Linda Barlow (61 page)

Her legs felt like sticks. She was afraid. Terrified. Her baby was dependent upon her. If she died, Roger’s daughter or son would die, too. She stumbled, and without her hands to save herself, nearly fell. Francis caught her and held her, his grip strong but not hurtful. When she stumbled again, he lifted her and carried her out of the cottage in his arms.

"Please don't harm Merwynna. I love her. She's an old woman. Don't kill her, Francis."

"Your evidence, flimsy though it was, has been destroyed," he said gruffly. "Who'd believe the ranting of a mad old witch?"

"Promise me."

He dragged breath and coughed again. "I won't touch her. You have my word."

"There's coltsfoot in the cottage. A spoonful of the tonic will help your cough."

"Jesus, Alix! I'm going to kill you and you're worried about my cough?"

No less stunned than he at the absurdity of this, she began to cry.

"So you're a woman at heart, after all. And I expected you to die proudly, stalwart as a man."

Shamed into silence, she fought back her tears as he carried her down to the lakeside. It was a wild afternoon, dark, and so foggy she couldn't see more than six feet ahead of her. She couldn't imagine what he intended. He couldn't use his sword, and she had no horse to conveniently fall from. "How am I going to die?"

The old wooden boat she had used to rescue Alan was pulled up on the shore. He set her down in the stern and pushed it into the water. "You're going to drown," he said, taking the oars and striking out for deeper water.

"Drown?"

"You took this boat out on the lake. Who knows why? I doubt anybody will be surprised, though. 'Tis the sort of thing you'd do. A storm came up, the water got rough, as it is getting now. The boat is old and rotten—the bottom seams began to separate, as they will before I'm through. The boat capsized; you could not swim; you drowned."

You could not swim.
She stared at him as if she hadn't heard right. What did he mean, she could not swim? Of course she could swim. She'd been swimming all her life.

But he didn't know that.
It occurred to her that she knew very few people who could swim. Most of the seamen on Roger's ship, she'd been astonished to learn, hadn't the least idea how to keep their bodies afloat. Merciful heavens! Hope surged in her again. "Then what? You go back to Westmor dripping wet and tell them all you've just tried and failed to save my life?"

"No, that would be too risky. No one but you knows I'm here. Roger thinks I'm behind, not ahead of him on the road. I won't arrive at Westmor until well after he does, a couple of days, perhaps, from now. By then they will have found your body and Roger will need my comfort and consolation."

She said nothing. He had it all figured out. Except one thing.

He sent her a sharp look, as if he could read her mind. "You cannot swim, can you?"

If she had ever needed the skill to dissemble, she needed it now. She raised large round eyes to his, eyes she knew must be dilated with fear and shock and grief. She thought about Priscilla. She remembered Ned's pitiful dying in the dark. She imagined Will lying on that stony bier beneath the altar in the Whitcombe chapel. "No," she said, her voice shaking convincingly. "In sooth, I'm terrified of drowning. There was a prophecy, once, that spoke of dark water and death. Please, Francis. I'm sorry to disillusion you with my lack of stalwartness, but I don't want to die, particularly in such a manner. I will never tell a soul what you have done if you will spare my life."

"They say drowning is the least painful way to die," he told her, not ungently. They were well into the middle of the lake now. The water heaved with the rising wind, and the fog was so thick they could not see the shore. Francis pulled in the oars. "'Twill be easier if you don't struggle. When the water enters your lungs, 'tis said to feel euphoric. Surrender to it, and it will soon be over."

"Many thanks for the advice!"

He moved toward her and she shied back against the side of the boat. Her wrists were bound, her clothes were heavy; her skirts and petticoats must weigh several pounds. Being able to swim would not save her if he threw her in in this condition.

"Courage, Alix."

"My hands. I wish to fold my hands and pray."

The boat rocked as he pulled her away from the side and against his big body. Something flashed—a knife—and then her hands were free. Of course. A drowned body with its wrists bound could only be the victim of a murderer. "Pray, then, but quickly. Your soul will fly to heaven, of that I have no doubt."

She bowed her head, pressing her trembling hands together. God give me strength, she prayed silently. Preserve me, for I do not intend to die. Not while Roger lives. Not while I carry his child beneath my breast. Please, God. Spare my life!

Aloud she said, "Forgive me my sins
in nomine patris, et filii, et spiritus sancti.
And forgive Francis, Father, as I do. Help him do penance so that one day his soul may be free of this fearful sin."

Francis groaned; against her, she felt his body tremble. She knew then that her words were not a lie. She did forgive him, this man whose tragedy was loving a man too much, loving the same man she also loved. In that they were united. She had not realized until this moment that love itself could be a sin. Francis Lacklin's fear of losing Roger's friendship had led to the destruction of his immortal soul.

She raised her head. "It's over for you. I think you know that. Whatever happens today. You're not just killing my babe and me; you're killing yourself as well. If you can do this, your soul must already be lost."

"Be still! I will not miss your tongue."

"My tongue called you back from the bourns of death once. Remember that when you pretend to mourn with Roger over my poor drowned body."

He stared at her, his shoulders slumped. For a moment she thought she had broken him and saved herself. For a moment she thought he would not be able to go through with it after all. Then he pursed his lips, and the hard, controlled expression she'd always associated with him came down over his features. She remembered his self-discipline, the quality he possessed in greater measure than either Roger or herself.

Without another word he picked her up and heaved her over the side. She caught her breath and held it just as the cold black water closed over her head.

Chapter 35

Alexandra surfaced once near the boat, arms deliberately flailing. If he suspected she could swim, he would come after her. The water was choppy, the fog thicker than ever, almost hiding him from sight. The fog, she realized, was a blessing.

Her shoes and heavy broadcloth gown combined with the roughness of the water to make staying afloat difficult. As she swallowed water and choked, fear stole through her again. She was a goodly distance from the nearest bank and weakened from her pregnancy. What if she couldn't make it?

She tried to focus her mind, remembering the words Merwynna had taught her long ago:

Avaunt thou, Fear, Thou Menacer,

Thou Shadow, thou Mirage

I see thee not, I feel thee not,

I rise up firm and proud.

Avaunt thou, Fear...

"Alexandra!"

Francis was shouting at her. The fog cloaked him, but she could see him reaching out toward her. His limbs seemed to have elongated in a bizarre fashion—a long, ghostly arm was thrusting at her... No. No, it was an oar. Was he having second thoughts, or simply getting ready to bash her with it, to make certain she sank? He yelled again, but the wind tore his words away. Alexandra flailed her arms once more, then took a deep breath and slid beneath the surface. She dived deep and began to swim underwater as fast as possible, away from the boat, away from the man who wanted her dead.

She stayed under until her lungs were screaming for air, and then she surfaced, trying not to gasp as she breathed. Fog was all around her. She couldn't see Francis, but once again she thought she heard him frantically shouting her name.

Treading water, she reached down and pulled at her awkward clothing. The wind was tossing her and the fog was so thick she couldn't see the shore. She was disoriented. Perhaps the weather was no blessing after all. Perhaps it was a curse.

She finally kicked free of her shoes and shed the heaviest of her petticoats, then struck out again, swimming on the surface this time. She could not see anything clearly. It occurred to her that she could be moving in the wrong direction. Or in a circle. Or back toward the boat. She stopped and listened, hearing nothing now. No more shouts. Did he believe her dead? Shivering, she swam on.

Exactly how long she swam, she didn't know, but when she paused again, arms aching, legs numb, and her breath coming much too hard, she was forced to face the possibility that she might die in the water, after all. The fog was swirling around her and she no longer had any idea where the shore was. The lake seemed very cold and her body piteously weak.

Trust the water.
Once again she seemed to hear a voice inside her head.
Trust the water.
Yes, yes. She had swum here many times—since her childhood, in fact. She had challenged these dark waters on the night when Alan had lain injured in the woods and Roger had pursued her, caught her, and made sweet love to her in the same cottage where Francis had just revealed the truth about Will's death. Roger, Roger. He was nearby. He was not in the Middle Sea, after all. If she could only manage to survive, she would see him. She would hold him in her arms. She would kiss him and touch his strong, lean body; she would inhale his musky, seductive scent; she would feel once again his clever hands, his hot, insistent mouth. The image energized her, sending new power through her aching muscles. She swam harder. But still she seemed no closer to the bank.

Treading water, she stopped again and looked around. Nothing. Nothing but cold, rough water and gray mist. What if she was swimming parallel to the shoreline? But surely she was close–so close to living. She couldn’t let herself drown!

Altering her direction slightly, she struck out again, arm over arm, legs kicking, over and over. Again. Again. It doesn't hurt. I'm strong. Anyway, there's the baby. Have to get ashore because of the baby. Wouldn't mind if it were just me... but I have a child to think about, to protect. I will not let my wee one die!

Time drifted; her body grew increasingly weak. Gradually her thoughts began to change: The water's not cold anymore...feels nice. Pleasant. Trust the water. Is there truly a sea serpent in these waters? Perhaps I'll see him. We'll talk, make friends. He'll teach me the secrets of his abode, and I'll tell him what it's like on land, on earth, with my friends, my family, the people I love.

Oh God, Roger. The babe! Swim, move, keep afloat. There. Farther. Good, good. Again. No. No. Can't—too tired. Arms won't work. Rest a little; the water will buoy me up. Trust the water. Lovely water. Soft, like a pillow. Warm.

From somewhere a warning flitted through her brain that the water was not warm at all; that if she thought it was, something was wrong with her. What could be wrong? she wondered. She felt peaceful, safe. Nothing was wrong.
Fool!
said the Voice.
You are dying.

It was true. Her body was already beginning to feel like a thing apart. She could look down upon herself from somewhere above the lake; she could see a gasping, flailing woman with sodden red hair clawing at the water as it inexorably dragged her down. She watched the woman's struggles, marveling at her tenacity, her refusal to accept that this was the end. Why was she fighting? It was peaceful here. There was a light around her spirit, warm and bright and beckoning. There was a feeling of freedom and ecstasy more powerful than anything she had ever known. Yet even so, she felt strangely reluctant to leave her body, particularly while it was still struggling. She drifted downward again, watching, listening. Too close—her body grabbed her. She cried out as once again she felt the cold, once again fear arrowed through her. And suddenly she sensed the presence of another being, another person struggling, a smaller, younger being who was even more desirous of life than she.

Heavy with guilt, she tried to explain: Oh, my babe, I'm sorry, so sorry. We're not going to make it after all. Forgive me. I love you, I love your father. I tried, I really tried to stay alive.