Linda Barlow (70 page)

"I arrest you in the Queen's name."

Roger Trevor stood silently before Sir Charles Douglas and his men downstairs in the great hall at Whitcombe Castle while Alexandra's father read out the charges against him. He was accused of heresy, treason, abduction, and rape. The terms of the indictment were long-winded and formal; Roger hardly heard them—he was staring into the angelic eyes of his enemy, Geoffrey de Montreau.

If he had known that Geoffrey was traveling with Alexandra's father, Roger would have taken some steps in his own defense. Geoffrey had become a trusted agent of the crown, more trusted, evidently, than Charles Douglas himself. Roger had seen that the men who had accompanied Sir Charles were not wearing his badge, but that of the queen. Alexandra's father was under scrutiny. He had no choice but to strictly obey the letter of the law.

"You are ordered to make yourself ready," Sir Charles finished, rolling up the document again. His florid face was tired and grim and his eyes were genuinely regretful. "You will accompany me back to London to stand trial. I'm sorry this coincides with the death of your father." When Roger gazed at him blankly, he added, "Don't you have anything to say for yourself, lad?"

"My lord," Roger corrected.

"What?"

"I am Baron of Whitcombe now. I expect to be treated with the respect to which my rank entitles me."

"Well, I never knew you for one who used to stand upon ceremony, but it makes not one whit of difference to me,
my lord."

"I have one request before we leave. It concerns your daughter." He met Alexandra's eyes and sent her a smile. She was standing nearby with Alan and the resurrected Priscilla Martin. It would have been impossible to determine now that the two women had ever been rivals in love. On Priscilla's arrival they had thrown themselves into each other's arms in a paroxysm of relief and thanksgiving.

"What about her?" Douglas growled. "You've done enough damage there, as it is. If I were not under strict orders to return you to London for trial, I'd call you to account for besmirching her honor right here and now."

"I think not, Douglas. I wish to marry her. I ask that a priest be summoned so the ceremony can be formalized before you take me away. There may be no opportunity after the trial."

"Indeed there will not—after the trial they'll hang you. I've no desire to have my girl married to a notorious criminal, even for the few short weeks until she becomes a widow!"

"Your daughter will be the wife of the Baron of Whitcombe. And the child she carries in her womb will be my heir. I wish the child to be born legitimate, Douglas. I feel certain you'll agree."

Everyone within hearing began to buzz and stare at Alexandra, who held her head high. Her father turned to glare at her. "Daughter, is this true?"

"Yes. Your grandchild will be born in April, Father."

Sir Charles Douglas spewed out a colorful collection of expletives. "The devil take you, Trevor! 'Tis bad enough that you abduct my lassie and ensnare her affections without getting your brat upon her as well!"

"No doubt it's a lie," Geoffrey said. "The poor misguided girl will say anything that she thinks will keep her by his side."

"It is no lie." Alexandra turned furious green eyes on Geoffrey. "And the poor misguided girl is likely to borrow someone's sword and stick it down your throat, monsieur, if you make one more disparaging remark."

Sir Charles looked slowly from his daughter to the man she loved. He sighed. "You shall have your wish, my lord. I shall summon a priest."

* * *

Two days later Alexandra stood by Roger's side at the altar in the Whitcombe chapel to speak the vows that would make her his wife. In the interests of haste, the ceremony followed directly upon Richard Trevor's funeral.

"'Tis bad luck," Lucy Douglas lamented. "You do not hold a wedding on top of a burial—shovel in the corpse, then pull out the ring. Nor should you marry in black."

"I certainly can't marry in white."

"Neither could half the brides in this county. At least you're not showing. Your belly is as flat as an unleavened loaf."

"It hardly matters, Mother. Everybody knows."

And indeed, as she stood up with Roger she remembered Merwynna's words:
Ye shall not come a maiden to yer bridal bed.

But there was not to be a bridal bed. Her father and his men were taking Roger away right after the ceremony. "There's no need for consummation with the bride already pregnant!" he had roared when she'd pleaded for a wedding night with her husband.

"Have some pity, for God's sake, Father. You're taking him to his death."

But he would not be moved. "You've had your sport with that blackguard; 'tis time to pay the piper now, girl."

In the end Alexandra married in a gown made from the green silk Roger had brought her last summer from Turkey. Around her neck she wore the cherished silver and opal pendant, her only ornament. Roger was dressed simply in a dark doublet and hose.

She and her betrothed stood listening to the sonorous flow of the Latin Matrimonial Mass being said in the chapel from which Roger's father had sought to have such ceremonies banned. The rites for his father had been Protestant, as the baron had requested. But Roger had been content to be married with the traditional liturgy of the Holy Church. "I am no heretic, despite your long-winded indictment," he'd informed Sir Charles. "I'll say any damn vows you please, as long as my marriage is fully recognized by civil and canon law."

To Alexandra he said privately, "It does not matter what words we speak. God has already joined us, and not even death shall put us asunder."

Alan and Pris Martin served as attendants. Alan was pale, but he spoke not one word against the marriage. It had not escaped Alexandra's notice that Alan was almost constantly at the side of Pris, or that Pris would occasionally look upon Alan with a warm expression in her lovely blue eyes. She had been generous in her praises of him, telling Alexandra that she surely would have died had Alan not found her and succored her. "He's very gentle. And so solicitous in his care of me."

Was it possible that Pris could fall in love with Will's younger brother? Alan was handsomer and more sensitive than Will, and like Pris, he had adopted the Calvinist teachings. Why not? Had it not been a time of mourning, Alexandra might have attempted a little matchmaking. Perhaps the experience of standing up together in front of the altar with her and Roger would inspire Alan and Pris to think in similar terms.

Dorcas remained after her husband's burial to witness the wedding, even though Alexandra urged her to go home and rest. Lucy Douglas was there with Charles, her caustic tongue making an occasional comment that was echoed by the bare walls of the chapel. Geoffrey de Montreau was not present, largely because Alexandra had threatened again to skewer him if he approached her on her wedding day. Roger had made no such threat, but the look in his eyes when he regarded Geoffrey would have intimidated many a hardier soul. Merwynna, of course, was absent. The wisewoman would not under any circumstances enter a church. But she was waiting outside, Alexandra knew, with the cotters and villagers to offer the bridal couple the traditional blessings of prosperity, fecundity, and good fortune.

There was one other person missing from their wedding. Francis. A satisfied smile flitted over Alexandra's lips as she thought of Francis. Out of the debacle of the last two days, one thing, at least, she had salvaged. She had had the presence of mind to go directly from the baron's deathbed to the cell below the great hall where Francis had been imprisoned. She changed the dressing on his arm while telling him concisely all that had happened. He bowed his head over her account of Roger's father's death and grimaced at the news of Douglas' arrival with a troop of men. "The only question that remains to be answered is which of them will hang me first—Roger, Douglas, or the queen."

"Suppose I were to give you the opportunity to live?"

"I would rather you gave me a dagger so I might cut my own throat."

"I am serious, Francis. Roger could have escaped, but he refused to leave his dying father. Now they will take him to London to be put on trial for heresy and treason. Who will help him then?"

Francis stared at her. "What are you suggesting?"

"It’s you who are the expert at saving people from the so-called justice of the courts. If Roger is to be arrested, I would breathe easier to know that you, at least, were free."

"Those were nameless, faceless dissidents, Alix. And most of them were not yet under indictment, but simply at risk. Roger is a celebrated felon. If he is brought to trial, he will be condemned and sentenced to death. Nobody will be able to save him then."

At which Alexandra, thoroughly overwrought, had finally broken down. But instead of sobbing, she had hissed at him, "I am going to leave this cell unlocked. There's a passage through the cellars that leads to the postern gate, and from there it's a short walk to the shelter of the woodland. If you're still here in the morning, damn you, I shall return with a dagger and cut your throat myself!"

But in the morning, Francis Lacklin had been gone, and an innocent man-at-arms was fiercely reprimanded by Charles Douglas for failing to secure the door to his cell. Alexandra had watched the poor fellow insist that the door had been tightly bolted, and listened to her father's scathing reply. For once she'd felt no trace of guilt at all.

Roger, she suspected, guessed the truth. But he did not question her. Roger seemed determined to exorcise from his mind all thoughts, all feelings concerning Francis Lacklin.

Roger. She felt his hand touch hers. She was being asked to repeat the wedding vows. Looking into his eyes and smiling, she did so, speaking the words clearly as she formally bound herself to her beloved in the eyes of God. He smiled at her also, and the world narrowed to include themselves alone. It was not happening the way she'd wished or imagined, but it was happening. He placed the ring on her finger, his hands warming hers as he did so, and the priest pronounced them husband and wife. Then Roger took her in his arms and kissed her. When she felt the sweet pressure of his mouth upon her own, she forgot all the looming dangers that threatened them. God had given them to each other. Surely He would not divide them.

When the Mass was completed and the final blessings had been invoked, Roger did not march out with his bride as was customary. Keeping her hand tightly clasped in his, he said to Charles Douglas, "We wish to have a few minutes here to say good-bye to one another."

Douglas could scarcely refuse. "Be quick about it, then," he said gruffly. "Our horses await us outside, and I would start our journey immediately." He paused a moment, then added, "I have no great liking for any of this, Trevor. If it were not for that snake de Montreau..." He allowed his voice to trail off.

"I know," said Roger. "I do not envy you your predicament."

"I have my duty. The queen’s health is rumored to be failing, but while she's alive, I'll not cross her."

"Enough. Just give us a few minutes alone."

Douglas touched his daughter's hand. "You're a lovely bride, lassie," he said, and left them.

"Come here, wife." Roger slid his arms around her waist and pulled her close. He pushed back her veil and threaded his fingers through her burnished hair, which she had worn loose, in the manner of a maid. "Your father's right. You're looking exceptionally beautiful today," he told her, smiling into those honest green eyes that were so naked with her love for him. Her skin seemed translucent, more radiant than ever since her pregnancy. Her delicate nose had an impish quality about it, but her wide, full-lipped mouth was sensuous and womanly. He bent his head and kissed that mouth. She sighed against his lips, responding with a fervor that delighted and tormented him. "Sweetling," he murmured, sliding his hands down her spine to cup her thighs and crush her intimately against him. "D'you suppose God would strike us with a thunderbolt if I pressed you down upon the altar and consummated our marriage in the church?"

She laughed, the bright sound of her mirth filling the gloomy corners of his soul with sunshine. Most of all, he thought, he would remember her laugh. He would hold it close to him and cherish that joyful, hopeful sound during the long weeks of hell that loomed ahead.

"I know not, but I think it might be just as well not to do anything to offend God at this point. I suspect we're going to need Him on our side." She paused, and then added, "Despite my pleading, my father refuses to allow me to accompany you to London. I will come, though. Alan will bring me in a few days, and perhaps Pris Martin too. My mother is also considering making the journey. She says she is tired of missing all the interesting things that happen to everybody else while she is stuck up here in the Yorkshire countryside. And she intends to convince Dorcas to come too, in an attempt to lift her spirits as she adjusts to being your father's widow." She smiled and ran her fingers through the dark hair that framed his face. "So you see, my love, you shall not be alone. We will all be there to support you—your wife, your family, the people who love you best."

Roger closed his eyes in agony. She apparently did not know what to expect of a state trial for heresy and treason. He did. Although the law did not provide for it, they would almost certainly torture him first, seeking a full confession. The trial itself would be little more than a formality. It was possible that he could get the heresy charges thrown out, since he was not a Calvinist and had no qualms about saying so. Unless there were false witnesses, no one could place him at a Reformist religious service. That should save him from the ecclesiastical courts and the stake. But the crown would try him for treason, and that charge would no doubt stick.