FLAME OF DESIRE (43 page)

Richard grimaced, the thought not a pleasant one. “But what if they should decide to take my head anyway? Seton would no doubt love to see me grinning at him from atop a pole on traitor’s gate. If I am in this trance you speak of, what is to keep me from losing my head anyway and not having the strength to defend myself?”

“That, dear brother, is up to me.” Father Stephen ran quickly to the door to peer out. There was no one outside; the occupants who had shared the cell with Richard had already met the hangman, so there was no one to tell the tale. He walked back and sat upon the edge of the cot, whispering in Richard’s ear, “There will be no time for them to do so once you are beyond these walls. I will insist on being left alone with the body, and while we are thus isolated, you will quickly shave off that beard of yours and don my priestly attire. As Father Stephen you will have no trouble escaping. Rafael Mendosa has a ship waiting at the London docks which will take you to Spain.”

Richard bolted up from the bed. “That is the most ridiculous plot I have ever heard of. It will never work. You will get yourself as well as me killed!”

“Shhhh. Richard, keep your voice down.” Father Stephen’s voice was stern and full of authority.

Richard’s voice quieted. “We will be found out.”

“Not if there is a commotion to draw the attention of those who might offer us resistance. When they come back in the room, they will find the coffin weighted with sandbags. Before it is discovered, I will hope to make my own exit. If I am imprisoned, well, that will just have to be. Mary would never execute a priest, particularly one who is on the verge of being named bishop.”

“Bishop!”

“Yes. But come, we have no time for chatter. The guard is coming back. All I can ask of you is that you trust me. God will find a way to save us both, Richard. This I know in my heart.” Bowing his head, he took his leave, whispering, “Take the root tonight when the moon is high in the sky.” Then he was gone.

Richad tightly clutched the rough object in his hand. “The root. The root.” It seemed to echo in his mind, taunting him with death, promising him life. The thought of chewing it was unpleasant, frightening. It was difficult to understand the ways of nature, yet he knew the magic of many herbal remedies.

“What else is left to me?” he whispered to the darkness. There was no chance of Mary changing her mind. At sunrise tomorrow he would face the headsman unless…unless….

As the moon rose overhead to shine brightly down upon the earth, Richard raised the bitter herb to his lips. His last thought were of the woman he loved, with the prayer that they would meet again.

Chapter Sixty-One

At the first rays of day’s dawning the two guards walked down the stone-floored corridor toward the door of the condemned prisoner. They were jovial. There was always a sense of excitement on the day of a beheading. Crowds of people, anxious to view the spectacle, would mill about, there would be drinking, in secret of course, and both guards hoped that when the wine and ale flowed they would have their share. There would be bribes from those anxious to get a closer view, as well as from those members of the victim’s family whose only desire was to make the death as painless as possible.

“I got me a bit of that nightshade just in case the bloke’s loved ones think to spare him some pain,” said one, reaching in his doublet to make certain it was still tucked inside. “Lady Jane Grey refused even a touch of it, brave one she was, but her husband paid me a small fortune so that he could have his share. It’s glad I am that he was not our king.”

The other man grinned. “That rebellion seems certain to fill me pockets. Fifteen hangings in only three days, and seven beheadings. All in all, it has been very rewarding, yes indeed. I only hope that I can profit from this one as well.”

They came to the iron-studded door and brought forth the key. “I’ll lay you odds that this one don’t cry out. He looks to be the sort who will keep silent. A real man, this one is. Too bad. Too bad.”

“Ah, we all got to go sometime. At least it’s the axe and not the hangman’s rope.” He turned the key in the lock, opened the door, and stepped inside.

“Hey, you. Get up. It’s time to meet your maker,” yelled the first guard. He wondered if there were any possessions that this one would leave behind that he could get his hands on quickly. Eyeing the other guard warily, he supposed that the same thing had touched his companion’s mind.

“Oddsbody, I never seen a man sleep so peaceful-like on the day they was to die. Gives me the willies, it does. Usually they are pacing about.” The older guard nudged the shoulder of the sleeping prisoner but he did not move. “Now, you take Anne Boleyn. She must have worn a path from one wall to the next. Hoping against hope that old King Harry would give her a last-minute reprieve. I saw her lose her head, I did. Thought at the time that it was a great waste of beauty.” Again he jostled the prisoner, but again there as no response.

“He ain’t movin’.” Leaning down to put his ear to the man’s heart, he looked at his fellow guard with surprise. “He’s dead.”

“Let me see.” Bending down, the man took Richard’s wrist in his great big hands. “No heartbeat.” Taking a knife out of his belt, he put the blade before Richard’s lips. There was no moisture on it when he drew it away, no sign of breath upon the metal. “I don’t think he’s breathin’.”

“Of course not. I told you he’s dead. This one has cheated the executioner. I would like to see the look on that man Seton’s face when he learns of it. Seems to me he was relishing the sight of seeing this one lose his head. “I’ll lay you two to one that he’ll throw a fine fit, that one.”

The older guard looked frightened. “Hope they don’t lay this one on us. Them nobles are a strange lot.” As if making absolutely certain that the prisoner was dead, he kicked his leg with the toe of his boot. There was no response.

“What are we going to do?” His question was answered by another’s lips. Standing in the doorway to the open cell was a dark-robed priest.

“If he is dead, then I will handle this, my son,” he said.

The older guard shook his head. “This ain’t none of your concern.”

The priest walked into the room. “Ah, but it is. He belongs to God now and not to any earthly master.” He bent over the prisoner. “He is indeed dead.” Bowing his head, he spoke in long flowing Latin verses and intonations, ending with, “
Requiem aeternum dona eis Domine. Et Luceat eum requiescat in pace
.”

The old guard stepped forward. “I’ve got to send for this man Seton right away. He told me to watch over this one to make certain he didn’t get away.” Looking down at the man on the cot, he laughed. “Don’t suppose that be our worry now.” He quickly sobered. “Now we got to think of what’s to be done. It ain’t no fun to kill a dead man. All thems what’s expectin’ to watch the gory sight will be angry.”

The younger guard wrung his hands, obviously agitated and frightened. “They’ll be havin’ our heads, they will.”

“Aye, they’ll be wanting to place the blame on some poor fool or other. But
we
didn’t kill ‘em!”

“It was the other guard’s fault. They were the ones watching ‘im.  We wasn’t even ‘ere last night.”

“Don’t matter. They’ll be wantin’ to find a scapegoat.”

The priest, Father Stephen by name, stepped forward quickly. It appeared that this was going to be much easier than he had ever imagined. Like taking honeyed milk from a babe. “My sons, do not worry. I will aid you in this matter. This Seton that you fear will hear from my lips of your innocence. I will confirm to him that the man died of natural causes and not from foul play. If you will but help me move the body to the chapel….”

“No. It stays here. We are in enough trouble already.” The older guard was steadfast in his duty.

Father Stephen smiled. “My son, let me have the say on what is to be done with this poor soul. Do you deny his soul peace?”

“No. I only seek to assure my own. Never in all my years has a thing like this happened, ‘cept once when a bloke was poisoned.” Sudden fear crept over his face. “Could it be? Who would….”

The priest shook his head. “We may never know, my son. Unless of course there is a full investigation.” He raised an eyebrow at the older guard.

“Ah, Jack, let the father take the bloke. If you ask me, the sooner he’s outta here the better,” exclaimed the younger of the two watchmen, his eyes darting back and forth with anxiety. “Let the priest do the talkin’.  He can take the blame.”  As if to hurry the process along, the guard picked up the prisoner on the cot by his feet. “Help me.”

The one named Jack hesitated for a moment, then with a shrug of his shoulders complied. Carrying the man down the winding stairs with the priest close behind them, they came at last to a small, darkly lit chapel. “Do what needs to be done, father. I wash my hands of this.” Tossing the body none too gently on the floor of the chapel like a sack of wheat, they left the priest alone with his charge.

As soon as the door was shut behind him, Father Stephen acted with the speed of lightning. There was the chance that these two might come back, might change their minds, or that Seton would make an appearance sooner than planned. It had all gone a bit too smoothly. He must not be puffed up with false confidence; his brother’s life hung in the balance and depended upon the decisions he made now.

He tried to rouse Richard but it was no use, it was too soon for him to come out of the drugged state he was in. Father Stephen had thought it would be a much longer time before he could get Richard alone and thus had timed erroneously that moment when the root’s effects would wear off.

“And so I must do all this without your help, dear brother,” he whispered, taking from beneath his own robes some of similar appearance. Stripping off his brother’s doublet, hose, shirt, and boots, he found a hiding place beneath the small altar for the garments, then dressed Richard in the black robes of a priest, tying a hempen girdle about his slim waist.

“If we are caught now it will be both our heads, Richard,” he murmured, glancing uneasily at the door. There was no one beyond it and he prayed that God would be with them now in their hour of need.

There was one other matter that needed to be taken care of, Richard’s beard. It clearly marked him as no priest. “I am no barber, brother, but I will do my best,” Father Stephen mumbled, drawing forth a razor from a purse that hung beneath his habit. Hacking away at the thick coarse hair, he was soon glad that Richard was still in his peaceful trance-like slumber and not subject to the pain his small nicks would surely bring.

At last he stood back to view his handiwork. There would be few who would not swear that lying here was the same priest who had entered only a short while before. But he had to get Richard to awaken. They must get safely out of here before they were caught. Again he tried to rouse his brother, but it was no use. The thought came to him then that he must at least drag Richard to another chamber to hide until they could leave the Tower. So thinking, he cautiously opened the door, but it was too late. Coming down the hallway was the younger of the two guards.

Father Stephen stifled a curse, raising his eyes to the heavens for God’s forgiveness for the oath that nearly passed from his lips. They were trapped. There was nothing that could be done. Unless he thought quickly.

Dragging Richard’s sleeping form behind the altar, he picked up a candlestick and held it behind him just as the door opened.

“Hey, you. Priest,” came the voice. Father Stephen stepped forward to greet him, thankful that the man had come alone.

“What is it, my son?”

“Lord Seton is on his way here at this very moment. Me and my companion, we think perhaps it best if we put that bloke back in the cell where he belongs. He wanted me to tell you to hurry and say your prayers for the man. When he comes back down here, we’ll carry the body back up the stairs.” He looked around him anxiously. “Say, where is he?” He had no chance to ask more questions. With all the strength he could muster, Father Stephen rapped him on the head, rendering him unconscious.

“Forgive me, my son,” he whispered, dropping the candlestick and hurrying back to where he had left Richard. Dragging him down the hallway into the safety of another darkened room, he returned for the guard, putting him in yet another room. It would buy him some time.

“God help us,” the priest prayed, staring down at his brother’s inert form. Their time had nearly run out.

Chapter Sixty-Two

Richard was cold, so cold. He shivered and wondered at the feel of the warm hands that touched him. “Heather?” he croaked, fighting to open his eyes. “Make me warm, Heather.” Twisting his head in a restless struggle, he reached out to the hazy shape beside him. His mouth felt as dry as sand, his head throbbed with pain, every muscle in his body felt stiff and sore. He seemed to hear a voice talking to him, pleading with him, but he could not understand the words, so foggy was his brain.

With terrible slowness he opened his eyes, puzzled by his surroundings. His eyes tried to focus, sweeping painfully about the room, taking in the gloom and darkness. Where was he?

Again the voice, a man’s voice. His eyes turned to the dark shape looming beside him, a black-robed specter, and he shuddered, thinking it to be Death himself come to claim him. “No,” he mumbled. “I’m not ready. Not yet.” He struggled with new energy as that form reached out to touch him. His teeth chattered, and he began to shake violently as if stricken with Saint Vitus’ dance. At last he quieted, reaching up to take hold of his aching head. Had he partaken of too much wine the night before? Was that his trouble? If so, he would never drink of the grape again, this he vowed.

Weakly he tried to rise, feeling that there was somewhere he had to go, something he had to do, but his legs would not support him and he felt the room spin as strong arms steadied him.

“I know that you are weak, Richard,” that same voice was saying. “But you must call upon every reserve of strength that you have to leave this place. Even now Seton is at the gate. Please. We are so close to freedom.”