The Hawk and the Dove (29 page)

“The queen has appointed a new secretary to the crown, a Mr. William Davison, but my father has refused to turn over any of his files or papers to the man. He says bluntly that Davison cannot touch anything until after he is dead!”

“Is he dying?” asked Sabre softly.

Frances nodded sadly. “He has made me promise a private funeral. He wants no public display such as Philip had, and yet sometimes I think he asks for a private funeral because it will be cheaper for us.”

“He would still be entitled to be buried at St. Paul’s, wouldn’t he?” asked Sabre.

Frances nodded again. “But, oh, Sabre I am so fearful his creditors will claim his body. ’Tis such a common practice these days, but I could not bear the shame of it.”

“Enough of this talk of death!” cried Sabre. “I shall take you to the theater tonight. There is a new play at the Rose that is causing a sensation. ’Tis a love story.”

“Sabre, I cannot, I’m in mourning,” Frances said regretfully.

“Nonsense, of course you can. You will put off those widow’s weeds and wear one of my dresses, and of course
a mask. None will ever know. You need a little diversion, Frances. I insist!”

She chose a gown of peacock-blue, which nipped in tightly to show off her exquisitely tiny waist. The matching mask was fashioned from peacock feathers with their brilliant circles of turquoise, purple, and black. Sabre wore peachflower with slashed sleeves of tawny russet, and a magnificent ivory cameo hung between her breasts. Her mask was fashioned of ivory and gold.

They sat enraptured throughout the play, hanging on to every word the star-crossed lovers uttered. They were so wrapped up in the action onstage, they had no idea Essex’s attention had been riveted upon them for the last hour. When the final curtain fell on the tragic heroine, they were both crying. The familiar voice startled Sabre.

“And would you die for love, my beautiful Sabre?”

“I should hope I have more good sense than that, m’lord Essex.”

“Well, will you not introduce me to this exquisite lady?”

Frances gasped and Sabre said most firmly, “That is impossible, m’lord, her identity is an absolute secret, of necessity.”

“So that her husband will not learn of her night on the town, no doubt,” he teased.

“My lord, I am a widow,” said Frances primly.

“Surely you jest, sweeting, you are scarcely more than a child.”

“’Tis true,” said Sabre, “and because of her mourning ’twould cause a scandal, Robin, if we revealed her identity to you.”

He was intrigued. He was also smitten. He would learn
who she was, make no mistake. He bowed graciously to let them pass.

“Thank heavens he didn’t learn my identity,” breathed Frances, weak with relief.

“It would be no bad thing to have Essex your friend. He is the one man on earth who could get your money from the queen, mayhap.”

Frances shook her head regretfully. “My father would never allow it.”

Within a month Sir Francis Walsingham was dead. His body was brought to London in the middle of the night with the aid of Sabre’s barge. The stones were opened up from the floor of St. Paul’s Cathedral and he was laid to rest beside his son-in-law, Sir Philip Sidney. Frances, with deep gratitude for Sabre’s friendship, brought her all the secret files on Lord Devonport, and in return for the generous gesture Sabre gave her five thousand pounds to pay off mortgages on Walsingham House so that Frances could reopen it and live in London.

With Frances’s full consent Sabre spoke to Essex when next she saw him at court. She told him that a certain friend of hers wished to reveal her identity to him if he would care to come to Thames View for supper some night.

The two young women set the scene artfully, with Frances’s costume chosen for its subtle feminine allure. They had put their heads together and decided she must not yield to him without marriage. Once the trap was set and baited, Sabre withdrew discreetly.

“My lord Essex, you are the only one who can help me. The queen owes us thousands of pounds for my father’s services but I have no influence with her. Would you speak for me, m’lord?” she implored.

“Frances, sweetheart, you ask of me the one thing I cannot do. Bess would be incensed with jealousy if I pleaded the cause of one so young and exquisitely beautiful.”

Frances’s lips trembled, her lashes fluttered to her cheeks, and she turned from him.

“Money is no problem, sweeting, I have lots.” He knew he wanted her, yet it would have to be a most secret affair. This was no maid-in-waiting who would lift her skirts in a darkened court corridor for him. This was the young widow of the noble Sir Philip Sidney, which only made his desire for her all the more piquant.

Shane came home from Plymouth, where they were readying the ships for Spain, as soon as he had word of Walsingham’s death. He had ridden hard through the night to Surrey only to find that Frances was in London. He rode on to Thames View for a bath, a change of clothes, and a fresh horse, but when he found Sabre ensconced snugly in his bed, he joined her there.

“My dragon of the night,” she murmured sleepily as his whipcord arms went about her and drew her to the hard length of him. She had stayed at Thames View this night because she had known the death of Walsingham would bring him riding hell-for-leather after the incriminating files.

“Is Frances here?” he asked carefully.

“Is that who you came to see?” she teased.

“Sabre, you know how important it is to me,” he said, gripping her shoulders tightly.

“Of course I know,” she said softly. “That’s why I gave Frances five thousand pounds to pay off mortgages on Walsingham House.”

“She gave you the files?” he asked intently.

“Yes, without a moment’s hesitation.” She slipped from the bed to light sandalwood-scented candles, and their exotic fragrance drifted over the bed. She sat cross-legged before him, allowing her long copper tresses to fall about her nakedness, the ends mingling with the triangle of curls between her legs. His pupils dilated with the intoxicating vision she presented, and she watched with satisfaction as the rest of his body responded to the lure she was casting.

With difficulty he concentrated. “I hope you have the files safe.”

“Shane, I burned them the instant I had them in my hands,” she lied prettily.

“Damn!” he swore, yet there was relief in his voice. “Did you read them?” he demanded, wanting desperately to know what was in them.

“No,” she lied, and swayed toward him, her eyes upon his mouth. He gave himself up to the compelling, irresistible magnetism this woman alone exerted over him.

“When do you sail for Spain?” she asked between kisses.

“You know I cannot tell you, other than to say it will be soon.” But she could tell by the intensity of his love-making that he would go straight from her to the dangerous mission he and Drake had plotted. He could not get enough of her and loved her as if it would be their last time together. As dawn pinkened the sky and still they had not slept he said, “If anything happens to me go to Jacob Goldman, you are well provided for in my will.”

“And what of your wife?” she demanded.

He hesitated, knowing that in the past the subject of his wife had caused heated quarrels between them. His
mouth tightened as he said, “She also is well provided for, Sabre. It is my duty, after all.”

Somehow the words had a strange comforting effect upon her. She pulled his mane of dark hair until his head rested upon her breast; then they slept.

When Sabre awoke, she was alone. The pale spring sun was high in the sky and she knew he would be halfway to Plymouth by now. She pulled up her knees and hugged them tight. Oh, how she longed to go adventuring! Though she did not wish she were a man, she envied men their freedom and strength to sail ships and wage war and return covered in glory and wealth.

In her mind’s eye she saw herself dashing down to Plymouth to wave him off and wish him bon voyage and to kiss him for luck. She smiled. Why stop there? Why not smuggle herself aboard the
Defiant
and sail to Spain with him? She frowned. How very angry he would be to discover her on board his ship. A beating was the least she could hope to get away with. She sighed and pushed the covers from her, along with the fantasy. Now that Whitsuntide was over, the court would be busy with plans to move back to Greenwich for the spring and summer, so she decided to put off going back to Kate Ashford and her wardrobe for a couple of days. She’d promised Frances she’d dine at Walsingham House, but of course she was only a sort of token chaperone, because Frances was again entertaining Essex.

She had just stepped from the bath when she heard Matthew’s familiar voice shouting up the stairs as he took them two at a time. “Hawk, where the hell are you? Do you do nothing day and night but bed that woman?”

Sabre stepped from the bathing room wrapped in a large towel. She didn’t know if she should be amused or
offended at Matthew’s words. He whistled at her state of undress, then said quickly, “Where is he? I have orders here from the queen.”

“He’s gone, Matthew, back to Plymouth.”

“God, no,” groaned Matthew. “She’ll have my head for this. I gave her my word he was at Thames View and that I would give him these new orders.”

Sabre looked at him speculatively. “We’ll just have to go after him.”

“What do you mean, ‘we’?”

“Oh, Matthew, please, you wouldn’t deny me the opportunity to say good-bye to him before he sails for Spain. God’s blood, Matthew, if anything happens to him I may never see him again!”

A tear slipped down her cheek and he begged, “Don’t cry, sweetheart. I’ll take you to him, if it means that much to you.”

“I’ll dress and be right with you.”

“Better dress for riding and pack some warm clothes. The
Devon Rose
is anchored at Dover. I’m just back from a run to Calais.”

When she joined him downstairs she was already booted and carried a heavy riding cloak over her arm. “Let me see the orders. What do they say?”

“The orders are secret and sealed, Sabre, but she said it was imperative he receive them immediately. She sent sealed orders off to Drake and Vice-Admiral Borough as well.”

Sabre casually slid her thumbnail beneath the wax seal and opened the parchment.

“God’s death, Sabre, you cannot break the queen’s seal!” he protested.

“Why not? I’m his wife,” she asserted.

“That’s not the point. These are secret war orders!”

“God in Heaven,” she exclaimed, “he won’t be pleased with these. Bess has withdrawn her permission for them to sail. She forbids them to enter a Spanish port because it will be considered an act of war.”

“Well, at least we have a legitimate reason for going after him. The orders she sent to Drake and Borough are probably identical.”

She ran to Shane’s desk and resealed the parchment with a blob of melted wax. “Take my saddlebags, Matthew. Let’s hurry! We have to reach Plymouth before the other couriers.”

The
Devon Rose
sailed past all the ports it had when he had first brought Sabre to London, only this time he was not dawdling to kill time as they sped past Hastings, Eastbourne, and the Isle of Wight. At St. Alban’s Head he stopped following the coastline and cut out into the Channel to round the southern tip of Devon, called Bolt Head, and then into Plymouth’s harbor.

There were over thirty ships riding at anchor, crowding one upon another. Drake’s flagship, the
Elizabeth Bonaventure,
was five hundred tons, bristling with ship-smashing guns, as were the vice-admiral’s
Golden Lion
and Devonport’s
Defiant
There were at least ten men-of-war, each over two hundred tons, and a dozen frigates and pinnaces weighing one hundred tons, all equipped with brass cannons that would rain death upon the decks of the enemy.

Matthew decided the best way to get Shane’s attention without causing suspicion was to signal the
Defiant
The messages that went back and forth between the
Devon Rose
and the
Defiant
were so obscure that Shane lost his patience and rowed across to speak with his brother. He
suspected a ruse to enable Matthew to sail with him to Cadiz, a thing he would permit under no circumstances. Not only did he not want to put the
Devon Rose
at risk, but he was under no illusions about the danger of the mission. Many lives could be lost and he was going to make sure one of those lives was not Matthew Hawkhurst’s.

When Shane entered the captain’s cabin to find Sabre there with Matthew, his face almost distorted with black anger. He turned upon Matthew savagely. “Get her back to London immediately!”

“Shane,” she implored, holding out the sealed parchment, “we have orders from the queen!”

He snatched them up and tore them open savagely, the black anger not abating for one moment. He read them twice because he couldn’t believe the stupidity of them. A filthy oath fell from his lips and his fist smashed the table. “Why in hell did you bring me these?” he demanded of Matthew.

Sabre cut in quickly. “Because she’s sent the same orders to Drake and Borough. The couriers are probably riding to Plymouth and I wanted you to get them first.”

A little of the angry mist cleared from his brain as he realized what she was proposing. He grinned at her as she said, “Matthew will tell her we were too late; you’d already sailed.”

He crushed her to him against the rough leather jerkin he wore, unmindful of the weapons in his belt. Then he turned her about and gave her behind a hell of a whack. “Go home, mistress. Now!”

He said to Matthew, “Drake will be no problem, nothing on earth will keep him from Cadiz, but the vice-admiral and all the other senior officers in the navy will
obey these orders to the letter, if they receive them. It’s my intention to see they don’t receive them!” He was gone as quickly as he had arrived.

Matthew eyed Sabre with admiration. “He knew you’d read the orders.”

“Aye, he knew and was damned grateful that I acted upon them quickly.”

“All those tears begging me to take you to him because you might never see him again were false. You knew he’d disobey the orders, didn’t you?”