FLAME OF DESIRE (14 page)

Blythe Bowen succumbed to her anguish, tears rolling down her cheeks, her face contorted in her sorrow. It was as if she could see another man standing there, another woman. Herself. So many years ago. Was her daughter to suffer the same fate? Tears were shed for her own shattered dreams as well as for her daughter’s honor.

Heather donned her chemise and gown and stood beside her mother, reaching out her hand to touch Blythe Bowen’s arm. “Don’t weep, Mother. I cannot bear to see you cry.”

The tears melted from Blythe Bowen’s eyes to be replaced by flashing fire. “You!” she rasped at Richard, pointing her broom at him as if to strike him down. “That I should live to see…”

Taking a step forward, Richard sought to calm her. “Please, let me explain.”

“Explain. What can you say? Will you marry my daughter?” Her look was one of pure anger. “No. I do not hear you hurry to seek for her hand. You are alike, you men. Every one of you!”

Heather stepped between them, tears marring her face now. What had been so beautiful was now ruined beyond repair. “Mother, please. You do not understand!”

“Understand! It is you who do not understand.” She had been betrayed by one such as this man, left with child and broken promises. “If he values his life he will leave this instant.”

Hurrying to put on his doublet and lace his codpiece, Richard stood his ground. Only a coward would leave Heather now, and he was no coward. Reaching out quickly, like a striking serpent, he grasped the handle of the broom, disarming the woman before she did any harm.

“Madam, hear me out!”

“You have nothing to say that I want to hear. You have taken my daughter’s virtue, that is all too plain to see. Nothing you can say to me can change that fact, nor give her back her maidenhead.” She stood wringing her hands, her emotions swaying from anger to despair. What would Thomas say? What would he do?

“Heather saved my life. If not for her I would be with God and his angels at this moment…”

“And you repaid her by stealing that which is a woman’s most precious possession. You are beneath contempt!” As he tried desperately to explain to her his love for her daughter, Blythe Bowen steadfastly covered her ears with her hands, blocking out all sound. Thinking that she was doing what was best for Heather, she demanded that he leave the premises immediately.

“Mother. No. Please. I love him,” Heather pleaded, going down on bended knee. She couldn’t let things between them end this way. She might never see him again.

“If he does not leave this instant I will hasten the blue-clothed beadles to arrest him. It is a crime to trespass.” As if making good on her threat, she turned her back upon him and walked to the doorway.

“Arrest him?” Heather’s fear for the man she loved was all-consuming. If he were caught by Northumberland now it would surely mean his life. He had to go away before her mother’s anger brought forth tragedy. It was as if the quiet, demure woman had turned into another person, fighting like a lioness for her cub.

“Heather.” Richard’s voice was hardly more than a whisper.

Touching him gently on the shoulder, she pleaded with him. “Go. I will speak with her, calm her. I could not live with myself if you were to come to harm.”

He started to protest, to tell her again that he would not leave her, but the sound of footsteps, voices sounding closer and closer, changed his mind. Putting his fingers to his lips, throwing Heather a kiss, he started for the door, taking Heather’s heart with him.

Chapter Seventeen

It took longer to calm Blythe Bowen than Heather could have ever imagined. It was as if a demon had been unleashed, yet much as Heather had feared that her mother would relate the story to Thomas Bowen, strangely enough Blythe remained silent about her daughter’s lover. Perhaps, Heather reasoned, it was because he was already openly distraught with worry that the council would decide in favor of Mary. It seemed that when he talked he did so of this subject and nothing else, hardly touching his breakfast, pacing the floor until Heather was certain he would wear it through. All the while he muttered, “I am finished, I am undone!”

Now, standing in the hot midday sun, Heather helped her mother and Tabitha with the laundry, putting the shirts, gowns, tablecloths, and bed linens in the large wooden trough to soak in the mixture of wood ashes and caustic soda. It was the one household chore Heather loathed, for the mixture chapped her hands until they bled and the pounding of the dampened cloth was a tedious chore. Still, she knew that it had to be done.

All the while they worked, Tabitha chattered on merrily, unaware of the morning’s trauma, while Heather and her mother remained silent, each in a world of her own.

“Where is Richard now?” Heather whispered to herself, closing her eyes briefly to envision his face. Was he even now riding north to join Mary? Was he safe? Her mind was filled with unanswered questions, worry, and turmoil. Lifting up one of the wooden buckets, she walked to the well as if in a daze, remembering Richard’s touch, his kiss. What would have happened if her mother had not come upon the scene?

“Poor Mother,” she sighed, remembering the expression etched upon the poor woman’s face at viewing her daughter entwined with her lover’s body. Heather looked at her mother, bending over the trough, pounding one of the linens with a fury as if envisioning it to be Richard Morgan himself. Heather had to convince her of his gentleness, his kindness. She could not have the two people she loved most in the world so at odds.

Drawing water from the well, filling the bucket, Heather reached in her hands, splashing some of the cool water on her sun-parched face, fearful of a sunburn. It felt refreshing, soothing her skin as if by magic.

As it to atone for his part in her troubles, Saffron perched gracefully atop the stones of the well, purring contentedly, then quenching his thirst with the water in the bucket.

“Ah, Saffron! It is easy for you to be content, but my whole world has come tumbling about me.”

The cat’s green eyes stared into hers, blinking his “cat kiss” in her direction. Had she not known better she would have sworn he was trying to answer her.

“If only that dog had not chased you, if only you had not run to the loft to seek your safety with Mother close behind. But then, it does no good to lament.”

Sighing, she returned to the laundry, emptying the dirty water, pouring fresh rinse water upon the cloth within the trough, then putting the cloth to dry in the sun.

Blythe was now at work upon the furs and woolens, beating, shaking, and scrutinizing them with her keen eyes. The furs which had hardened from the dampness of the rains were sprinkled with wine and flour, then allowed to dry, rubbed back to their original softness. Those which needed a more thorough cleaning would be cleaned with a special fluid made of wine, lye, fuller’s earth, and verjuice, made from the juice of green grapes. As she worked, Blythe Bowen would now and again look askance at her daughter, but as before, spoke not a word.

“What ails your mother?” Tabitha asked at last, noticing the strain and not being able to stand it much longer.

Heather blushed to the roots of her hair. Sh-she…came upon Richard and me…”

Tabitha smiled. “He was kissing you. I knew that he was smitten. But tell me, how would such a thing truly upset your mother? There are few merchants’ daughters who have not disobeyed the rules of conduct to taste of a kiss.”

Only a husband was supposed to kiss a woman; it was an unwritten law, along with many others that bespoke of how a young woman of middle class should act.

“I fear there was more than a kiss1” Heather turned her face away. “I fear you will think me brazen to speak so, but I love him, Tabitha. I felt no shame in what we did.”

Heather wondered why she was baring her soul to this young woman and decided that it was because she knew somehow that Tabitha would understand.

“More than a kiss? Is it possible….?” Her blue eyes widened as the truth dawned upon her. “Oh, no! Mistress Bowen. And to be caught…”

Heather sought to silence the servant girl, whose voice caused Madam Bowen to turn in that direction, but before anyone could say another word, Perriwincle’s shouting drew all ears and eyes.

“’Tis a mutiny, it is. A mutiny,” he shouted, running about on his short, skinny legs, arms waving wildly in the air.

“A what?” Blythe Bowen asked, leaving her woolens and furs to come upon the old man.

“It’s true. A body of ships sent to cut off one of the lines of Mary’s retreat has mutinied in Mary’s favor. Bloody well time, I’d say. And at Bury it’s said the soldiers told Northumberland they will not take one more step against their lawful sovereign.”

“God be praised,” Tabitha breathed, only to put her fingers to her lips as she was given a scowl from Blythe Bowen.

“We must be careful, Tabitha,” Blythe said softly but firmly. “We must not talk freely, even among ourselves. Heaven knows what is going to happen.”

But Heather could not keep silent. She was excited at the news of the success of that mission in which she herself had taken a part. Perhaps now Richard would return to her all the sooner. Perhaps once Northumberland realized how hopeless his cause was he would cease the fighting. Richard would be safe!

“Oh, Perri, how wonderful it is,” she said smiling.

At her enthusiasm the old man continued, “Me friend Egbert has a cousin up Norfolk way. Said that all those who came to uphold Mary’s cause asked no pay. Even brought their own supplies, they did, and offered their personal fortunes to finance the campaign. Rallied to her support, they did, every last man, Egbert said.”

“Hush, Perriwincle,” Blythe Bowen scolded, but Heather could see by the gleam in her mother’s eye that Blythe, too, was in favor of Mary’s cause. She seemed to be smiling, and as she walked back to the laundry her step seemed lighter, as if the worries of the morning had faded from her mind.

Perriwincle took Heather aside. It was as if they shared a special secret. “Egbert says that Mary has already been proclaimed Queen of Norwich and has set up her standard at Framlingham Castle.”

“Northumberland has lost.”

“Aye. ‘Tis only a matter of time. Serves him right, it does. He is a cruel and wicked man. He burned and pillaged as he went and met with nothing but opposition at every turn. The people know their rightful queen, I say.”

Nor was it only the North that was faithful to Mary. London was in a furious turmoil, with the bells pealing for Queen Jane one moment, then Queen Mary the next.

“Where will it all end?” Thomas Bowen asked woefully that evening at diner. “What is the world coming to? Queen Jane has the favor of the bishops of London. Who can argue that? Who can say that Northumberland has not been an able administrator? Who?” He was met by silence.

When at long last the hectic day was over, a day which had brought anger, excitement, love and triumph, after the household was abed, Blythe at last sought out her daughter. Opening the door of Heather’s room, she came swiftly to her daughter’s side, joining her as she looked out the window.

“Do you hope to see him, this young man of yours?” she asked softly.

“Yes,” Heather answered, turning slowly to face her mother, searching the woman’s face for the love she had once seen there. Did her mother still love her?

“Oh, Heather, what can I do to save you? How can I bear it if you suffer all the pain I had to bear?” Taking her daughter in her arms, she stroked her hair gently, remembering all the times she had comforted her like this, remembering the baby, the child, the young girl, now the woman. She wanted so much for this child. The world. There as so much she had to make up for. Was it too much to ask God that all the heartache that she had borne would be spared this beloved child?

“I love him, Mother. I do not need to be saved from anything save the loneliness I suffer when he is not with me. He does not bring me pain, only joy.” They held each other tight, mother and daughter, at last walking over toward the bed to sit upon it side by side.

“Do you want to tell me about him? How did you meet? What is his name?” Blythe whispered. If Heather loved him so much, then she would try to find it in her heart to feel the same about this man.

Heather smiled. “Where can I begin? His name is Richard Morgan. The night that you and Father were at his sister’s I found him hiding in the storerooms, running from Northumberland’s wrath, and then again on the streets of London. He had been wounded. Again, by Northumberland’s treachery.” The story poured forth and the two women talked long into the night.

As Heather talked, her mother envisioned Rodrigo de Vega whispering beautiful words and promises. She had been just about Heather’s age, filled with the beauty of love and the dreams of the young.

“Do you love Father?” Heather asked suddenly. Somehow the look on her mother’s face made her wonder.

“Love? What is love? He has been kind to me. He has taken care of me and of you.” She wanted to tell Heather so many things, but now was not the time.

“But there is so much more, Mother,” Heather whispered.

Her answer was a sad smile. “I know. I know. I too once had the notion that life is a fairy tale with happy endings.” She walked toward the door as if the thought of opening her heart any further was just too painful.

“Will you tell Father?” Heather asked.

“No. I will keep your secret.” Heather watched as her mother left the room.  She did not hear her whisper, “And mine as well.”

Chapter Eighteen

It was a devilishly hot July night, a night filled with riotous shouting and laughter as bonfires blazed far and wide. Even at this late hour the people of London were celebrating with wild rejoicing as bells chimed throughout the city.

“Long live Queen Mary! God bless our good queen. Long may she reign.”

Heather leaned out from her bedroom window, much too excited by the day’s events to sleep. How could one slumber after the events that had occurred this day? Mary Tudor had been proclaimed queen in London, casting aside once and for all the pretender Lady Jane Grey and her father-in-law, Northumberland.