The Game (11 page)

His gaze met hers. Somehow it was amused and knowing—as if he sensed her concern—and that infuriating gleam made her scowl at him. Liam was far from death. She should have known that a small musket ball was no match for him.

Debrays suddenly said from behind her, in her ear, “How pleased you are, my lady, to see your
captor
.”

Katherine stiffened and slowly turned. “I am pleased that he lives, Sir Walter. ’Tis called Christian charity and human kindness, nothing more.”

“Mayhap I would like a little of your Christian charity,” he leered.

Katherine was rigid. This man knew, or sensed, far too much. But he could not know, could he, that far more than innocent doings had passed between her and Liam? Katherine was aware that she flushed with guilt. She looked forward to the day they quit Tilbury and this dangerous man. “Why have you summoned all of us to the ward?”

Debrays’s yellow teeth flashed. “You have been summoned to Whitehall, Lady FitzGerald, the three of you. The queen commands your presence posthaste.”

Katherine started. Her glance found Liam’s. He did not react to the news that he was to journey to an audience with the queen, to his final prison-place—and to his ultimate death.

W
ith the exception of her recent visit to her father in Southwark, Katherine had never been to London before. In fact, up until that horrible day of the Battle of Affane, when she was just thirteen years old, she had never been farther than Cork in the west and Galway in the northeast, except once, when she had accompanied her parents to Dublin. Dublin was the largest city in Ireland, but as it was in the Pale, and controlled by the English lords who resided there, neither the earl of Desmond nor his countess went there very often.

London put Dublin to shame. Unquestionably it was the largest city Katherine had ever seen. And there was so much to see! From the grand Gothic homes of the gentry and nobles lining the banks of the Thames to the dilapidated and ancient thatch-roofed buildings housing brothels, stews, and ordinances in the slums. Soaring cathedrals presided over neighborhoods with narrow, refuse-filled streets and timbered tenements. Thin mules and carters transporting faggots of wood bumped up against splendid coaches and chariots boldly embossed with coats-of-arms and servants in livery that could feed a small family for an entire year. Dark-robed students rubbed shoulders with young artisans, and both turned to gaze, either wistful or hostile, after the lavishly transported noblemen. Beggars of all ages and both sexes chased the extravagant conveyances, and should a lord or lady dare to walk the streets,
even escorted, cutpurses and cony-catchers were instantly about their work.

There were markets everywhere. Passing through one, Katherine was agog. The street stalls were teeming with more produce and wares than she had realized existed in all the world, much less in one place. She glimpsed spices and silk from the faraway Orient, Venetian glass, and furs from the forests of Sweden and Norway. There were all sorts of fripperies, hats for the men and gloves with cuffs, fringe and even studs of gems, ribbons of all colors and plumes equally exotic, embroidered pillows and enameled pomanders, and even French caqueteuses—those strange little chairs with narrow, horizontal slabs of wood where a person was expected to place his arms. One vendor sold nothing but pots of cosmetics. Katherine glimpsed milk white powders and several different shades of rouge. Another sold nothing but warming pans—and dear God, they were silver. Other vendors hawked spicy cakes and sweet pasties. Katherine would have dearly loved to wander through the crush of the market square, to eye the wares and watch the gentlemen and women as they browsed and bickered with the merchants, artisans, and farmers for the goods they wished to purchase.

But it was not to be. Not that day. She was a prisoner, no longer of the pirate, but of the queen. She was on her way to a royal audience—on her way, perhaps, to her fate.

The King Street Gate appeared before them. Katherine’s heart raced. She glanced at Liam, riding between two of Debrays’s men, but he showed no sign of fear, no sign of dismay or dread. She could not believe he had no feelings, and she had to admire his composure. Her own composure was in shreds.

Some two dozen guards, all the queen’s men, resplendent in red and gold, met them the moment they had passed through the low, square stone archway of the gate. They traveled down a paved road inside the huge inner ward, the vast Privy Gardens to their right, the shrubs still green, the trees bare, tennis courts and cockpits on their left. On the other side of the gardens were other galleries and various lodgings. Ahead lay the queen’s new Banquet
House, the Privy Gallery, and the part of the palace that contained the Great Hall, the Council Chamber, and the Privy Apartments. Far to Katherine’s right she could just glimpse the Chapel, and beyond that, she knew, lay the River Thames.

Their mounts were halted. The captain of the Guard, a lean, dark-haired man, dismounted and approached Debrays, who also slid to his feet. They spoke briefly, the captain turning a bright blue gaze first upon Liam, then upon Katherine. He started briefly when their gazes met. A moment later he detached himself from Debrays and moved to Katherine’s side. “Sir John Hawke, captain of the Guard,” he bowed. “If you would dismount, Lady FitzGerald?”

Katherine slid from her horse and in her fatigue and distress nearly fell into his arms. Hawke righted her instantly. She stepped away, murmuring her thanks, and was suddenly aware of Liam’s eyes upon her. She was startled. She had the feeling that he did not care for her being handled so familiarly by another man, even through there had been nothing inappropriate about it.

“Lady FitzGerald?” the captain said politely, his blue eyes holding hers again. “If you will follow me.”

Katherine had no choice but to obey, as it had not been a suggestion but a command. She shot another glance at Liam and saw that he brought up the rear, surrounded by numerous guardsmen, as was Macgregor. Debrays also accompanied them with six of his own soldiers. Captain Hawke escorted them into the Gallery, a long, timbered structure, and directly down its vast length. Katherine muffled a gasp. The ceilings were wrought in stone and gold, and the wood wainscot was carved into hundreds of beautiful figurines.

Ahead were a pair of massive closed doors. The group paused and they all waited as a sergeant-at-arms announced their arrival. Katherine’s heart beat unsteadily. She could not comprehend how Liam still appeared so calm. She did not have to be told to know that the queen was behind those huge closed doors.

A stream of courtiers and ladies left the Privy Chamber.
Katherine’s mouth dropped open. She could not help but stare. She had never seen such finery, such wealth. The men wore silver or gold-buckled leather shoes, fine silk hose in every shade imaginable, and doublets with padded hips and embroidered bodices, the sleeves slashed or beribboned. Fantastic ruffs framed their faces, and almost every male sported a short beard and mustache. They wore numerous heavy gold chains and gem-set rings. More than a few wore black hats with extravagant plumes.

Then Katherine stared at the women. Their dresses were the richest brocades and velvets and silks she had ever seen. Their skirts were huge, held out by Spanish farthingales, making tiny waists seem tinier. Every woman wore bejeweled gold or silver chain belts, from which they hung their keys, a fan, or a looking glass. The bodices of their dresses were low and square, puffed sleeves were slashed. The women’s ruffs were almost as fantastic as the men’s. The women also wore chains, and extravagant earbobs and rings as well. All wore coifs. The coifs were silk or velvet, embroidered or cut out, and often encrusted with gems and pearls. It was also clear to Katherine that the women all wore cosmetics. Everyone was exceedingly pale, their cheeks glazed with egg whites, their eyebrows plucked, their lips painted red. Some of the women had even painted fine lines upon their very bare bosoms, exposed almost indecently by their low-cut bodices, in order to represent thin veins.

When the stream of courtiers and ladies had passed, Debrays was ushered into the Privy Chamber alone. The doors were pulled closed. Katherine jerked, realizing she had been staring after the parade. She met Liam’s gaze, and saw that he was smiling ever so slightly at her open reaction to the dazzling splendor of Queen, Elizabeth’s court.

Katherine was angry that he might guess just how much of a country mouse she actually was, worse, her own gown was years too old, and even had it been new, she saw now how obviously poor it was, and how out of fashion. She also wore no cosmetics, and would not have even guessed how to start. How dowdy she must appear. A
wren among a flock of swans. She turned her face away, her mouth tight.

God’s blood! How could he dwell on her, when he was about to meet the queen and would shortly thereafter be thrown into the Tower? Those other women were so fair! Surely one of them had caught his rampant eye—to think otherwise was impossible!

Katherine kept her back to Liam, her shoulders squared. She saw that the doors to the Privy Chamber were still closed. What could Debrays be saying? Was he telling the queen that he doubted Katherine had been Liam’s unwilling prisoner? Would the queen believe him? Would she free Katherine, allow her to return home in order to marry Hugh?

Katherine realized her determination to do just that had become fierce. These last six years had been a tremendous loss, she understood that now. She had been in such complete isolation, had missed living six crucial years whilst in the prime of her life. Not only had she not known of her father’s fate, or that of Desmond, not only had she been denied husband and children, she had been denied the wondrous modern world.

It was not too late, she told herself vehemently, to make that loss up now. She was not yet old. She would have children, and she would live. Surely after she bore a few babes, she would be able to travel back to this exciting place. She tried to imagine herself with Hugh and small children, laughing and gay, exploring the London market, but as she had not seen him since he was a boy, she could not picture him as a man, and she gave it up.

The doors opened suddenly and Debrays appeared, looking smug. Sudden fear swamped Katherine. Her father was in absolute disgrace, and she herself might fall into that same disgrace within a matter of minutes. To be ordered to her father’s side in Southwark was no better than to be returned to the priory at Saint Pierre-Eglise. Katherine resolved to speak with great care. She knew only what common gossip held about the queen. That she was well educated, being able to speak many languages with ease. That she was quick to temper, and often lost it when her
subjects crossed her. But that she was also fair. Katherine must pray that justice would rule this day. And she must be prepared to help her own cause, for no one else would.

A portly man appeared in the doorway, framed briefly by the two marble pillars on either side that stretched up to support the high, vaulted ceiling of the paneled hall they waited in. His glance skidded over Liam, Macgregor, and paused briefly on Katherine. “I am Sir William Cecil. Her Majesty will see you now.”

Katherine sucked in her breath and stole one last glance at Liam. He wore the slightest smile. Of encouragement? She marched behind Cecil, still feeling Liam’s eyes upon her as he followed her, Macgregor in the rear.

Suddenly she stumbled, confronted by the queen of England. Elizabeth sat upon her throne on a dais. She was unmoving, as if carved from stone, and for one moment, Katherine stared—and the queen stared right back.

She was so magnificent that she dominated the incredible room, and Katherine did not even remark the fantastic Holbein mural upon the wall behind Elizabeth—she saw nothing but England’s queen.

She wore a purple damask gown encrusted with thousands of gold beads and embroidered with gold thread that showed off her narrow waist advantageously, which was encased in a thick gold girdle studded with rubies and pearls. The low-cut gown revealed an immense amount of ivory bosom, making the Queen appear somewhat voluptuous. A ruby larger than Katherine’s thumb winked from her cleavage. The largest ruff Katherine had ever seen, a stiff pinkish white froth, framed her entire head. Her strawberry-gold hair was frizzed and pulled back severely, a dark velvet coif hemmed with multicolored gems pinned there. The queen was thirty-seven years old. Once, she must have been beautiful, and she was still handsome. Her skin was flawless ivory—she wore no egg whites, and her face a perfect oval, while her eyes, although kohled, were bright and keen with intelligence. Her figure was very slim. Had she not possessed her father’s longish nose and narrow mouth, she would have been a beauty in spite of her age.

William Cecil coughed.

Katherine realized she gawked like a country maid and she dropped into a curtsy, color flooding her face. When she righted herself, she saw the queen’s gaze flickering over Liam O’Neill. It was cool, imperious, yet a spark was there. She turned back to Katherine, who was still hot with shame. “Are you in conspiracy with your father against Us, mistress?”

Katherine gasped, and the whole world seemed to drop out from under her feet. “I—I beg your pardon?”

“You heard. Do you conspire with your father against the Crown of England?”

Katherine gasped again. It had never occurred to her that she would be accused of conspiracy—of treason! “No! Your Majesty—how come you by such an abominable thought?”

Elizabeth’s gaze flickered over Katherine from head to toe. “When the Master of the Seas has a predawn appointment with Gerald FitzGerald, the daughter in attendance, I must needs assume the worst.”

Katherine gaped, glancing at Liam, who was unperturbed. Indeed, the fool stood negligently, despite his sling, booted stance wide, as if relaxed. Beneath his open cloak, Katherine saw that his bare, broad chest did not heave. Was he not going to speak? To stop this dangerous tack before it went any farther? “Your Highness!” Katherine cried. “The Master of—I mean—Liam O’Neill abducted me on the high seas. He met with my father to ask a ransom—nothing more! I can assure you of that!” Katherine’s color was high now, for lying yet again, this time to England’s queen.

The queen eyed Katherine. “But why were you present, mistress, if not to plan treason?”

Katherine was white. Her mind raced to find some credible reply. “I begged h-him—I had not seen my father—in six long years!”

Elizabeth studied Katherine without any apparent softening. Then she turned to Liam. “What is true, rogue?”

He smiled. “I did capture a small French trader, never dreaming it held such a prize, Your Majesty. And surely
you know the way of the high seas. The booty was mine. All of it. I went to FitzGerald to ask a ransom, nothing more.”

Katherine stared from Liam, who was still wearing a small smile, to the queen, whose mouth remained in a tight, unforgiving line. “This is a fantastic tale.” There was warning in her tone.

Liam’s smile flashed, more seductive than before. “The lady can be most persuasive. I saw little harm in her accompanying me to her father.”

The queen stared. “Is
she
harmed, Liam?”

He inclined his head. “Hardly.”

Katherine was still terrified, unsure if Liam had defended them against the charges of conspiracy, and she was also in disbelief. What was happening here? It almost seemed as if the queen knew Liam—it almost seemed that she was, just slightly, fond of him. But that could not be. Liam was a pirate. “Your Majesty, I have not been harmed,” Katherine said quickly. “And O’Neill speaks the truth entirely and I beg to be freed.”