, Anne Fairfax spoke his name. “Edward Courtenay. I think in his way he loves you. ‘Tis a pity that his blood runs too royal. Better to wed him than this Hugh Seton.”

“I can never marry anyone else. I love Richard Morgan with all my heart.” Reaching out, she sought to catch a falling leaf and was successful, turning it over and over in her hands as if  it were a valuable treasure.

“Richard Morgan Ha. Just where is he when you need him?” Anne snorted in disdain.

“I don’t know. He left so quickly.”

“If only I could get a message to him. His lady has need of her knight in shining armor.”

“Yes, I need him,” Heather echoed, knowing in her heart just how very true those words were. In just a few days her father would send Perri for her to take her back home. Home. The word had an ominous ring to it. For the first time she knew how Richard Morgan must have felt to find himself married to a woman he did not love. She was faced with a similar fate, and only her courage could save her.

Chapter Thirty-Five

The chill autumn wind blew fiercely, whipping Richard’s cloak wildly about him as he stood at the dock. His eyes scanned the harbor for sight of the ship that would bring his brother home. Behind him the winding cobbled streets, gabled roofs, and church steeples of London offered a familiar sight to welcome Brother Stephen.

“Three years since I’ve laid eyes on him,” Richard said to himself, squinting his eyes to the sun as sails of an incoming vessel came into view. The ship skimmed the waves like a dancer as screeching gulls circled overhead, swooping down toward the deck as the sails were furled.

The port was a seething beehive of noise as the sailors moved about, unloading the cargoes of riches arriving for London merchants from foreign ports. He couldn’t help but wonder if any of these chests were for Heather’s father.

Richard felt more at peace now than he had in a long while. Heather had now heard his story, knew the truth. She hated him no longer. It had been such torment to leave her after the kiss in the garden, but he had known that to stay for one moment longer would have meant that he would not have been content with just the taste of her lips.

“She loves me. I could see it in her eyes,” he whispered to the wind. “Perhaps with my brother’s help I can loosen these bonds of matrimony which tie me.”

It was his only hope. All of the hours of pain would be worth suffering if at the end he was united with the woman he loved.

Breathing in the salt air, he felt invigorated, hopeful. Stephen Vickery would watch over Heather until he returned to court, and then, when he returned, he would seek an answer from the woman he loved. Would she wait for him to gain his freedom?

The masts of the docked ships looked like tree trunks as he stood there, their brightly colored flags fluttering in the wind. He watched and waited as the Spanish ship glided into port to cast its anchor in English waters.

The
Canción
,” he exclaimed, remembering that the word meant “song” in Spanish. He watched as two figures came ashore first, a black-clothed priest and a man in fancy garments of bright vermilion. It was Roderick, that he could see in a glance, but wondered who the popinjay was. A Spaniard, but who?

Forgetting decorum. Richard broke into a run, excitement at seeing his brother getting the upper hand. Catching the priest up in a bear hug, he laughed and cried. “Roderick! Roderick!” Stepping back, his hands upon his brother’s shoulders, he looked at him. He was thinner than he remembered, and a bit taller if possible. “How goes it with you, brother?”

Roderick laughed shyly, blushing a bit as he always had since early childhood and casting a glance in the Spaniard’s direction. “It goes well. God has been good to me, to us all. It seems the sun shines in Toledo in more ways than one.”

“So I’ve heard. Riches from the New World have no doubt been put to good use by the archbishop.” He shook his head. “Seeing you is like looking into a mirror, except for your height and this.” Richard pulled at his well-trimmed beard. One other difference marked the brothers; Richard did not have the small cleft in his chin that graced his brother’s face.

Roderick laughed. “I remember how we always gave our father fits, changing places and pretending to be the other son. Even though I am a year younger, we gave him quite a time of it.”

“Aye, I remember, Roderick.” He caught himself. “Or rather I should say, Brother Stephen.” As if suddenly remembering the other man standing beside them, he turned and raised his eyebrows in a quizzical gesture.

Brother Stephen stepped toward the man, putting a hand on his shoulder.  “Forgive me, Rafael. The joy of seeing my brother again swept away my good manners. It is not every day that one returns home. Sí?”

“Sí, the man answered. Richard could see that the Spaniard was a handsome man with the dark brown hair of his countrymen. He had a sculptured nose and strong chin and carried himself with the air of one who recognizes his own importance. Dressed in the Spanish manner, in a jacket with a white ruff around the throat, hose and trunk hose, a tall pointed hat, and slashed leather shoes, this man was the height of fashion, even to the tips of his gloved fingers.

“Richard, this is Rafael Mendosa. Rafael, my brother.” The two men acknowledged each other, quickly sizing up one another. At last they smiled at each other in the age-old expression of friendship. Richard suspected that there was more to this man than a handsome face.

“Don Rafael, let me extend my welcome to you on behalf of my countrymen.” Richard nodded slightly.

“I am honored.” Rafael Mendosa spoke with little trace of an accent, unlike Simon Renard, whose every word was difficult to understand. Richard reflected that perhaps the Spanish were not all alike after all.

They walked down the plank way, dodging in and out between the sailors and dock men, who swore loudly until they saw a priest beside them. It seemed that even though the people of England had taken up the reformed faith, they still showed respect to those who wore the cloth.

“Rafael is here on a most pleasant task. A matter of the heart.” Brother Stephen said at last as the three men walked down the cobbled stones toward an inn.

“Oh?” Richard stopped in his tracks.

“There are those of us in Spain who would deem it the highest honor to have Mary as consort for Philip, prince of Spain.”

A warning shouted in Richard’s brain. He had feared that something like this was afoot. So that was why his brother had been sent back to England. To soften the queen’s heart. He had a premonition of misfortune, as if someone had walked on his grave.

“I hate to disappoint you,” he told Rafael sternly, “but I believe that Mary will take no man to husband. She has been without a man for all these years and is now in her late thirties.”

The Spaniard laughed. “More reason to marry now, before she shrivels up like a Venetian grape, to blow away in the sun.”

Richard shrugged, eyeing the man, appraising his attire. “Dressed as you are, my friend, you will be a tempting target for those who make their living at the point of a sword.”

The Spaniard laughed heartily. “I may look like a peacock, but I assure you that I am a hawk. If we have any violence, let me put your mind at ease.” He withdrew a knife from inside his boot, then replaced it in hits hiding place. “My sword, my knife---I am well prepared.”

“And I have my staff, Richard,” Brother Stephen said with a wry smile. “I am quite skilled with it. Of course, if all else fails I can pray for
their
souls as well as ours.”

It was Richard’s turn to laugh. “Having a priest for a brother does offer some benefits. I only hope that we will not be accosted.” He thought of Heather as they walked along. Each moment away from her made him love her all the more. He was anxious to get back to Greenwich. There was so much to tell her.