The Hawk and the Dove (20 page)

Blanche Parry came back into the wardrobe room for a furred cloak. She looked at Kate knowingly and said, “You know what’s brought this on, don’t you? She’s about to turn fifty-three and knows she’s too old to bear a child.”

“Will the birthday celebrations be canceled?” asked Sabre.

“Good heavens no, child. Her moods swing with every change of the breeze. A morning kiss from Essex will have her purring.”

Hawkhurst, making doubly sure he wasn’t followed this night, made his way to Threadneedle Street. He found O’Neill pacing like a caged lion. He had known it would be difficult to keep him indoors and unobserved with the tempting city of London on his doorstep. The older man pierced Shane with burning eyes. “Ye did not tell me ye are now Lord Devonport.”

“I see you’ve wasted little time catching up on the latest news,” remarked Shane, inwardly dreading the next question.

“How is Georgiana?” asked O’Neill.

“In mourning,” Shane answered curtly, hoping fervently he didn’t find out she was only forty miles distant at Hawkhurst.

O’Neill changed the subject abruptly. “I’ll wait no longer to see yer queen,” he said bluntly.

Amazed he’d been able to keep his father penned this long, Shane nodded. “You won’t have to. Tomorrow night there’s a masquerade ball to honor the queen’s
birthday. You can attend disguised and reveal yourself to Bess when you think the moment’s right. I have every confidence you will charm yourself out of a perilous situation. You’ll need a gift for the queen,” said Shane, thinking aloud.

“I have a gift—one no woman can refuse,” he said with arrogance. Shane’s eyes narrowed as the O’Neill brought home to him the fact that his mother hadn’t refused. This time Shane changed the subject. “We feel that if you are seen to be on intimate terms with the queen, the council won’t even bother presenting Bagenol’s arrest warrant for her signature.”

“Don’t be seen with me tomorrow night,” advised O’Neill.

Shane slanted a black brow quizzically. It was unlike his father to show concern for his safety, so perhaps he had another motive. Shane grinned. “Don’t worry, I have other fish to fry. You’re on your own until you wish safe passage back to Ireland.”

September twenty-seventh dawned a glorious day. Elizabeth thought it her God-given right, yet she was delighted that the weather cooperated to assure an enjoyable hunt for queen and court.

At the morning robing ceremony Sabre was astonished to see the queen choose an elaborate red brocade gown and enough jewels to weigh down an elephant. When the queen departed to her breakfast, Kate laughed at Sabre’s ignorance. “She always hunts in full regalia, as if she were attending a ball. Never chooses a riding habit. You notice I pulled three red gowns for her to chose from. There’s method in my madness … the blood from the slaughter won’t make her look like a butcher, and if we
don’t get all the bloodstains out afterward, it won’t be too noticeable.”

Sabre shuddered. “She doesn’t do the actual killing, does she?”

“Ha! Right in the thick of it. The moment the quarry’s brought down, she’s there with her knife to slit its throat and cut off its ears to bestow on her favorites!”

Then I shall distance myself from the front ranks,
thought Sabre, as she hurried to her chamber to don the lovely white velvet riding dress with its delicious black silk waistcoat, for no one was excused from the royal hunt on the queen’s birthday.

The Hawkhurst groom already had her horse saddled and waiting when she arrived late at the stables. The main party of Elizabeth and her courtiers had set off a half hour since, and they set a hard, fast pace for the hunt deep into Windsor’s forests. The creamy Arabian was dancing nervously, so she crooned softly to her and firmly stroked her flank before mounting. The horse’s flesh quivered beneath her hand for a few moments and then seemed to calm under her touch.

Hawkhurst had been searching for her, riding back and forth along the wooded trails until at last he spotted her. She was the most vivid sight he’d ever seen atop the white mare, in her all-white velvet habit, with her breasts outlined in black silk. Crowning her glorious copper hair was the sauciest feather curving along her cheek, then dipping beneath her chin. If only he could have her to himself, riding on one of his own estates instead of here among this royal rabble.

His eyes sought hers, looking for a sign of forgiveness, but her chin went up at the sight of him and she looked most displeased.

“Sabre, you take my breath away,” he complimented.

“If you don’t keep away from me, you will take my breath away … my life’s breath if the queen claps me in the Tower.”

At that moment Essex, resplendent in white satin, thundered into the clearing where they sat mounted, and the Arabian mare screamed her fright at the advancing stallion and began to rear. Both men dismounted in a flash and took her bridle to quiet the young horse. Sabre kept her seat, but she was angry at the men for singling her out. “Can you not keep that damned stallion under control?” she demanded of Essex.

He spoke suggestively as always. “He knows a fine piece when he sees one. We are always ready to serve.”

A royal page came riding up, his horse badly lathered. “My lord Essex, my lord Devonport, the queen would know your whereabouts and commands you both for her escort.”

Both were loath to let go of Sabre’s bridle and tried to stare each other down. Finally Hawkhurst ground out, “You’re her bloody master of horse, you go!”

“Please, both of you go, I beg you. Did you not know that Lord Hertford and Lady Catherine Grey are in the Tower for having unlawful carnal knowlege of each other? Do not draw the queen’s eye to me, I beg you!”

Essex and Devonport looked at each other and bent double with laughter. Essex said, “Mistress Wilde, you sit upon a white Arabian in white velvet and accuse us of drawing attention to you.”

Shane’s eyes narrowed appreciatively. “You little baggage, if you couldn’t be the center of attention, you wouldn’t play! Come on, Robin, I’ll race you to the queen.”

Sabre’s mouth curved into a pretty smile. How well he knew her! And tonight at the masquerade ball she would be the center of attention and the talk of the whole court as she stole the queen’s thunder. She could hardly wait!

Sabre had never changed clothes so often in her life. She hurriedly exchanged the white velvet habit for a pale blue day-gown and literally ran to the queen’s wardrobe. It would take them the best part of two hours to disrobe and disencumber her of her hunting attire and array her in fresh wig, makeup, and the costly gold tissue, encrusted with jewels and sequins. Her costume represented the sun, and as such it was a magnificent creation, with narrowed waist, the skirts flaring out over a wide farthingale. The sleeves were slashed and embroidered with topaz jewels in sunbursts.

The air was filled with the excitement of the special occasion, and the din of her ladies’ voices rose high with the fulsome compliments they showered upon Elizabeth, both sincere and insincere. Sabre kept well in the background, wrinkling her nose at the crush of female bodies in the small wardrobe rooms, secretly appalled that the queen did not intend to bathe after the rigorous hunting. When the countess of Warwick brought forth rose-scented bathing water, Bess simply washed the blood from her hands then held up her arms so they could slip on the gold-tissue underdress. As Kate handed the soiled red gown to Sabre, she surreptitiously pointed out the stain of stag entrails that covered the skirt, and Sabre felt the hatred rise in her gorge. This was her rival for her husband’s affection; well, even the sun could be eclipsed!

The banqueting chamber at Windsor was able to accommodate twice the number of people as Greenwich. Servingmen staggered beneath platters holding whole
kids stuffed with pudding, swans, venison, pike, capons, and wild duck. There were rich sauces of musk, saffron, and ambergris to complement every dish of fish or fowl. The birthday confectionaries were cleverly shaped from spun sugar and marzipan, and every wine known in England was available, including alicante, Rhenish, muscadine, and charneco.

The queen quaffed ale like a man, but kept her head better than most of her courtiers. The music and dancing were to take place in the queen’s gallery, which she had had especially built for her in the first years of her reign.

Most of the ladies and gentlemen of the court had spent lavishly on their costumes and jewelry for this birthday celebration. The men dressed as pirates, admirals of the fleet, Arabians, princes, kings, minstrels, jesters, historical figures, highwaymen, and there were at least three dressed as the infamous “Black Shadow.” The ranks of the ladies abounded with milkmaids, shepherdesses, angels, fairies, and princesses, though none were foolish enough to masquerade as queens.

Sabre’s costume represented spring. It was delicate pale green tissue edged with violets. Her breasts were cupped in flower petals and her mask was in the shape of a swallow-tailed, pale butterfly. Her pulses were hammering madly as she watched the crowds carefully through her mask, seeking Hawkhurst. They recognized each other in the same instant. He had chosen not to wear a costume, though his clothes were a flamboyant midnight-blue, slashed with silver and fastened with diamond buttons. He had conceded to wear a concealing mask, his eyes glittering wickedly through its slits.

Sabre instantly turned her back upon him, and it had exactly the result she had hoped for. His hands grasped
her shoulders from behind and he turned her to face him. “Sabre, you are the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. I approve of your costume with all my heart.”

“I am striving for demureness, m’lord. Your approval is everything to me,” she said with heavy sarcasm. “I’m sorry if you wished to dance, but I’m promised to another.” She turned and melted into the crush of people behind her.

He was stung, for he was carrying a present he’d had specially engraved for her. He ground his teeth at the rebuff and bided his time by looking for the O’Neill.

At eleven o’clock the queen would take her seat on a raised dais at the end of the room, and those who wished to honor her with their special gifts would bring them forward one at a time. Until eleven Elizabeth would dance every single measure, and young men fought for the honor. As usual the earl of Essex did not dance, but, dressed to compliment her in cloth of gold, he never took his eyes from her. When each courtier had partnered her in the gavotte or the pavane, he returned her to m’lord Essex. Finally he broke his own no-dancing rule and led the queen out onto the floor to broach the subject that was eating at his pride.

“I have heard a rumor which I cannot credit, queen of my heart.”

She arched a brow at him, knowing by the sulky look of his mouth that he was displeased about something.

“Rumor has it you intend to make the old lord admiral the earl of Nottingham.”

“’Tis no rumor, but fact. He has given me faithful service for years, his health is not what it used to be, and I intend to honor him before he departs this earth.”

“Madame, do you realize when Parliament opens next month, he will then take precedence over me?” he questioned arrogantly.

Her eyes narrowed, yet her feet never missed a step of the dance. “I would have you know that I who made you can unmake you!”

His eyes smoldered at her insult. “Plums for others; threats for me,” he hissed.

“I will have you know this court has one mistress and no master!” she shouted, uncaring who overheard.

He cajoled softly, “If I were earl marshal of England, I would take precedence.”

She set her mouth in a grim line and said, “I would remind you that your queen will not be badgered into yielding to a brash youth’s every whim!”

He bowed stiffly and deserted her in the middle of the dance floor. A deep, soothing voice floated down to her. “Lass, ye are as lovely as ever … like a young girl.”

Elizabeth turned startled but grateful eyes to the man who towered above her. He removed his mask and looked deep into the black eyes.

“Tyrone!” She used the title she had bestowed upon him, then added her affectionate term she reserved for him alone. “My monster of the north!”

She had always leaned on Leicester, but with him far away in Holland and with Essex’s growing petulance, she was sorely in need of a strong male to lean on, if only for a short time. Who better than an older man who thought her still a young girl? “Would you care to dance?”

“Nay, lass, I’m an old man compared to ye. Come sit with me awhile.”

“Lying Irish!” she admonished, yet she took him by
the hand to the dais at the head of the room and dispatched a page for ale and marzipan cakes. “What have you brought me for my birthday?” she asked, flirting archly.

He bent his lips to her ear and whispered, “Information, lass. News of yer enemies more precious than be-jeweled geegaws. But it will wait until morning. I’ll not spoil this night for ye, Bessie.” His soft Irish voice lulled and caressed her and he took possession of one of her beautiful slim hands beneath the cover of her full skirts.

Shane was momentarily amazed to see the O’Neill sitting cozy with the queen, then he smiled cynically to himself.
We Irish have a low tolerance for bullshit and yet a remarkable facility with it
For gain the O’Neill would convince an old queen she was young and strong, while discovering her vulnerabilities to use to his own ruthless advantage.

The music struck up for the saraband, to which a man and woman danced in each other’s arms. The queen was forgotten as he sought out Sabre once more.

“M’lord Devonport, I dare not. This dance is meant to inflame lust,” she said with an air of practiced innocence.

He held her pale green gaze with his. “Sabre, you’d dare anything. You’d tell me to go to hell, you’d thumb your nose at the queen, and you’d tell the devil himself to kiss your bottom.” He took a velvet box from his doublet and pressed it into her hands. It held a gold bracelet studded with diamonds. On the inside was inscribed,
Can you forgive me?
She slipped it onto her wrist and lifted a matching diamond ring from the box. When she held it to the light to read its tiny inscription, she was startled to read,
Can you love me?
She searched his face long minutes,
uncertain whether she should accept or reject his token, while her heartbeat hammered in her breast.