FLAME OF DESIRE (19 page)

She longed to walk in the garden, to touch the petals of the flowers which beckoned her, but her father was eager to go inside, being thirsty from the journey and desirous of a mug of ale.

“Come, come, girl,” he scolded. “Don’t dawdle.” Taking her arm, he led her up to the double door and she felt her knees go weak beneath her, sought to still the trembling of her hands.

The scarlet-liveried yeoman of the guard stepped aside to open the portal and Heather found herself looking into the midst of opulent splendor which even her dreams could not have prepared her for.

“Don’t just stand there with your mouth open, girl,” Thomas Bowen said between clenched teeth. “You will make us out to be country bumpkins. Move.”

Stepping inside the crowded anteroom, she looked about her, careful to keep from “dawdling,” as her father put it. The walls were of dark wood paneling covered with murals and richly worked tapestries. At either end of the room were tall windows draped with lustrous brocade curtains. Raising her eyes to the ceiling, she could see the swirls and ornately carved designs of the pictures painted there. How many months had it taken the artist to work this magic?

Walking into the banqueting hall, she could see the rows and rows of royal portraits which adorned the walls. King Henry VIII, Jane Seymour, the poor ill-fated Edward VI, and the queen herself. Grouped around the fireplace were chairs and stools covered in the finest brocade. A long table of solid mahogany, carved with designs along the edge, spread nearly the entire length of the marble floor, a floor which shone with such a bright polish that she could see her image reflected there.

“As always you are beautiful.” The voice was that of someone she knew all too well. Richard Morgan. Whirling to face him, she was achingly aware of his nearness and fought to maintain her composure.

“Thank you. My father has been most generous in outfitting me,” she managed to say. Looking around for Thomas Bowen, she sought a hasty escape from this man who made her feel weak with longing. Her father was not to offer her refuge; instead he had quickly found his longed-for refreshment and was now drinking his fill.

“Your father has richly attired you, but even dressed in a flour sack you would far outshine the other women here. I have missed you.” There was something in his voice which deeply touched her, a sadness, a longing.

“Richard….” He took her arm, sending forth a spark at his touch which she remembered so well. It made her forget all else but the compelling need to be in his arms again. They walked farther into the hall, seeking a corner of the room for a small bit of privacy.

“Why wouldn’t you see me? I waited by your front door every morning, wishing, praying, that you would but give me one smile. Were you trying to break my heart or your own?” His dark-fringed blue eyes shone with a fire which was a mixture of annoyance and desire.

“I couldn’t….” She looked away from him, not wishing to lay bare her very soul to him. How could she tell him of all those nights she had lain awake imagining him in the arms of his dark-haired wife, giving another woman the ecstasy of his love?

Richard’s pulse beat in his temples at her nearness, remembering the sight of her lying naked in his arms. His body remembered the heat and warmth of her, the softness. He wanted to tell her again that he loved her, but said only, “At least here you will not be able to run from me.” His voice was defiant.

Heather’s heart ached with a mixture of love and anger. “You had the queen send for me. It was you!”

“Aye, it was me. There is much I have to say to you, and this time you will listen.”

They were interrupted by a tall, graceful young man with the straight nose, blond hair, and classically handsome features which marked him one of the Plantagenet family. Edward Courtenay. “Who is this lovely creature, Richard? I don’t believe I have met her.”

Richard’s blood boiled with anger and jealousy. Courtenay was a known womanizer, a worthless rake who, though seeking the hand of the queen, did not think it amiss to chase after every lovely woman he set eyes upon. Heather would not fall prey to him, not while Richard breathed the air of life.

“She has already been claimed.”

The angelically handsome man cocked an eyebrow at him. “You? Why, my dear sir, I thought I had heard that you were married to Sir Renfred’s daughter. Don’t you think you are being a bit greedy?”

“And aren’t you being a bit too persistent for one who is seeking the queen’s hand?” Richard retorted, glaring at his would-be rival in agitation. They stood nose to nose like two roosters at a cockfight as Heather broke free of the two men, leaving them alone to argue over her. She sought out her father, who was busily engaged in conversation with a velvet-clad-noble. She heard the man grumble that it was not as it had been in Northumberland’s rule. “No more games of chance. Flirtations are frowned upon, talk of politics forbidden. This queen is a pious one and as such she expects those about her to be pious also,” the man said, looking at Heather as if to give her proper warning.

“My daughter will be a pillar of piety,” Thomas Bowen answered, giving Heather a look which told her he expected her to be just that. Beckoning to Perriwincle, who had driven the wagon filled with Heather’s belongings and who had only now arrived, he seemed content.

Perriwincle looked a sight in his hose and doublet and trunk hose. More comfortable by far in his dun-colored tunic and breeches, he grinned sheepishly at Heather. Thomas Bowen had been of a mind to make a good impression upon the court, even to the humiliation of his stable hand, who looked like jester in his brightly hued garments.

“I feel like a bloody fool,” he whispered to Heather, causing her to giggle. Handing over her trunks to one of the servants of the household, he held out his large callused hand to her, grasping hers in a tight embrace. “Take care of yourself, Mistress Heather. You deserve every happiness.” His eyes traveled to where Richard Morgan stood.

Heather’s eyes misted with tears. “I’ll miss you, Perri,” she whispered. “I will miss you most of all.” She watched as the old man left, following her father. She was all alone, alone with people she did not even know. Except for Richard. And yet she suddenly wondered if she really knew him at all. She had the feeling that there was another side to this man she had come to love, an unknown side. How long could she fight the feelings that she had for him? Certainly she was no match for him. Looking about her, at the surroundings of his life-style, she felt suddenly lost.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Standing before the large circular mirror, Heather studied herself, wanting desperately to please the queen. She fretted over her appearance, fearing that the gowns that had been designed for her were too gaudy. The queen was said to prefer more somber colors, yet everything that Heather had brought with her was colorful and low of décolletage. The gown she wore now was perhaps the most demure of the dresses. Of gold and pink shot silk it was square cut in the neck, affording more expanse of neck and shoulders than Heather would have liked. The bodice was open an inch or two at the bust, ornamented in coral-red embroidered silk, the sleeves puffed and petal-shaped with hand ruffs. Pearls were sewn the length of the sleeves and around the hem of the gown. Thomas Bowen had spared no expense, as if making up for the years of pinching his pennies. A Spanish farthingale cinched in Heather’s already small waist and caused the skirt to flare out from the hips like a bell. An overskirt of the same coral-red silk dipped all the way to the ground, slashed in front to show the skirt of the inner garment. A French hood of gold, decorated with pearls, adorned her head.

After Perriwincle and her father left, Heather had been shown to her bedchamber, a large room on the second floor hung with tapestries and murals much the same as were in the hall below, and it was here that she had changed from her traveling clothes to the dress she now wore.

“I wish I were at home with Mother, Tabitha, Perri, and Father,” she whispered to the image in the mirror. She felt out of place, even in this room which was to be hers. It was a mammoth room compared to the one at home, with a large bed in the corner, curtained, with linen hangings that could be pulled back in daytime and closed at night for privacy and protection from drafts. Seeing the small carpet reminded Heather of how much her mother had wanted one for the solar at home. With the money her father had spent on her gowns, he could have bought her mother a dozen rugs, but she knew that her mother did not begrudge her, for Blythe Bowen had hovered over her daughter, seeing to every little detail of the dresses, smiling with pride that her daughter would live at court.

The one thing about the bedchamber Heather had loved at first sight was the large curtained window. It offered her a delightful view of the garden, which she now looked upon, wishing at the moment that she were among its flowers.

“Shame, shame, shame. Mustn’t keep the queen waiting.” The voice startled Heather. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. Being held in the Tower for so many years took a toll on my manners. Let me apologize.” The tall blond-haired man bowed.

“Edward Courtenay!”

“At your service.” He smiled. “You have no idea what a stiff bribe I had to pay to learn exactly where your bedchamber is. But let us hurry. The queen would certainly frown to learn that I had been so bold.” His manner was so friendly that Heather felt relaxed and suddenly at ease.

“The queen, what is she like?” she asked him as they descended the wide stairs.

“A bit of a bore, if you ask me. I must prefer her younger sister.” As they entered the hall, he became suddenly silent.

The room was bathed in firelight and candle glow, which cast large shadows of those assembled upon the wall. Strolling musicians idled about with lute and harp in hand, singing slow, stately songs. There were dozens of servants in attendance, cup bearers, bread carvers, and the like. The aroma of roasting meat permeated the air and Heather realized just how famished she was. She started to follow Edward Courtenay to the long center table, but a short stout page detained her.

“The queen would like to see you,” he said, leading her to another, smaller room where a woman in gold brocade and black velvet awaited.

Heather curtsied, bowing her head.

“Rise, my dear. I would look at you,” a low voice said. “So you are the one who marched right into the Tower with my letter in hand. I would have thought you to be taller.”

Looking into the face of the queen, Heather was surprised to see the lines there. Tiny wrinkles at the eyes and upon the forehead made the queen look older than her years. Her reddish hair was streaked with gray and she was thinner than Heather had imagined her to be, giving her a rather frail appearance.

“I did what had to be done, your Majesty,” Heather replied.

The queen stared at Heather, squinting in the light, and Heather realized that the woman’s eyesight was poor. “Ah, but you are pretty. No wonder my dear friend Richard appears to be so smitten. I hope that you are virtuous as well.” The words seemed to have a hidden meaning, a warning, and Heather thought the queen might be reminding her in gentle tones that Richard Morgan was married. Blushing, trying hard to forget the night spent in Richard’s arms, Heather nodded.

“Good. Good. My household will be a strict one. We will arise early to attend Mass in the chapel, then we will have our breakfast. You will help me to dress and go about a few routine tasks.” She stood up, looking at Heather out of the corner of her eye. “Can you read?”

“Yes, your Majesty. Both English and Spanish.”

The queen seemed delighted. “Then you will read to me. That will be your most important duty. Do not tell anyone, but I can read only if the page is held very close. It is a cause of embarrassment to me, but you will aid me, will you not?”

“Yes, your Majesty.” The queen smiled at her answer. She seemed to like Heather.

Gesturing to the page, the queen demanded her “special treat,” which was brought before her on a silver tray. “Try some,” she said to Heather, taking several herself. “It is cherries dipped in wine. When I was a child I always delighted in them. My father always spoiled me. He loved me then.” Her voice was low and tinged with sadness as she remembered another time.

Tasting one of the cherries, Heather found them to be delicious and reached for another one. There was something about the queen which touched her heart, the need to love and be loved, a loneliness which even a crown could not soothe. Even after the queen had dismissed her to take her place at the table, Heather was haunted by the sadness in Mary’s eyes. Did she long for a man to love? Did she ache for the arms of a husband to hold her? Rich or poor, peasant or king, surely all people hungered for the same things. Were they really so different, then?

“Ah, there you are. I was watching for you. I was afraid she might have had you clapped in irons for jealousy of your beauty.” Edward Courtenay took a seat next to Heather.

“She was very kind.” Sensing that someone was watching her, she looked toward the head of the table to see Richard’s eyes smoldering as he looked in her direction. Her heart began hammering painfully in her breast, and she could not say another word, could only stare at him mutely as he regarded her with his blazing eyes.

Looking at her, Richard was starved for more than food. She was beautiful in the candlelight, flawless and glowing, her red hair shining fire. The outline of her breasts, where the silk clung to her body, made him long to reach out and touch her soft beauty. Hers were the only arms he wanted around him, hers the only mouth he wanted to kiss. She was the only woman he would ever really love, and if not for his mother’s treachery he could have claimed her as his bride.

“Damn!” he said beneath his breath, only to find the queen looking at him with a scathing expression. Quickly he turned away, but not before he noticed Edward Courtenay by her side. Impotent fury filled him, jealousy. The man had no right. But he was free. Free.
While I am tied,
he thought, wondering at the wisdom of bringing Heather to court. Had he been a fool to do so? He was frantic, could hardly eat a bite. He had to make her listen to him, to love him again.