FLAME OF DESIRE (8 page)

Slipping her full-skirted dress over her head, Heather quickly related all that she had seen and of how she had tended him and brought him safely to her father’s premises. All the while she kept her eyes cast down, fearing that he would read in them the emotions she was feeling at being so near to him.

“And so you saved my life yet again,” he whispered. Lifting himself in an effort to sit up, he was engulfed in a wave of dizziness and sank back down in despair. “I am as weak as a kitten.”

“You will gain back your strength. I know of healing herbs that will soon have you back on your feet. Trust me.”

“Aye, I trust you,” he breathed. She looked at him and saw in his eyes the depth of emotion that was overwhelming and spoke more clearly than words could ever have done.

He inhaled deeply of the morning air in an effort to clear his head of its whirling, then said, “The letter. Let me see the letter.”

Heather withdrew the precious parchment from hiding and handed it to him. “Poor Mary,” she said softly. “I fear that it is too late for her to claim her rightful legacy.”

He shook his head in denial. “No. It cannot be too late! I will not let it be. With every breath left in my body I will fight Northumberland.” He paused to catch his breath. “When the council sees this letter, knows that Mary has the courage and tenacious strength to fight for what is rightly hers, they will support her.” His voice was a croak, a whisper as he fought against the fatigue which threatened to engulf him.

Heather could sense his frustration at being struck down at a time when he so needed to be strong, yet she knew that were he to attempt to complete his mission it could mean his death. He would be no match for his enemies in his weakened state. Thus she said, “You cannot think to go to the council.”

In answer he gathered all his energy to sit up, his long legs dangling over the makeshift bed, his hand reaching out to steady himself on  the thick wooden beam of the low-ceilinged room.  On shaky legs he sought to stand, to walk, only to sink in desperation to the straw-covered wooden floor.

Heather was at his side in an instant, offering her arms to him, pulling him to his feet, then pushing him back gently onto the hard bed.

“Damn! Damn!” he groaned. “How can I ever forgive myself for failing my queen in her hour of need?” His face was a mask of defeat and sorrow.

“Don’t say such tings,” she cried. “’Twas not your fault to be set upon and wounded.”

“I should have been more careful.” In his weakness he leaned against her, his breath stirring her hair. “Now all is lost.”

Heather could hear a voice answering him. Was that her voice speaking with such intensity? “All is not lost. I will deliver the letter to the council.”

“You?” His eyes swept over her. “No! There is too much danger. How could a woman, a delicate woman, manage such a task? You have not the strength to force your way into that council chamber.”

“Perhaps not the strength, but instead the cunning and courage that will be needed.” If he deemed Mary Tudor a heroine, she would prove herself to be one as well. “Do not underestimate the power of a woman.” Just because women could not sit on councils or in courts, did not have voice in government, did not mean they were without their influence, albeit a more subtle one than brute force.

“But if you were to be caught…..”

“That, sir, I will not allow to happen.” With that she lifted her chin defiantly. “If you can fight for Mary’s cause, then so can I.”

“Well-spoken,” he answered, his eyes smoldering with suppressed passion. “You are a brave woman as well as a beautiful one.” He could see that her mind was made up and he admired her tenacity, yet he feared for her safety. What if he were to lose her, never to see her again? He had no choice but to let her go, but if anything happened to her, could he forgive himself?

As if reading his mind, she whispered, “I’ll think of a plan. All will be well.” The tolling of the morning bell made her stiffen. She had to return to the house before she was missed and someone came looking for her. “I must go.”

“Wait!” He could not let her leave now, not now before he knew what she was going to do.

“I’ll be back.” She crossed the small room, but at the doorway turned back. “Your name. I do not even….”

“Richard,” he answered. “Richard Morgan.”

“Richard,” she murmured, liking the name. She started to say more but at that moment Harold Perriwincle bounded through the door, nearly knocking her over.

“Your father, mum. He is already up and about. You must hurry.” Seeing the direction of her eyes, he added, “I’ll be right here with him. If he needs anything I’ll see to it.” And she knew that he would.

Hurrying across the courtyard, she paused to glance back once or twice before making her way toward the four-story wooden house. Opening the back entrance, with its steep stairs that led all the way up to the floor attic and the servants’ quarters, she picked up her skirts, taking the stairs two at a time. No doubt her father would be in the solar awaiting his breakfast, his ledgers held tightly in his hands. If God was with her she would not yet have been missed and could slip inside her bedchamber to change her clothing before her mother called upon her to help with the morning chores. So thinking, Heather made her way to her room.

She had barely had time to change into a fresh chemise when a light tapping at the door and a soft voice announced that her mother awaited her.

“Heather. Heather, are you all right?” Blythe Bowen called.

Heather opened the door to allow her mother entrance. “I’m fine, Mother,” she said softly, running her fingers through the tangles of her auburn tresses. “I guess I just overslept.”

“I’m glad that you are better this morning. I was so worried last night when you didn’t eat.” She reached out to cup Heather’s face in her hand, looking deep within her daughter’s eyes. “Your face is quite flushed. Are you certain that you are feeling well?”

Heather felt a wave of affection for this plump and pretty woman who always showed her such love. “Yes. I was just tired, that’s all. Pray do not worry.”

Stepping toward the small table with the washbasin perched on top, she splashed her face with cold water. With so much excitement, it was no wonder that her face was flushed. For a moment she was tempted to tell her mother all that had happened, but knowing how protective Blythe always was, thought better of it. She would tell her later, after the mission had been accomplished.

Blythe Bowen stood wringing her hands as she always did when something troubled her. She eyed her daughter with dismay, not certain what it was that troubled her but knowing well that something was on Heather’s mind. She could read her as surely as Heather could read her husband’s journals.

“Heather….” She began, but the words were lost to her and she merely said, “come help me make up the beds as soon as you are dressed.” The beds were so wide, nearly seven feet in width, that it took two to manage the task or one person using a long stick to reach across the vast breadth.

Heather watched her mother leave, then donned a linen gown, one which was well worn and would not be spoiled with dirt and grease from the morning’s chores. She had best be about her duties quickly, for there was much to be done yet before she could see about Richard Morgan’s letter.

“Richard Morgan.” The name sounded well upon her lips. It was a fine name, one that suited him. She smiled as she thought about the way in which they had met. Had he claimed her heart even then? she asked herself, and knew the answer to be yes. He had brought excitement to her life, and love, something she had not experienced much of in recent years. No more would she be the merchant’s daughter, spending her days in boredom among her father’s weights and measures. She had tasted of passion and adventure. And who knew what might happen? Perhaps when Richard Morgan left he would take her with him. This she knew was her fondest hope.

Chapter Ten

The Great Tower of London rose to the sky like a giant man-at-arms guarding the city, and Heather could not suppress a shudder as she saw it looming in the distance. It was there that she was destined to go, and she could only pray that she would return from there as well.

Richard Morgan’s words rang in her ears, his warning to her ere they parted. “Do not be caught with the letter upon your person. It could well mean your death if it is discovered.”

He had tried again to dissuade her from taking the letter to the council, but Heather had been stubborn and his arguments were defeated. Her words had been spirited then, but now as she walked along, shards of fear pricked at her heart.

“The Tower. The White tower,” she whispered, remembering well the stories she had heard about it in her childhood. Not only was the council there, but many a prisoner as well. Indeed, Sir Thomas more, Anne Boleyn, and the two young sons of Edward IV had languished there before their deaths; Henry VI had been murdered in the Tower, and how many royal corpses lay within the cemetery next to the Tower? Was it any wonder that she felt apprehensive just looking in that direction? That Northumberland, his family, and his supporters were housed in the Tower only added to her peril.

It was a bold plan that she had devised, one without disguise or need for arms. She would  merely go to the Tower as herself, the merchant’s daughter.

Heather had attired herself in one of her better gowns for the journey, for it would not do to look the pauper. Her cornflower-blue dress with bell-shaped sleeves was a copy of those worn by ladies of the court, the full skirt worn over the stiff Spanish farthingale, so in vogue. Over the gown was worn a partlet, a yoke with a V neck and standing collar, tied under the armpits with tape. The full high collar of her chemise peeked from beneath. She thought with a smile that she rather resembled a walking dinner bell.

Reaching up, she touched her hair to make certain that it was still tidy. Parted in the center and rolled back over a pad, the red tresses were covered by a French hood secured with ribbons tied under her chin. She was well pleased with her efforts and laughed as two young apprentices nearly collided with each other while looking in her direction.

Walking down the cobbled streets, that twisting and turning path through the city, Heather looked up at the tall plaster-and-timber “magpie”-styled houses, so like her father’s. The two-and three-story buildings leaned forward and looked as if they could nearly touch their neighbors on the other side of the narrow gray-cobbled street. Her father had wanted to go his neighbors one better, and so his abode had been structured with four stories.

Ah, Father
, she thought.
Safe at home napping.
At least she would not have to worry about him this day. It had been her fear to suffer his ire upon reaching the council, but apparently he had not been summoned this time.

Heather passed several cathedrals along the route, boarded up long ago before she was born. The stained glass of the windows was now shattered, replaced by tattered waxed paper. Her mother had often related to her stories of their beauty, much to her father’s annoyance. He had scowled at Blythe and chastised her “papist” sympathies, cautioning her about such talk in a time dangerous for Catholics.

Now it was Cranmer’s
Book of Common Prayer
which was read so fervently in the whitewashed churches. No more the Latin Masses, which Edward had considered blasphemous idolatry.

The clamor of church bells rang out the noon hour as Heather continued on her way, at last reaching the Thames, that most practical and popular of waterways which divided London into northern and southern halves. Dotted with boats and barges which looked like leaves floating towards the shore, its waters sparkled in the midday sun and looked deceptively inviting. Crossing the river, adorned with its three-story buildings on either side, was London Bridge.

Heather tried to elbow her way through the crowd which was forming, adding to the confusion of the carts and wagons in the street. She had no need to ask what was going on; the crowd was very vocal in its protestations. Lady Jane Grey had been brought down by water to the Tower and received there as queen amidst great ceremony this very day.

“I still can’t believe it!” cried an old man standing next to Heather. “Mary is the true heir to the throne.” As quickly as his words were out, a black-garbed man moved in the old man’s direction and she feared for his life. Instead he was given a sound boxing to his ears.

“’Tis not Jane who rules, but Northumberland. God will punish him for his deeds, I say!” the woman’s voice was not more than a whisper, yet it had fallen upon the wrong ears.

“You’ll suffer for your words!” cried out a man clothed in black hat and padded doublet. Grabbing the woman by the shoulder, he proceeded to drag her away.

Several more shocked protests were suppressed by force and thus the city people quieted their opinions, afraid to voice them openly. Even a fool could see that Northumberland had peppered the crowd with his supporters, who loudly “hurrahed” Queen Jane while their cohorts silenced any protests. The crowd dispersed, overcome by fear, but from the looks upon their faces it was obvious that they were against Queen Jane, no matter that they were forced to keep silent. If they had loathed Northumberland before, they clearly did so more now than in the past. Had he then won a victory this day? Heather wondered.

The travesty of the situation swept over her like a wave. If she had not been a staunch supporter of Mary’s claim before, she was now. Patting her bosom, where nested that precious letter, she smiled.

“Perhaps you have not won after all, my Lord Northumberland,” she whispered. Over and over again in her mind she thought of what she must do. That Jane was in London, in the Tower, would make it all the easier.

Stephen Vickery
. The name was implanted in her mind as she said it over and over. It was to him that she must slip the letter, for Richard Morgan knew well that he could be trusted.

So preoccupied with her thoughts was she that Heather did not see the shadow which fell across her path. Only when she felt the touch of a hand upon her shoulder did she glance up. Before her stood a large, stocky, brown-haired man with small eyes which seemed to undress her as they looked upon her.