Linda Barlow (75 page)

"I have no such intention," Alexandra said in perfect honesty. There wasn't going to
be
an execution.

"Daughter, I have spoken with your husband. I have promised him that you would not be in London to witness his death. 'Tis the least I can do for him. So get your things together. You are coming with me now."

Sweet heavens, this was Roger's doing. Her father was looking determined; it would not be easy to be rid of him. And yet, she must.

But before she could say more, there was another commotion at the front entrance, and Alan entered with Richard Bennett, the mariner-adventurer whom they had met at Roger's house last summer. He was a close friend of Roger's who had offered to help in any way he could. Alexandra had taken him up on his offer; it was his ship, waiting in the river, that she and Francis intended to utilize for Roger's escape.

"Here we are, Alix. Are you ready? Francis will be below by now, waiting in the cellars—" Alan cut himself off when he saw her father.

Sir Charles Douglas looked with narrowed eyes from his daughter to the two men, who were dressed in dark clothes for concealment and armed to the teeth. "What the bloody hell is going on here?"

Alan flushed and began to stammer a reply, but he was interrupted by Richard Bennett, a dark and handsome man with quick wits and a smooth tongue: "We've come to abduct the lady and make merry with her. To force her to forget her troubles. Indeed," he added, winking an extraordinarily blue eye at Alexandra's father, "we mean to get her so blind drunk that she will sleep around the clock tomorrow." He slipped an arm around Alexandra's waist and pulled her to his side. "Come, lovely lady, and we will sing and dance before we mourn."

Douglas blocked his path to the door. "D'you take me for a fool, man?" His tone was low and dangerous. "You're up to some scheme, the three of you. Suppose I were to call in a troop of the queen's guards to accompany you on your night of revels?"

Alexandra freed herself from Bennett's arms and stood stubbornly facing her father. Her voice was as hard as his as she said, "You have done enough to destroy my happiness. This time you will not interfere. Do you hear me? You will leave my house, return to your own, and
tell no one."

"Are you mad, lassie? You are six months gone with child."

"Yes, and I would have more children! And a husband to father them."

"You cannot extract your husband from the Tower of London. You will be arrested and condemned to die yourself."

"Nevertheless, I am going to try." She reached under her cloak and drew her dagger from her girdle. She held it poised and ready, her will as firm as that of any warrior. "If you attempt to stop me, I will kill you."

Douglas cursed, but made no move toward her. For several seconds there was utter silence in the room. Alan and Richard Bennett closed around Alexandra; their hands hovered near the hilts of their swords. Alexandra was rigid, her green eyes hard and implacable. "I mean it, Father."

The tension broke as Douglas unexpectedly flashed a smile. "God's blood! No wonder that young devil loves you. You're a rare fine woman, daughter, and that's the truth." He sighed. "The queen is nearly finished, you know. We've just had word that the French have taken Calais. Rarely has the new year been rung in with so disastrous a loss. The war will end in ignominy for England and her queen, who is sick at heart and weak of body. She will be dead, I doubt not, before many months have passed; those who have supported her policies will fall."

"And you do not intend to be one of them?"

"The Lady Elizabeth, I am told, has expressed secret admiration for your husband’s efforts on behalf of the Protestant refugees. If we could keep him alive until she takes the throne, I believe she could be convinced to grant him a full pardon."

Alexandra hardly dared to breathe. "If
we
could keep him alive?"

Sir Charles laughed heartily. "Aye. I've decided to help you, daughter. Your rogue of a husband has won me over at last. Tell me what I can do."

Alexandra sheathed her dagger and flung herself into her father's arms.

* * *

A little over an hour later, Alexandra stood with her head bowed in the executioner's gloomy chamber as he opened the coffer she had wordlessly presented to him. A wild profusion of burnished red hair greeted him. Alexandra had cut it off herself, braided it together at one end, and laid it in the chest. But now as Simon lifted her hair from the coffer, stroking one coarse finger over the bright, luxurious waves, she felt herself tremble with rage. 'Twas a rape of sorts, and she hated him for it.

"Very good, my lady," he said as he weighed the thick hair in his hands. "'Tis full four feet long and will fetch a high price. My wife will be pleased."

"No doubt," she said dryly.

He laid the hair aside and examined the rest of the contents of the coffer, which consisted of gold coins adding up to even more than the amount she had promised. "Excellent," he said, allowing a few pieces of gold to trickle through his fingers. "You have done well." Smiling, he turned to look at her. "Now there is but one part of our bargain left to fulfill."

She shuddered, but took care not to betray her revulsion. "Shall we get on with it, then?"

"Aye." He ran his tongue over his lips in lustful anticipation. "Remove your cloak, please. I wish to see how you look now that your crowning glory is gone."

Alexandra threw back her hood, revealing her shorn head. It felt strangely light without the weight of her hair, which was now cropped just below her ears. It curled up gently, looking even shorter than it was. She would have resembled a boy, had it not been for her full belly.

Simon walked around her once, examining her as if she were a horse he was considering buying. She flushed in misery, wondering how much of this she would have to endure. Where was Francis? "You must distract the fellow," he had told her. "There must be no opportunity for him to give the alarm."

"Now your gown," said the executioner, his voice harsh and husky. "Are your breasts as soft and white as your shoulders, mistress?" He stepped close to her and tore at her laces himself when her own fingers stumbled over the unwelcome task. He shoved one hand in against her bare skin and squeezed her breast, making her gasp. "Ah, your pregnancy makes them tender, does it? What a pity." He squeezed again and Alexandra realized sickly that he was the sort of man who found pleasure in hurting women as he took them. What other sort, indeed, could she have expected to ply such a trade as his? Sweet God! She knew a sudden fear for the babe in her belly as Simon pushed her down roughly across the bed.
Francis, please!

She felt him climbing on top of her, dragging her skirts up, his harsh, bad-smelling breath hot on her face. When she squirmed, he slapped her. "Hold still, wench. Fine lady you may be, but between your legs you're a whore like any other." He was tearing at his clothes, so crazed with lust that he neither heard nor saw the dark shadow that crept up behind him. But Alexandra did. She saw both the shadow and the glint of steel. She averted her eyes as Simon bared himself, laughing in his triumph over her. The laugh turned into a strange gurgle in his throat as he collapsed limply upon her, a look of stark amazement on his coarse features.

Francis Lacklin rolled the body to the floor and looked away as Alexandra jerked down her skirts, sat up, and tried to refasten her bodice.

"Are you hurt?"

"No." She forced her voice not to quaver.

"I'm sorry I had to wait so long, but I didn’t want him to raise an outcry."

She nodded, rising quickly to her feet and stepping away from the lump of flesh that was lying there. There was no doubt whatsoever that he was dead. And there was very little blood; he must have been stabbed directly in the heart, stopping it instantly. Francis Lacklin could kill very neatly when he had no qualms to impair him.

"Come quickly. Your hair; don't forget your hair." He helped her into her cloak and pulled the hood tightly over her head. Her thick red locks she clutched to her breasts, hiding both arms under the voluminous folds of the cloak, and followed him out into the dark corridor that led toward Roger’s cell.

* * *

Harry, the kindly warder, suspected nothing as he showed Alexandra and the priest in to see his prisoner. He must have seen Francis recently with the other prisoners, for he did not question his presence. "You'll do more good for the lady than for 'er 'usband, I warrant, Father. That one takes no comfort in religion. 'E'll very likely toss you out afore you get a blessing past your lips."

Roger was stretched out on his stone slab when they paused outside his cell. He sat up slowly as the door swung open, blinking into the light of the warder's torch. He saw Harry and a black-gowned man—oh Christ, not another priest—then a third person, a woman. "Alix?" She ran toward him; he threw out his arms and she flung herself into them. He held her tight, his hands stroking over her sweet body in disbelief. He hadn't thought to see her again. He'd believed her visit of yesterday to have been their final farewell. He pushed the hood back from her face to kiss her and saw in confusion her close-cropped curls. He swore softly. "Your hair, lassie, what have you done to your hair?"

"Nothing," she said, and he caught the warning in her eyes. Behind her the priest closed the cell door with the warder still inside. Harry was smiling benevolently at the embrace of husband and wife when the priest raised his arm and struck him from behind.

"What the—" Roger stared as the priest flung back his hood. "Francis?" he gasped as Harry fell.

"Hello, my friend."

"Body of Christ!"

"I asked you not to kill him." Alexandra knelt beside Harry. "He was kind to me."

"Ssh, calm yourself. He's not dead." Francis bent over and began tearing at the warder's clothes. "He'll have a lump on his head, that is all. Hurry, now. Do as I've instructed you."

"What the bloody hell is going on?"

Francis sent Roger a grin. "What do you imagine, you thickhead? We're saving your miserable life."

"You'll forfeit your own. And hers!" Roger's voice was a whiplash. "Have you lost your wits?"

"My wits are in excellent condition, thank you. Here. Arm yourself." He lifted his priestly robes and tossed Roger a knife and a sword. "As soon as your wife takes off that gown and changes into Harry's clothing, you're going to array yourself like a lady. 'Tis a mercy Alix is so tall. The couple of extra inches you possess won't be noticed in the dark."

"Why, Francis?" Roger asked, even as he took the weapons and jammed them in his belt. "Nothing's changed between us. I would have hanged you, had Douglas' men not arrived so opportunely at Whitcombe in September. You call me friend, but there can be no friendship between us now, not again, not ever."

"Never mind that. We haven't time for such fine distinctions of rhetoric and honor. You can hang me later. Or cross swords with me again, if you dare."

"If I dare? I bested you."

"But could you do so again? Escape, and find out."

There was a pause while Roger stared at his old shipmate, a rapid succession of emotions storming through his brain. Francis here, free, alive. He had thought of him often during the last few months. Never expecting to see the man again, he'd tried to make his peace with Francis, to understand and forgive him. Had he done so? He feared he had not. But perhaps it would be possible now. And so he said slowly, "If I ever cross swords with you again, 'twill be with blunted blades, I think. Once such match with death riding on every thrust is all I care to venture. I doubt I would ever wish to tempt the fates so sorely again."

It was a beginning. Alexandra could almost feel the tentative peace being forged between them—feelings of good fellowship, loyalty, and trust that ran far too deeply between these two men to ever be completely destroyed. She smiled as they spontaneously moved toward each other and clasped hands.

"You and Alix, working together?" Roger said in wonderment.

"And the lion shall lie down with the lamb. Stranger things have happened."

"The question is, which is the lion, and which the lamb?"

"At present, we're both lions," Alexandra said. "Now, hurry up!"

"I've missed you," said Roger to Francis.

"And I you. I would have died in your place. But since they would not allow it, rescuing you seemed the best alternative."

"We might all die."

"So we might. But not at the whim of a vicious executioner."

"No," said Roger, heaving a sigh of relief. He fingered the dagger Francis had given him. He would kill himself rather than die the way the crown had planned.

Quickly Francis explained the plan. They were to walk out coolly past the guards and get to the bank of the river, where Alan and Richard Bennett waited with a boat. Charles Douglas had undertaken to ensure that the queen's guard would be slow to respond should any alarm be raised, and he was, at this moment, engaged in a lively dice game with several of the Tower guards. He had promised to lose enough silver at dice to entice more of the fellows to try their luck against him, or at least to provide an entertaining diversion.

Thus, if their disguises succeeded in getting them past the remaining guards, they should be free and clear. Richard Bennett's ship, waiting nearby in the river, was ready to sail at the turning of the tide, leaving England far behind.