Chapter
VIII

Christian de Rivers kept heretics in his cellar.

Nora rested her chin on her fist and pretended to watch the Queen’s gentlemen pensioners play at bowls. While all the ladies cooed over the players, Nora tried to make sense of the previous night’s tempest. Too many things had happened at once, and she was confused.

The discovery that shocked her the most was that the man she had thought a selfish and cruel dissolute was trying to save old men’s lives. The rat man was Tom Birch. She knew because Bishop Bonner had posted his likeness throughout the kingdom, along with that of Archibald Dymoke and John Pecksmith. The three were heretics wanted for composing and distributing treasonous billets calling for the people to depose Mary and put Elizabeth on the throne to save England from popery. If Bonner caught them, all three would be hanged, drawn, and quartered. She would have to write a cipher telling Cecil this news.

Dear God, if Christian was captured with those men, he would be tortured to death, too. She swallowed the bile that rose in her throat as she pictured Christian stripped, hanged, then cut down alive and his bowels sliced out while he still lived. Dear God. Nora pressed her fingertips to her mouth. She couldn’t think about it anymore. She would warn Cecil. Cecil would take care of Christian.

It was too late to stop her revulsion, though. She had thought of the punishment for treason, and images of the gory acts forced themselves upon her. She squeezed her eyes shut. The brightness of the afternoon sun made her see red shadows that reminded her of blood. God’s mercy, what would she do if Christian de Rivers were arrested? If he died, she would never be able to …

What was she thinking? Her eyes popped open, but she didn’t see the bowling green. She saw Christian’s violet eyes, their corners crinkling with mirth. They changed and took on that rabid-wolf look she’d learned meant he wanted to touch her. By God’s mercy, she loved him.

But he didn’t love her. He thought her a lackwitted coward. No stomach, he said. He only tried to seduce her to be perverse. Mayhap he wanted to shock the court by turning her from a sparrow into a swan.

Something tugged at her skirt. It was Arthur. Everyone was standing and applauding the gentlemen pensioners. Nora scrambled to her feet and clapped a few times, then trailed after the Queen’s ladies with Arthur at her side. On the pretense of going to her chamber, she took Arthur and slipped away to hide in a grove of yew trees on the palace grounds. She wanted to compose a cipher about the three heretics, and needed secrecy.

Arthur trotted along beside her carrying a basket of embroidery threads and writing materials. They settled beneath the trees, and she set Arthur to separating threads into colors while she wrote on a small piece of paper. Her latest cipher from Cecil had contained instructions to insert the paper inside a large, hollow silver bead.

“Mistress,” Arthur said, “are you going to marry Sir Percivale Flegge?”

She glanced at Arthur, her spirits dropping even farther at the mention of Flegge. “My father has decided that I will. What’s wrong, chuck? You look unhappy.”

Arthur screwed up his mouth, and his small hands twisted a skein of thread into knots. “Sir Percivale, he doesn’t like me.”

“What did you do, Arthur?”

“Nothing, mistress. An accident it was. When he arrived at the banquet, you know I was helping with the cloaks.” Arthur began kicking at a dead tree branch. “His was too long, and he threw it at me, and it landed on my head. I couldn’t see and I tried to get out of it. It wasn’t my fault,” Arthur cried. “I couldn’t see, and I had to get the cloak off my head, so I shoved it and it came off. Only it landed on Sir Percivale’s legs as he was walking away.”

Arthur jabbed at the branch with his heel and grunted. Nora could see unshed tears in his eyes, but she hesitated to offer comfort. Arthur hated it if he thought she was cosseting him.

“He fell on his face,” Arthur said. “And when he got up, he tried to hit me, but Lord Montfort came between us and said something to Sir Percivale in Latin that made him turn red and make noises like a bubbling stew. Lord Montfort sent me to the kitchens to eat marchpane and told me to stay there until it was time to go.”

“That mean, petty, bullying”—Nora searched her mind for a disgusting epithet—“cankerworm.”

Arthur gawked at her as she thrust the completed cipher in the pocket of her gown and set pen and ink aside. The thought of Flegge hurting Arthur ignited her temper as no injustice to herself could. She jumped to her feet and paced about the grove.

“Disgusting,” she said. “Disgusting habits, disgusting laugh, mean spirit. I don’t care if his family is ancient and his appearance pleasing.” She stopped in front of Arthur, but she wasn’t paying attention to the startled boy. “I don’t want him. I want …” She stumbled over the basket of embroidery threads and kicked it. “Oh, merciful Father in Heaven.” She pressed her palms to her temples and groaned. “It’s impossible, but I want …”

“Want what, mistress?”

She recovered and shook her head. “Nothing. Help me pick up all these threads.”

Kneeling amid the bright strands, Nora tried to hide her agitation from Arthur. The exhilaration of love’s discovery sent shivers through her body. Longing grew until she ached with it. What was she going to do? He’d never love her. He was too beautiful, too blessed with wit and grace, and possessed of more charm than a siren. As changeable as light, as mysterious as the motions of the stars, he was as dangerous to try to capture as a wolf. One might succeed, but was certain to get hurt in the catching.

“Arthur,” Nora said. She studied the boy kneeling amid the crimson, gold, and silver threads. “Arthur, do you like Lord Montfort?”

The page dumped a handful of threads and leaves into the basket. “I didn’t at first, mistress, but after he saved me from Sir Percivale, I changed my mind. And after all, he is part thief, and he promised to show me how to cut a purse from a fat merchant.”

“He did, did he? Well, don’t think I’m going to allow such knavery. I’ll speak to Lord Montfort and make sure he doesn’t show you at all.”

“Mistress!”

“I will allow him to take you to a fencing school, though.”

Arthur’s face transformed into a sunburst. So excited that his body wriggled in several directions at once, he danced circles around Nora all the way back to her room. While Arthur enjoyed the prospect of seeing a fencing master, Nora grew more and more apprehensive.

How was she going to avoid marrying Percivale Flegge? She was so ashamed of her failure to defy her father. After all Christian’s efforts to help her, when Father had yelled, she’d crumbled. And Christian had been there to see her fail. Another humiliation in front of him. It seemed that whenever they met, she made a fool of herself.

She so longed for him to admire her. Now that she knew he hated cruelty as she did, hated fanatics who committed atrocities in the name of religion as she did, she yearned to share more with him. They could fight for Princess Elizabeth together. Mayhap if he knew she was brave enough to send ciphers to William Cecil, he would realize that she wasn’t a mouse. But she couldn’t tell him.

Still in her whirlwind of confusion, Nora took the basket from Arthur, dismissed him, and headed for the privy garden where she always left her messages. It was almost the hour after midday, one of the appointed times for her to leave messages. She avoided the Queen’s private chambers, slipping quietly through the throngs of courtiers and petitioners who clustered about the palace. Thinking herself unobserved, she had her hand on the latch of a door that led to the wing of the palace nearest the garden, when someone called her name. Luiz de Ateca.

“Have I frightened you, Mistress Becket?” he asked, gliding up to her.

She curtsied to de Ateca and shook her head.

“That is good,” he said, “because I would like to speak to you.”

He offered his arm, and Nora had no choice but to shift her basket to one hand and place the other on the damask sleeve of the Spanish nobleman. He escorted her to a window seat in a chamber set aside for card playing. Groups of courtiers were gaming there, but none took notice of the newcomers. De Ateca waited for Nora to sit, then leaned over her, bracing his shoulder on the wall beside her. Cut off from the rest of the room by his body, Nora could only wait for him to say what he wished. She prayed he spoke quickly, for she didn’t have much time left.

“The earl’s banquet was magnificent, was it not?” de Ateca said. “Except for the typical English lack of decorum, that is.”

Nora hesitated before answering, for de Ateca’s English was heavily accented. Once she had translated “bonket” and “mogneefeeceent,” she hastened to agree with him. She’d agree to anything to avoid irking one of King Philip’s chief henchmen. De Ateca smiled at her, and she couldn’t help comparing the man to a well-dressed lizard. His face was shaped like the wedge of an orange, his body thin and supple. Blond hair as straight as his legs, light blue eyes, and pale skin all lent an air of asceticism to the man, but this effect was offset by the ruby and gold opulence of his dress.

Her body growing cold, Nora regarded de Ateca warily. He’d never spoken to her much before, and now he was bestowing upon her an executioner’s smile, one that said he would be happy to wield the ax that chopped through her neck.

“By the rood, mistress,” he continued after a long pause, “the whole court buzzes with the suspicion that the fabulous Kit has conceived a passion for you.”

“My lord, it cannot be. These are foolish tales.”

“I think not. For if they were foolish, you wouldn’t blush and cast down your eyes with maiden shamefacedness.” De Ateca’s gaze sliced up and down Nora’s figure. “It hasn’t been Lord Montfort’s wont, this yearning after maidens.”

“He doesn’t yearn after me, my lord.”

“Yet he calls you fairest of maids before the court and fights for your company.”

“All of that was but pretense, a jest and wager made between Lord Montfort and Roger Mortimer.”

“I think not.”

Nora gave de Ateca a blank look. She could think of nothing to say.

De Ateca rubbed his fingertips over the rubies that studded the gold chain across his shoulders. “Great misfortune could befall a woman who attaches herself to a man as wild as Lord Montfort. Not a thought will he give to your virtue or your future. Take heed, mistress.”

“I’ve done nothing,” Nora said, but de Ateca wasn’t listening to her.

He was looking across the room. Nora watched his eyes widen, then narrow. His hand twisted in the gold links of his chain before he made an obvious effort to control his reaction. He freed his hand and put it behind him. It was then that Nora searched the room for the object of the man’s fascination.

Christian de Rivers was strolling around the chamber with another young man. Introducing his companion as he went, he paused by a group of card players, bending and kissing the hand of the lady who had the most gold coins before her. When he straightened, the lady shrieked, for her coins were gone. Christian held his arms away from his body and chuckled.

“I protest my innocence, Lady Marjorie,” he said. “Marry, you may search for your coins upon my person if it will satisfy you.”

Another lady said, “Faith, Marjorie, if you won’t, I will. Come, hellion, and let me search. I promise to be most thorough.”

Lady Marjorie needed no help, however. She leaped up from her cushions and began to run her hands over Christian’s torso. His companion stood by with a bored expression on his face, yet wasn’t quite able to conceal his shock when Lady Marjorie’s hands wandered to the insides of Christian’s thighs. The room grew silent as everyone waited to see who would falter, Lady Marjorie or her victim.

In the end it was neither, for Luiz de Ateca walked over to Christian, grasped his arm, and shook it. Gold coins rained from his sleeve, hitting the floor and scattering in all directions. Christian had gone still when de Ateca approached, his eyes engaging in a duel with the Spaniard. He twisted out of de Ateca’s grip while the card players hooted at Lady Marjorie.

“Be of good cheer, Marjorie,” one gentleman said between chuckles. “I’ll purloin your money if you promise to hunt for it in a like manner.”

Nora remained on the window seat, watching the merrymakers. She had been about to hurl her basket at Lady Marjorie’s head when de Ateca moved. Unaccustomed to the rage that had boiled inside her when the woman touched Christian, she sat in silence, furious with everyone who made light of such wantonness, furious most of all with Christian de Rivers. All worry over missing her appointed time for leaving messages vanished. He ought not to tempt women with his body. Who could blame them if they succumbed? She knew how hard it was to refrain from touching him.

For once her anger burgeoned so great that she forgot herself. Nora hopped to her feet, squeezing her hands tightly on the handle of her basket, and marched toward Christian. They met halfway across the room, for Christian had swerved away from Luiz de Ateca like a sparrow hawk dodging an eagle, and was headed in her direction.

He bowed, then stepped closer for his kiss of greeting. “Well met, my sweet marchpane.”

“Lewdness deserves no kiss of greeting, my lord.”

Inclining his head to one side, Christian pursed his lips and whistled low. “She does notice. I thought I might have to ride through the palace naked on a black stallion to find out.”

“Allowing that woman to paw you.”

“Have you met my cousin from the North country?”

“In front of the court.”

“Where did he go?” Christian craned his neck to search the groups of courtiers behind them.

“She would have put her hands on your—your …”

Christian waved at his companion and turned back to Nora. “Body, sweeting. The word you want is body. It will suffice, because I know you won’t say cock.”

She tilted her chin up and piously quoted the Bible to him. “ ‘They that are after the flesh do mind the things of the flesh; but they that are after the Spirit the things of the Spirit. For to be carnally minded is death.’ ”

Throwing back his head, Christian laughed. It was a sound Nora usually enjoyed, but she only scowled at him this time. If Luiz de Ateca hadn’t joined them, she would have given Christian more of her opinions.

“Mistress Becket and I were conversing when you burst upon us, my lord,” de Ateca said.

He made a slight bow in Christian’s direction. As he did so, Christian’s cousin appeared. Nora studied the brown-haired stranger, taking in his long legs and young-old eyes. Absently she acknowledged Christian’s introduction.

“This is my cousin, Lord Richard Fitzwalter.”

The young man lifted his brows at the sound of his name and bowed to Nora and de Ateca. As he bent, his cloak, which he wore slung over one shoulder, swung out to reveal an ornate silver dagger at his side. It glinted in a beam of sunlight, hurting Nora’s eyes, and she gasped.

“Blade,” she said.

“God’s teeth, you remembered,” Christian said. He snatched her basket from her, took both of her hands, and planted a kiss on her cheek. While his face was close to hers, he whispered, “Please, sweeting, quiet.”

Only interested in distancing herself from Blade, Nora skittered around to Christian’s other side while de Ateca moved between her and the young highwayman. Christian grasped her arm and squeezed. Nora clamped her lips together.

Christian was eyeing de Ateca. “We call my cousin Blade for a good reason,” he told the Spaniard. “Come, my friends, and we’ll have Blade show us how he earned the name.”

Holding Nora’s hand, Christian led the group out of the palace to an old oak tree on the grounds. Selecting a golden thread from Nora’s basket and a red rosebud from a nearby bush, he secured the bloom to the oak tree. He, Nora, and de Ateca stood to one side, and Blade walked back toward the palace, going so far that Nora thought he was leaving them. Finally he stopped and turned around, dagger in hand.

“Would you make a wager?” Christian asked de Ateca.

De Ateca shrugged. “He’ll never hit the rosebud at that distance. I wouldn’t shrink from taking advantage of you, my lord, but not in this manner.”

“My lady?” Christian asked. “A wager. If Blade hits the rose, I claim a kiss.”

Nora had been a victim of Blade’s skill. Christian knew this, and she could see that knowledge in his eyes. He watched her, hawklike, awaiting her reply.

“I’ll accept the wager,” she said in a faint voice. Aghast at her own temerity, Nora could no longer look at Christian.

“Come now, de Ateca,” he said. “Are you of a weaker stomach than the lady?”

Nora watched de Ateca’s body tense. A message passed between the two men, one she didn’t understand. All she knew was that there was an undercurrent of fierce tension in the air. Both men were aware of it, and every word they spoke in superficial jocularity covered a menace that unnerved Nora.

Christian and de Ateca were caught in a battle with their eyes. Nora lifted her hand to touch Christian’s arm, but the tension was broken when Blade called out to them. Christian turned from de Ateca and waved at the boy. Blade trotted back to them.

“Fair cousin,” Christian said, “the conde disbelieves your skill so much that he won’t wager.”

Blade pulled his soft toque from his head, revealing straight, dark hair that gleamed in the sunlight. Tossing the cap to the ground, Blade drew his dagger and trailed the blade across his open palm, back and forth, while he studied de Ateca. For the first time the Spaniard turned his full attention to the youth, watching the path of the silver blade as it slid over the boy’s flesh. Then de Ateca lifted his gaze to Blade’s face, and a catlike smile crept across the Spaniard’s lips.

“If you hit the rose, fair Blade, I’ll give you an evening in the best taverns of the city. I imagine you haven’t seen their like if you’ve spent most of your time in the North country.”

“No,” Christian said.

De Ateca’s gaze never left Blade’s face. “I didn’t know you English had male duennas.”

“I haven’t had a nurse since I was four,” Blade said. He touched his lips with the tip of his dagger and glanced at Christian. “I’ll take the wager, cousin.”

“Vexatious young cockerel, I weary of protecting your virtue,” Christian said. “Guard yourself if you can.”

“I need no help,” Blade said, his voice rising.

“Please,” Nora said. The men turned to her. “Please, my lords, This is a friendly contest, is it not?”

Christian had been glaring at Blade, but when Nora spoke, his mood lightened. “Carry on, cousin. Mistress Becket will forgive us our lapse if you entertain her. And I have a kiss at stake.”

Blade turned to go.

“Wait,” Christian said. “To win, you must hit the stem, not the bud.”

“Unfair,” de Ateca said.

“Fear not, my lord. It’s an easy task.” Blade smiled lazily at de Ateca.

The Spaniard looked from Christian’s taut face to Blade’s, and inclined his head in submission. “Perhaps God has blessed you with both skill and beauty, my lord, as He has your cousin.”

Blade left them to resume his stance near the palace. Looking at the distance between him and his target, Nora doubted even Blade’s ability to hit the stem of the rosebud. She saw the youth’s arm draw back and flick forward. There was a whizzing sound just before the dagger buried itself in the bark of the tree.

Nora scurried along after Christian and de Ateca as they rushed to the oak. They beheld the silver dagger, its blade implanted in the stem of the rosebud about an inch below the petals. Christian folded his arms and faced de Ateca. Blade strolled over to join them, seemingly unconcerned by the animosity between his cousin and the Spaniard.

That animosity wore on Nora, though, combining with her agitation over the need to pass on her cipher. When the two older men began their gamecock hissing and spitting again, she excused herself.

As she’d expected, Christian was too busy vivisecting de Ateca with his poetic gifts to heed her disappearance. She slipped away, taking a little-traveled path that would lead to her cipher garden. Once there, she went about her usual occupations, pretending to be absorbed in gathering blooms.

The apple tree near the ancient bench was in bloom, and between the bench and the tree were two wooden bowls. A gardener had been gathering figs and strawberries in these containers, but he was nowhere to be seen.

Sitting on the bench, Nora pulled the cipher from her pocket, along with the hollow, cylindrical bead. Rolling the paper to its smallest size, she inserted it in the bead. Laughter floated over the wall that separated the garden from the palace grounds, and Nora cringed. Always it took every scrap of hard-won courage for her to sneak into the garden and leave her message. Any noise made her cower. Even a violent breeze could send her skittering for cover.

Fingers shaking, stomach doing the lavolta dance, she scooped up a fig from one of the bowls and pressed an end of the bead into the skin of the fruit, pushing until the cylinder disappeared inside the fig. She’d chosen one of the less ripe fruits so that the job wasn’t too messy.

“I knew you’d be here.”

Nora jumped, and the fig dropped like a lead pellet, rolling over and over until it collided with the velvet tip of Christian de Rivers’s shoe. Her tongue wetting dry lips, Nora stared at the fig, then lifted her gaze to Christian’s ankle—small for so tall a man—and up the swell of his calf muscle and the long line of his thighs. From there her gaze skipped to his face.

He was smiling at her, but his eyes held that burning fury she’d only recently learned wasn’t fury at all, but something much more dangerous for her. Merciful Lord, not again. She would go mad if he tortured her with his hands while she suffered the fear of discovery. She held her breath, as he swept up the fallen fig, then released it as he dropped beside her on the bench and held it out to her.

“Not quite ripe,” he said, “unlike yourself.”

She snatched the fig from him and placed it in the bowl with the others. “I would like to take a walk.” She tried to get up, but he put an arm across her chest.

“1 wouldn’t.”

Leaning so close that she could smell the forest scent of the soap he used, Christian blew at the feathery curls near her ear that had escaped her French hood. His gaze caressed her cheek and lips, then paused at her temple. Frowning, he pulled the cap and veil from her head. She snatched them back from him, but was distracted by his voice.

He breathed a word, low and vibrant, and it sent sparks of pleasure shooting through her body. “Eleanora.”

Nora shivered. She tried to face him, but he turned her profile to him with a finger beneath her chin. The finger left as he blew at the curls near her temple again. His tongue darted out and touched her earlobe, fleetingly, leaving the skin there cold. The coldness immediately receded as heat suffused her, and the heat built into a fire as Christian brushed his lips over her ear. The caress was so light, it raised goose bumps all over her body. He hadn’t touched her anywhere else, and yet he had her ready to curl her hands in his shirt and rip it off him.

Her body roused to the point where sensation became pain, Nora found herself absorbed in the ruby glittering in Christian’s ear. She wanted to touch her lips to the soft skin concealed by that jewel, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t let him remain in the cipher garden. If she did, she would end up on the ground in front of the bench with him on top of her, and beside them would be the bowl of figs. When Christian began to run the tip of his tongue along her jawline, she blurted out the first thing she could think of.

“Blade.”

Christian returned his lips to her ear. “You don’t want Blade,” he whispered. “He’s too young, and the conde has staked a claim.”

Latching onto this mystery to save herself, Nora pulled away from Christian’s devastating mouth and faced her tormentor.

“What machinations are you about? Why is that ruffian at your side, and why are you thrusting him at Luiz de Ateca?”

“I promised to break the little beast to my will, and I have,” Christian said. He attempted to slide his hand around her waist, but she batted it away. “Blade isn’t your concern.”

“He is. He tried to kill me.’

“If he had tried, he would have succeeded.”

Her cap and veil in one hand, Nora put her fists on her hips. “You’re flaunting him in order to attract that Jack Midnight.”

“God’s blood!”

Sucking in her breath, she backed away from the raw and menacing rage that came over Christian. His head thrown back, he snarled at her.

“Speak not of Jack Midnight. It unbalances the humors of my body and makes me want to kill.”

Terror gave Nora wings. Dropping her French hood, she sprang to her feet and was out of the garden before Christian could move. She ran from his fury as if it could take form and pursue her without him. She heard him call to her, heard his footsteps behind her.

Blindly, with no other thought than to escape the rage that had turned a voluptuous seducer into a demon, she hurtled into the palace. She rounded a corner, skirts held high, and stumbled to a halt before Queen Mary. Behind the Queen stood several ladies-in-waiting, and at her side, Bishop Bonner, berobed and adorned with sweat. Nora sank to her knees. As she did so, Christian flew around the same corner. She heard him stop, and glanced to the side to see him drop gracefully to his knees.

The Queen had paused, hands folded in front of her swollen stomach, while her two subjects knelt. She stepped forward now. Stopping in front of Christian, she placed her fingers beneath his chin and lifted his face to inspect it.

“What signifies this unseemly haste, my lord? Nay, we have more weighty matters to discuss. We have been hearing tales of treason, Lord Montfort. Tales of spying and betrayal. You are one of our chiefest jewels, and we have decided to speak to you instead of handing you over to our lord bishop for questioning.”

Nora’s heart jerked inside her chest as she listened to the Queen. Treason. Dear God in heaven, treason. She knew. The Queen knew about the heretics.

Christian hadn’t moved. Arms at his side, he gazed into the half-mad eyes of his Queen. Nora wanted to scream at him to run. Tightening her hands into fists, she watched as Bloody Bonner waddled forward to loom over Christian like a pale and bloated spider.

Where she got the courage to speak, Nora could not have said. She simply licked her lips, and of a sudden, the words tumbled out.

“I beg Your Majesty’s leave to speak.”

“Nora,” the Queen said, turning to her, “we had forgotten you were here, child. Run away. We have business.”

“Please, Your Majesty.”

Mary scowled at her, but nodded.

“Faith, Your Majesty,” Nora said, “I can’t understand how Lord Montfort could think of treason when he spends most of his time trying to—to …”

“Out with it, girl.”

Nora gritted her teeth and attempted to ignore her own blush. “He—he spends most of his time trying to seduce me, Your Majesty.”

Frowning, the Queen cast an inquiring look at Christian.

Bishop Bonner rubbed his double chin with a damp palm. “Debauchery and treason go hand in hand, Your Majesty.”

Mary came closer to Nora and peered into the younger woman’s eyes, then looked back at Christian’s still, tense body.

“God has given Mistress Becket innocence, honesty, and virtue,” the Queen said. “When innocence speaks in defense of the accused, we must listen. We will all retire to the state chamber.”

Two royal guards flanked Christian and took hold of his arms. Aghast at the role she had cast for herself, Nora could do nothing but follow the Queen and the bishop. She dared not look back at Christian. She was afraid of what she might see in his eyes, afraid she would see that he hated her for taking his life in her hands. For that was what she had done. One misspoken word, only one, and she would send this firebird, this saber-tongued giver of pleasure, to a death of such horror that its equal could not be found in Hell itself.