Linda Barlow (68 page)

Roger leapt back, disengaging. "You may bind it up."

But this time it was Francis who said, "No, we will continue. Let's get this over with."

Once again their blades clashed. It was apparent to everyone that this would be the last phase. Both combatants were wounded; both were too tired to fence with any art. Alexandra watched in growing horror as they fought with obvious desperation, their faces pale and set, their arms heavy, their movements slow and vicious. When Lacklin's blade cut through the air where an instant before Roger's bare throat had been exposed, Alexandra averted her eyes, only to look up and discover that her lover had ducked in time. Beside her Roger's father groaned as he watched; his breathing seemed as hard as his son's. Alexandra signaled Dorcas with her eyes to get the baron away, but with tears streaming down her cheeks Dorcas whispered that he was determined to see this through. The baron heard.

"I owe him this," he told her. "I've never stood by him, never encouraged him, never shown him any love. Dorcas has told me why you came back to England, and why he followed. I have misjudged him. I'll be here for him now, though it be the final act in my wretched life."

Alexandra squeezed the baron's hand. "He appreciates your presence, I'm sure." But in fact she didn't know whether Roger was even aware of it. He was fighting for his life, and Francis seemed stronger once again. He forced Roger back until they were directly in front of the hearth. Its blaze threw their silhouettes high on the walls, two grappling shadows, dark as death itself, each trying to lay the other low.

Roger misinterpreted a feint. Off-balance, he parried wildly as Lacklin attacked in
quarte,
striking for the heart. At the last moment, Roger's blade whipped up to defend, the force of his desperation jarring Francis' injured sword arm. Then Lacklin, overextended at the end of a lunge, did not recover in time, and Roger's savage counter parry wrenched the blade from his hand. It clattered to the floor. Francis straightened, empty-handed, disarmed. And the edge of Roger's rapier followed, lodging against the hollow of his opponent's throat.

There was complete stillness in the hall. They stood less than two feet apart, two friends, two enemies, heaving for breath and staring into one another's eyes. "My victory," said Roger. His ribs were burning; he could hardly speak, but he managed to get the words out: "For the death of my brother, for Ned, for Priscilla Martin, and for Alexandra, I call your life forfeit."

Francis showed no trace of fear. He half-smiled. "I congratulate you. You're the first man to defeat me in nearly fifteen years. You are your own master now." He paused for an instant, and then added, "I am ready. Good-bye."

Oh God!
Roger's trembling hand jerked the blade a couple of inches back. He could not. At the end of a thrust... perhaps. But like this?

"Do not falter," said Francis in a voice so low only Roger could hear. Silver-gray eyes stared into his, wanting nothing, waiting for nothing but surcease. "Do it. It's what you want. It's what I want. End it, Roger, now."

Roger tried again, scraping the blade across his old friend's skin, but unable to press, to cut, to kill. Jesus! The
coup de grace
is given swiftly, kindly, surely. 'Tis monstrous to make him wait.

The hot sweat that had been steaming from Roger's skin turned icy cold. The world darkened around him and he was back on the Thames riverbank, watching Francis deliberately thrust himself in the way of a blade that was intended for him. No, he thought. No. "I cannot. God help me, I cannot." And he threw down his sword.

There was more stunned silence; then several things happened at once. People began shouting, cheering. Alexandra burst from the dais and ran to Roger, flinging herself into his arms. Francis swayed, and had to support himself on the mantel above the hearth. The baron bent over in his chair, burying his face in his hands.

"You did it," Alexandra was saying, cradling her exhausted lover in her arms. "You fought him and survived. You won! Do you realize what you've done? You've defeated one of the finest swordsmen in Europe." She let out a whoop of pure delight. "You defeated him, and you're both still alive!"

She kissed his lips, and then let him go, for the others were beginning to crowd around to congratulate him. She checked his shoulder briefly, and was relieved to see that the bleeding had stopped. The same was not true of his opponent, whose sleeve was crimson with still-flowing blood. She went to Francis, who was alone, his forehead pressed against the wall, his shoulders heaving as he continued to fight for breath—unwanted breath. "Francis?" It mattered not a jot that this man had tried to drown her. "You're bleeding. Let me see to your arm."

But he twisted away from her, not wanting to be touched. She desisted, saying softly, for his ears alone, "I know. You would rather be dead. But for his sake, be grateful you're not. How do you suppose he would feel, going through the rest of his life knowing he'd cut your throat?"

Then gently, impersonally, she examined the gash on his arm. It was nasty, far nastier than the wound on Roger's shoulder. She quickly tore a piece from the bottom of her shift and bound it around the seeping wound. "That'll stop it temporarily, but it must be properly cleaned." She called out to one of the servants, "I'll need hot water and bandages, if you please."

But the woman called back, "Mistress, I think you'd better look to my lord the baron. 'E doesn't look so good. 'E's clutchin' 'is chest and 'is breathin' sounds funny."

Both Alexandra and Roger rushed to the dais, where the baron was still bent over in his chair. Dorcas was holding his head, her eyes round with fear.

"I'm well," the baron was insisting, even as he fought for breath. Alexandra noted the bluish tinge around his mouth.

"Where's his physician?"

Roger was cursing, his victory temporarily forgotten. "Probably drunk in some comer, as usual. Christ Almighty, Father, why didn't you stay in your bed?"

The baron looked up and met his son's eyes. "I wanted to be here for you. I vowed to be here even if it was the last thing I ever did."

"As it may well have been," Roger snapped, but there was a gentleness in his eyes that Alexandra had never seen him betray to his father. "You thought he was going to defeat me, didn't you?" He glanced around at the others, who avoided his eyes. "You
all
thought so, didn't you?" He laughed softly. "I’ll confess I feared it, too."

Alexandra had loosened the baron's collar. She was taking his pulse, which was rapid and irregular. He seemed to be breathing a little more easily, but there was still a trace of cyanosis around his lips. "Let's get him back to bed, please. Now."

The baron tried to rise, but Roger cursed and pushed him back down. "You're not walking. Here." He bent over. "Put your arms around my neck."

"You cannot carry me, my son. You are exhausted."

Roger gave his father a jaunty grin. "It's just sinking in that I've actually fought Francis and lived. I could carry the world at this moment, I think. Come." And with no apparent effort, he lifted his father's wasted body into his arms.

"What about him?" one of the men-at-arms demanded, pointing to Francis, who hadn't moved from the fireplace.

Roger spared a glance at his old friend. "Lock him in a cell. His fate will be settled on the morrow."

"Settled? How?"

Roger bore his father toward the stairs that led to the upper reaches of the keep, taking care not to jolt him too much. "He is guilty of murder. You may construct a scaffold. At dawn tomorrow, he will be hanged."

Chapter 40

Roger's father slept for the rest of the day after the duel, gravely ill but clinging to life. He woke that evening and asked to see his son. Roger was about to enter his father's chamber with Alix when he was called aside by the baron's master-at-arms.

"I've just had a report that there's a troop of armed men riding up the road toward Whitcombe. 'Tis the queen's men, the lookout believes. Led by Sir Charles Douglas, whom he recognizes by his red hair and beard."

"Oh sweet Jesu," said Alexandra. "Not my father. Not here, not now. You must hide, Roger. Or flee. He'll take you back to London to stand trial."

Roger scowled. "Let him come."

"Roger, please—"

"My father is sick, perhaps dying. He wishes to talk to me, he says. Have done, Alix. We are hundreds of miles from Queen Mary Tudor, and I've known Charles Douglas for most of my life. He isn't going to arrest me."

"He's still angry for what he imagines you did to me. He didn't believe me when I swore I was willing. If you think he won't act, you're deluding yourself, Roger."

"When he finds out you are carrying my child, the worst he will do is drag us both in front of a priest."

Alexandra grimaced. She wasn't at all sure what her father would do.

"Trust me." He touched one finger to the side of her cheek, and then walked into the room to find Master Theobald fussing with his father. "’Tis passing strange. I told you once I would not care if the old bastard fell down dead at my feet. Now I find that I do care."

"Roger?" The baron's voice was thin but urgent. Both Roger and Alexandra hurried to his side. Richard Trevor gestured at the physician. "Get rid of him," he said to his son. Roger looked at Alexandra, who nodded. Theobald was incompetent; she'd always thought so. Besides, at this point there was little anybody could do.

"If I don't attend him, I won't answer for the consequences," Theobald said. "He could die before the night is out."

"Get thee gone!"

Theobald went.

"He wants to keep me alive so he can retain his post here," the baron said. "Dorcas has been fool enough to provide him with an unlimited supply of food and drink." He smiled at Roger. "Your first act as baron should be to send the blackguard packing."

"Don't talk like that." He had sat down on the mattress of the big four-poster, his tall, powerful body in dramatic contrast to his father's shrunken form. Leaning over, he lifted the baron's head and rearranged the pillows. His hands were gentle, Alexandra noted. As gentle as they were on her own body during the act of love.

"Why not? You faced your own probable death with courage and dignity this morn; I ought to be able to do the same." He paused a moment. "I am glad you returned. I did not expect to see you again, and my greatest regret would have been to die without first making my peace with you."

"Is that what you wish to do?"

"Aye, my son. Tis rather late to ask for your forgiveness. But when you lie abed all day and all night, your body a traitor to a mind that is still vigorous, you have nothing to do but review the past and note—too late—all your mistakes. The things that seemed to matter no longer do: power, position—they are chimeras. Religion doesn't even matter—I haven't been lying here contemplating God. Instead I am thinking about my family, and how I have failed them. You, Roger, in particular. And your mother."

Roger hesitated, and then said in a low voice, "She used to come to me and complain of her unhappiness. She used to rage, and cry, and charge you with violence toward her, a charge I had every reason to believe, since I was the victim of your violence on such a frequent basis myself."

Richard Trevor's head shifted restlessly, and his eyes, when they opened, were dark with pain.

"Roger," Alexandra interrupted. She noted the way the baron was pressing one hand to the center of his chest, the obvious lines of agony about his mouth. "Perhaps you shouldn't... it is too much—"

"No," the baron said, sounding almost fierce. "We must have this out."

"Would you like me to leave you alone together?"

"No." Roger's voice was equally emphatic. "Stay."

And so she pulled up a stool and sat down beside him, close by, to offer what support she could.

Roger steeled himself for what was to come. When he spoke, his voice was carefully expressionless. "If you would make your peace with me, you must explain why you treated me as you did. Why you gave me hatred instead of love. Why you beat me—not Will, not Alan, only me. And what it had to do with my mother."

"You are hard, Roger," the baron said, his lips curling in a smile. "I had hoped to get off more easily."

"I am like you."