Twilight of a Queen (18 page)

Jane raced past them, heading for the beach, her heart thundering in her chest. Half-falling, she clambered atop the highest rock she could manage as though she could somehow span the distance of the channel, find England, and see for herself that her homeland was yet safe.

“An armada … the largest flotilla of fighting ships ever seen … to convey horses, arms, … soldiers to English shores.”

Xavier’s words pounded in her head like the relentless tramp of heavy Spanish boots as if soldiers already thundered into tiny villages and hamlets, drowning out the cries of terrified women and children. She could not stop herself from envisioning the peaceful lanes awash in blood, smoke blackening the air from cannon fire and thatch-roofed cottages set ablaze.

Or would the smoke hail from a more sinister source, the crackling faggots piled at the feet of a defiant woman with fiery red hair. Elizabeth …

Jane shuddered and closed her eyes, trying to block out the disturbing image. There had been a time when she had been so angry with Elizabeth Tudor. The queen was no religious zealot. When she had come to the throne, she had promised moderation, only to yield to the pressures of her council and adopt harsher laws against her Roman Catholic subjects.

But Jane’s bitterness against the woman who had signed the order for Jane’s exile was softened by other memories, the younger Elizabeth who had been so kind to two orphaned children, even though their father had been steeped in treason.

Jane recalled how tightly she had clutched her brother’s
hand, two frightened children clinging to each other as they were ushered into the royal presence.

But by the age of twelve, Jane had already known she could no longer afford to be a child. Although she trembled, she tipped up her head, preparing to confront the woman her Catholic relatives branded as a heretic, a she-devil, and a witch.

Elizabeth Tudor was said to be a vain woman, attiring herself in voluminous costly gowns that kept her subjects farther at bay. But that morning, she had been dressed rather simply for a queen. Jane saw not the painted Jezebel of her father’s describing but a tall slender woman with red curly hair and piercing eyes set beneath thin arched brows.

Jane had been instructed in the proper way to curtsy. Instead she had thrust Ned protectively behind her. Determined to know the worst, she had blurted out, “Are you going to imprison us in the Tower and cut off our heads?”

Several of the courtiers present had gasped at her blunt question. The queen’s lips twitched, but she replied gravely, “No, Mistress Jane. I have already been obliged to shed the blood of far too many of my subjects.”

The queen’s voice was far gentler than Jane would have imagined. Ned ventured to peek at Her Majesty from behind Jane’s skirts.

“Then what will you do with us?” Jane asked.

“I intend to place you and your brother in the custody of the Earl and Countess of Shrewsbury. They will act as your guardians until your brother comes of age to inherit his estate.”

“His—his estate? Then you are not taking our lands away?”

“No, Jane. I do not believe in visiting the sins of the father upon innocent children. All I ask is that you and your brother become my true and loyal subjects. Can you do that?”

Jane gazed at the queen she had been raised to believe the devil incarnate, out to destroy the true faith. But all she saw was a woman whose kindness made Jane long to fling herself at the queen’s skirts and burst into tears.

“I—I will try,” she faltered.

“Good, because you are the older sister. Your brother will look to you for guidance, but I believe you are up to the task.”

The queen crooked her fingers beneath Jane’s chin and tipped her head up. “I perceive a great deal of strength in you, child.”

Jane blushed, pleased by the queen’s compliment but confused as well. “My father always told me that strength is not a becoming trait in a woman. Women are meant to be soft and yielding.”

“Only on the outside. Steel sheathed in velvet, that is what a woman must be in order to survive.” The queen’s smile took on a grimmer cast, her expression weary as she added, “And by God, I know something about survival.”

The memory blurred beneath the sparkling waters of the sea. As Jane surfaced back to the present, she touched her fingers to her chin as though she could still feel Elizabeth’s gentle touch.

Jane hoped the queen remembered all she had learned of survival because Elizabeth would need all her strength, all her courage in the days ahead. Jane folded her hands together
but hesitated, wondering if it was wrong to appeal to God to spare the life of a heretic queen.

Instead she dropped to her knees and sought intercession from a gentler, feminine source. Pleading with the blessed Virgin to have mercy upon her queen and her tiny island homeland, Jane prayed as she had never done before.

X
AVIER SHIFTED ON HIS PILLOW, WATCHING AFTERNOON
shadows stretch across the floor. He believed he had known what hell was during those months he had spent chained in a Spanish galleon. But he might have preferred being back at the oars to the humiliation of his present captivity. His good arm useless, his body so weak, he was dependent upon a gaggle of females for his simplest need. He could not even take a piss without help.

But he drew the line when Madame Partierre entered the cottage with a jug of water. The old woman all but smacked her lips when she announced her intention of bathing him.

“The devil you are,” Xavier said. “Where is Jane? I want Jane.”

“Then you should not have distressed her, should you?”

“Where did she go? Is she all right?”

The infuriating old crone refused to answer him. But at least she desisted in her efforts to bathe him. Bearing away his slops, she left Xavier alone to fume and curse his own helplessness.

Madame Bevans, who had looked in upon him earlier, had provided him with a nightshirt belonging to her late husband. The garment was overlarge and would have provided him with ample cover if he rose from his bed and went to search for Jane himself. But he still was unable to take more than a few steps without reeling.

He drummed his fingers against the mattress as he remembered how distraught Jane had looked as she had rushed out. He wondered if he had made her cry. His familiarity with his mother’s hysterics had rendered Xavier immune to a woman’s tears.

But somehow he imagined Jane would weep more quietly and never where anyone could see. The thought bothered him more than he liked to admit.

He blew out a gusty sigh. His father had always deplored Xavier’s lack of finesse with women. Xavier recalled one time in particular when they had made port at a French Huguenot settlement on the coast of Florida. Xavier had wagered one of his shipmates that he could kiss at least twenty girls during his first ten minutes ashore.

He alighted, enthusiastically pouncing on every female he saw, sending one girl shrieking for her maman while another stout wench boxed his ears. But her wrath had been nothing compared to his father, who had hauled Xavier back aboard ship by the scruff of his neck.

“Mon Dieu, Louis! What devil gets into you to behave thus? This is not the action of a gentleman, accosting young ladies, making them the object of a vulgar wager. Women should always be treated with delicate courtesy. They do not like being teased and bedeviled after your ruffian fashion.”

“Don’t they?” Xavier had asked, observing two of the girls he had “accosted” below on the dock, giggling and waving to him. “Then why do they keep coming back for more?”

His father had scowled over a question he was unable to answer and as punishment had set Xavier to swabbing the deck.

As the afternoon waned, Xavier realized Jane was not coming back and he regretted his treatment of her. Not the kiss. He had enjoyed bringing the heat to her cheeks and it had intrigued him to feel a hint of response in those prim but deliciously soft lips. But he was sorry to have occasioned her such alarm with his report about the Spanish armada.

Callous in matters of religion and feeling no loyalty to any nation himself, it had never occurred to Xavier that Jane would be distressed by the notion of England being invaded. Most people would rejoice at the downfall of the queen who had banished them.

He sensed a generosity of spirit in Jane that Xavier would never have thought possible. He didn’t understand it, but he wished Jane would return so he could at least apologize, attempt to make amends.

As time dragged by, his eyelids grew heavier and he
was on the verge of drifting back to sleep when he heard a light footfall in the next room.

“Jane?” he called eagerly, but as he twisted his head, he was disappointed and annoyed to see two small figures poised in the doorway.

A pair of little girls with angelic golden hair and great blue eyes regarded him earnestly, the shorter and younger of the two sucking her thumb and clutching a ragged poppet.

Xavier propped himself up on one elbow. “This is not a menagerie and I am not a bear to be gawked at. Be off with you.”

His bark would have been enough to send any of his crew scuttling topside, but the two sprites appeared undaunted.

“If you are not a bear, why do you growl?” the older one challenged, venturing closer.

“I did not say I wasn’t a bear, only one that didn’t like being stared at. I am in fact a beast and I regularly devour little girls for breakfast.”

The smaller one shrank closer to her sister. The older girl crinkled her pert nose and sniffed. “You would never eat us because you are our uncle.”

“The devil—I mean the blazes I am. Who filled your head with nonsense such as that?”

“My older sister Seraphine. I am Lucia Remy,” the girl jabbed a thumb at her chest, then pointed to the little one. “And this is Ninon.”

Xavier frowned. So whoever these sprites were, they were not Ariane’s daughters. He supposed that it should have occurred to him that his half sisters must be married
by now, even have offspring. But he was uncomfortable enough with the notion of being a brother. The prospect of being claimed as an uncle was downright alarming.

“I don’t know what this Seraphine told you,” he said. “But she is mistaken.”

“Seraphine is never wrong,” Lucia informed him loftily. “Actually she said you are a half uncle.” Lucia cocked her head to one side, studying him with a mighty frown. “So which half of you is missing?”

“My wits, they have gone a-begging.”

His reply surprised a giggle out of Lucia, the sound so infectious, Xavier could not help smiling. He shifted his attention to the younger one, her blue eyes wide above the barrier of her fist.

“What about you, Mistress Ninon? Do you have nothing to say for yourself? Do you even speak?”

“Of course Ninon speaks. When she has something to say.”

“What a wise child. Petite Ninon, you do realize that thumb will eventually come off if you keep sucking it that hard.”

Ninon plopped her thumb out of her mouth long enough to regard him haughtily. “Imbecile.”

Lucia beamed with sisterly pride. “That is Ninon’s new word. She learned it from Madame Partierre.”

“It is a very useful word and you pronounce it beautifully, mademoiselle.”

Ninon’s bow-shaped mouth curved into a wide grin that charmed Xavier in spite of himself. He had almost begun to think that being an uncle might not be so alarming when they were interrupted by someone calling.

“Lucia! Ninon!”

An older girl appeared in the doorway. The aforementioned sister, Seraphine? Xavier wondered. But the girl’s dark appearance provided too stark a contrast to these two golden fairy children. Her next words dispelled any notion that she was related to them.

“You should not be in here,” she told the girls. “Your sister has been very worried, looking everywhere for you. Seraphine is going to be quite cross at you for running off.”

“We didn’t run anywhere,” Lucia said. “We are making the acquaintance of our half an uncle.”

The older girl ignored Xavier, her gaze not so much as flickering in his direction. Planting her hands on her hips, she frowned at the little ones.

“You should not have come without permission. Now get along with you.”

“But Meg-air-ah—” Ninon wailed.

“Shh!” Lucia gave her little sister a poke in the ribs. “She doesn’t like to be called that.”

As the dark-haired girl marched his two protesting nieces toward the door, Xavier’s brow furrowed.

Megaera?
The infamous young sorceress that Queen Catherine had engaged Xavier to find and abduct? The legendary Silver Rose? This thin insignificant chit of a girl? Surely not.

Ignoring his stiffness and aches, Xavier struggled upward in bed, straining for a better glimpse of her as she hustled the two little girls from the room. He expected her to vanish with them.

He was surprised when she returned alone, slowly approaching the bed. Her budding figure hinted at a girl in
her early teens, but she looked small for her age, her slender neck appearing too swan like to support such a mass of dark brown hair. The late afternoon sun painted shadows on a pale face whose features were unremarkable except for her eyes. Xavier had never seen eyes so old and sad in a countenance so young.

“Megaera?” he murmured uncertainly.

“My name is Meg. But
you
may call me Mistress Wolfe.”

Her tone was as hostile as her gaze. Xavier might have found it amusing if something about the girl hadn’t rendered him uneasy.

“Well, Mistress Wolfe. And what have I done to displease you?”

“Nothing. I do not even know you.”

“Then why do you look as though you would like to drive a stake through my heart?”

She forced a rigid smile to her lips. “You are entirely mistaken, monsieur. I bear you no ill will. In fact, I have brought you a gift.”

She produced a small vial filled with some clear liquid. Xavier eyed it warily.

“What the devil is that?”

“A healing elixir that I prepared. I have been studying with the Lady of Faire Isle and have learned much from her.”