Mariana (30 page)

We were nearing the bend in the path where it rounded the churchyard. Beyond the church loomed the stone gates of Crofton Hall, but before I could take another step toward them I was suddenly seized by the shoulders and hauled unceremoniously into the cover of the trees. There, in the cool green shadows, Geoff took my face in his hands and kissed me, and his kiss was almost rough in its urgency.

'What was that in aid of?' I asked him, when I could finally breathe again.

'I'm not sure. Maybe I just wanted to make certain you were paying attention.'

'I'm paying attention.'

He smiled, and kissed me again, more gently this time, then lifted his head and reached to tame a wayward curl by my cheekbone. 'Will you miss me, while I'm in France?'

'Of course I will.'
'I wonder.' The smile disappeared, and his face grew very serious in the dancing shadows of the leaves.

I stared up at him. 'What's that supposed to mean?"

'Who do you see, when you look at me?’ he asked. 'Geoff? Or Richard?'

It should have been easy to give him an answer, but I couldn't. I couldn't say anything, I just went on looking at him, trapped by the dark intensity of his eyes. He stopped toying with my hair, brushing my chin with one finger before dropping his hand from my face altogether.

'Which one of us is it, Julia?' he asked, softly. 'You'd do well to think on that, while I'm gone.'

Thirty

September was a gray and lonely month, soggy with rain and tediously uneventful. The rose garden at the Hall never really reached its full glory, blighted petals hanging limply above blackened vines and leaves spotted with the damp. In my own little dovecote garden, a scattering of wine-red anemones made a brave showing against a sea of Michaelmas daisies, but the rains soon finished them, too. There was little colour anywhere, only a drowned and tired green and the dull dun-gray of sky and stone.

The bright postcards Geoff sent from the south of France were a welcome bit of cheer, and I propped them in a row along my window ledge so I could look at them while I worked on my illustrations. I was in another of my antisocial moods, but nobody seemed to mind.

Iain was kept busy harvesting his apples for shipment to some cider maker in Somerset. From time to time I noticed a neatly cleared patch in the garden and knew that he had been there, but I never saw him. He must have worked in the dark. Vivien rang me occasionally to chat, and Mrs. Hutherson dropped in one morning to check up on me, but
most days I was able to bury myself in my work without interruption.

After three weeks, I was no closer to answering Geoff's question whether I cared more for him or for Richard—I found myself missing both of them. Mariana's days were as dreary as my own, and since I took care to confine my flashbacks to my own house, Richard de Mornay did not enter into them. I was tempted to experiment a second time in the manor house, but for some reason I hung back, perhaps because some inner instinct kept telling me that it wasn't necessary.
Whatever is going to happen,
the niggling voice said,
it will begin at Greywethers.
And so I waited.

The twenty-third of September began much as any other -Saturday. I woke early, to the sound of the ever-present rain gurgling down my gutters. It seemed almost overkill to run the bath as well, with all that water outside, but I bathed nonetheless and went downstairs to breakfast.

The morning post brought another card from Geoff, a spectacular snowy view of the Pyrenees, with a caption that said simply: 'Basque Country.'
Am bored with the beaches,
his message read,
and so off to Mother and Pamplona for a few days. Might even try to find Roncesvalles, where good old Roland of the 'Chanson' died trying to capture Navarre for Charlemagne. My history tutor would be proud. Love, Geoff.

Navarre ...

An image rose unbidden to my mind, of the great gray horse with the gentle liquid eyes, and of his darkly handsome rider. I touched the postcard with wistful fingers and set it aside to be placed with the others later, cheering myself with the thought that I could use that view of the snowcapped mountains for my next illustration of a Swiss folktale.

My immediate plan for the morning, however, was to clean out the dining room. I hadn't actually used it since I'd moved in, and it had become a handy dumping ground for unpacked boxes, furnishings that hadn't yet been assigned to
a room, and reams of papers that I fully intended to sort through 'later.' Really, the only time I opened the dining-room door was when I wanted to toss something else into storage. Working on my mother's principle that a tidy house begets an ordered life, I descended on the room with determination.

The dizziness came on just before lunchtime. At first I thought it might be simple lack of food, but then the clamorous ringing started in my ears, and my hands began to blur before my face. The ringing rose, and swelled, and stopped, as if a door had shut upon it.

I lifted a hand to my forehead, pushed the hair away from my heated face, and went on polishing the floor, my legs tangling in the rough fustian skirts as I slid across the thick oak boards. As I drew near the door to the parlor, the sound of a stranger's voice from within stilled my hand and brought my head up sharply.

'It is to be tonight, then,' the voice said.

'Ay.' The second voice was my uncle's. They were standing not an arm's length from me, so near that their shadows blocked the light beneath the door. I held my breath, not daring to move, and was relieved when my uncle continued speaking.

'He will remove this night to Oxford. One of our number rides with him, in confidence, and will find cause to delay the party at the place of our choosing."

'How many will they be?'

'Himself, and but four others, including our confederate.'

'And we are seven.'

'Ay. We are not likely to fail.' I recognized the tone of my uncle's voice, and shrank from it. The two men moved -a step away from the door, but still their voices carried clearly.

'What news from Holland?' the stranger asked.

'Richard Cromwell rejects our plan, but methinks 'tis
only caution on his part. When he finds the way clear for his return, he'll judge our cause more fair.'

'I've heard he is grown weak, and shiftless.'

My uncle made an impatient sound. 'A weak protector is yet worth more than a hundred kings, who whore and play at cards and take the name of God in vain. No,' he said, 'the people of Sodom must tremble, for the day of the Lord Cometh.' He paused, and his voice when he next spoke held a faint smile. 'My niece is wondrous versed in the Bible, did I tell you?'

'You did. Mayhap you should offer her to poor Elias, as recompense.'

'I would it were possible. He would have been her father, had not my sister stole away, and Rachel now has shamed the both of us, and damned her own soul forever. Elias is a man much wronged, and will not claim a wife of me again, I think.'

'He knows the meeting place tonight?'

'Elias? Ay, he knows it well, and carries a sword well for his years. Get you the others in readiness, and gather at the crossroads in three hours' time.'

'I will pray for our success,' the stranger offered, but my uncle brushed the offer aside.

'There is no need. The Lord has already declared Himself for us by delivering the Devil into our hands, and come tomorrow we shall all toast the restoration of the Commonwealth.'

They moved away from the door then and I shrank back against the table leg, my blood chilling, the forgotten polishing cloth clutched tightly in my trembling hand. This was no dream, I told myself, nor yet some idle fancy of my own imagination. They meant to kill the king. They actually meant to kill the king, and put another Cromwell in his place. It seemed incredible, and yet ...

I touched my cheek with searching fingers, and felt the faint tenderness of bruises still remaining.

My uncle was capable of killing.
9.
I must warn the king, I thought ... then realized the foolishness of that thought. I, warn the king? Not only foolish, but impossible. Yet a warning was called for. Richard, I decided. I would tell Richard, and he would find some way to send word to the king. I rose to my feet and was halfway to the kitchen door when a clattering of dishes reminded me that Caroline still stood between me and the back door. My uncle and his visitor were no longer in the parlor, but I could hear the echo of their voices from the front hall. There was no escape to be had there, either.

Panicked, I turned, and my desperate gaze fell upon the windows looking over the garden. One of the windows stood open a crack, and by applying my weight to it I managed to inch it upward by degrees, silently, until the opening was wide enough for me to slip my body over the sill. I dropped carefully to the soft ground beneath and pulled the window sash down again behind me, lest someone look into the room while I was gone. With luck, I told myself, no one would notice my absence. It had been a bitterly quiet household since Rachel's leaving of it, and my aunt and uncle paid me little heed.

I prayed fervently that they would not think to seek me now, as I inched my way around to the blind south wall of the house and ran lightly through the long grass to the hollow, where I lost myself in the welcome cover of the forest. I ran blindly, as a frighted hare runs, mindless of my bare feet and rough clothing. I did not stop running until I was brought up short against the great oak door of Crofton Hall, and raising my fist I pounded upon it with all my remaining strength.

The door swung inward, revealing Richard's steward. The merest flicker of his eyes betrayed his surprise at seeing me, although he kept his expression carefully schooled.

'I must speak with my lord de Mornay,' I begged, nearly breathless. ' 'Tis a matter of great urgency.'

The steward nodded politely and stepped aside to let me
pass. 'His lordship is in the Little Parlor, Mistress Farr. I believe you know the way.'

'Yes.' I smiled gratefully. 'Thank you.'

Richard was seated alone at his desk by the window, frowning over the papers spread before him. He turned his head as I entered, and lacking his steward's calm reserve he showed his surprise plainly. 'Mariana! How came you here?' His first reaction was one of pleasure that I should so visit him, but as his eyes roved my wild face and coarse, disheveled clothing, his smile vanished. 'What is it? What has happened?'

'Treason, Richard.' I took a stumbling step toward him, swaying a little on my unsteady legs. 'They mean to kill the king. I heard them talking....'

'Heard who talking? Your uncle?' I nodded, and Richard's features hardened. 'To whom did he speak?'

I shook my head. 'I know not. I could not see them, and the voice was unfamiliar. But they number seven, all in all, and Elias Webb is one of them. They mean to kill the king, and restore Richard Cromwell.'

'Richard Cromwell wants no part of politics.'

'They think to change his mind.' I took another step forward, but my legs were shaking too badly and they nearly collapsed beneath me. Before I could move again, Richard was there beside me, his warmth and strength reassuring as he led me to a deeply cushioned chair by the window and settled me in comfort there.

I tried to smile at him, ashamed of my weakness, but he was not paying attention. His eyes were locked in anger on the curve of my cheek, where the sunlight warmed my skin through the open window, and he raised an oddly gentle hand to touch the faint marks. 'Who has done this?'

'Richard,' I said, refusing to be drawn out, 'you must warn the king. He is in mortal danger, and one of his own guards is in league with the traitors.'

His hand fell from my face, and the forest-green eyes slid to meet mine. 'When do they plan to set upon him?'
'Tonight. They said the king will travel from Salisbury to Oxford tonight, with only four guards to accompany him, and one of them a false fiend who would lead him to his death.'

'Christ.' Richard brushed a hand across his eyes, looking away from me to where the rolling hills stretched peacefully toward the south.

I watched his face. 'You will warn him?'

'Ay, I will do my best to reach him,
count on
that. The blood of a murdered king has stained this country once, and I will not live to see it happen a second time. Besides,' he added with a tight smile, 'Charles Stuart is a kind man, and a generous one, and I would not wish his death.'

'Then you must take horse,' I urged him. 'My uncle will meet his companions in but a few hours, and then I know not where they go.'

'I would have you wait here, for my return,' he said firmly. 'My servants will take care of you.'

Again I shook my head. 'Richard, I cannot. If I am discovered missing, 'twill only warn my uncle and set him on his guard. And I cannot leave Caroline and the baby alone in that house. He is much worse since Rachel left—I know not what harm he might do them. I must go back.'

'I will see you free of Jabez Howard before this week is out,' he told me, touching my cheek again with that disturbingly gentle touch. 'Do not smile at me, so—I mean to do it, and I shall. Or do you find the prospect of marrying me so amusing?'

The smile died on my lips. "You cannot marry me.'

'Oh, can I not?' He grinned boldly. 'I have a reputation, my love, for doing the impossible. In one week's time I warrant you'll not doubt my word.'

He kissed me then, and offered a hand to help me to my feet. 'Come’ he said, 'I will see you safely home.'

'There is no time,' I protested. 'The king ...'

'... will wait until I see you home,' he finished smoothly, with an insistence that I knew better than to oppose. 'Faith,
your safety is of more concern to me than that of Charles Stuart. His life has hung in the hedge so long a moment more is of no consequence. But we shall ride, if the time worries you. Navarre can
carry the
both
of us.'

It was too brief a contact, I thought later—a short ten minutes cradled in Richard's arms, before him on the saddle, my hands clasping his coat for balance while the hilt of his sword pressed cold against my hip.

'You said you would not ride pillion,' he reminded me, teasing, 'so this will have to do.'

I bit my lip. 'If anyone sees us ..."

'Then we are seen,' he said, bending to brush my hair with a kiss. 'You must learn not to care so what others think.'

But he stopped the horse in the hollow to the south of Greywethers, beneath the spreading shelter of a rustling oak, and helped me to the ground.