The Game (34 page)

Richmond

T
he queen’s barge moved through the waters of the Thames, its gilt prow casting up a spray. Twenty-one oarsmen propelled it. It was a pleasant autumn afternoon and Elizabeth, clothed in gold, reclined upon her cushion, out of doors. The decks of the barge were strewn with flower petals, as was customary. Beside her were two of her ladies and several noblemen. One of the ladies was playing the lute.

Richmond Palace lay ahead. Its many towers, domes, and finials etched the skyline above a huge fruit orchard, past which the royal barge moved swiftly. Beyond the orchard the land was still lush and green, consisting of rolling meadows and timbered countryside.

Richmond Stairs lay ahead. Swans floated out of the barge’s way as the boat was rowed to the dock. Elizabeth rose to her feet with the help of the gentlemen, thanking them most graciously as she alighted from the barge. Then, her pleasant expression changing, she hurried past the gardens and through the palace gate. Her ladies had to run now in order to keep up with her.

Elizabeth had not enjoyed herself this afternoon and she was grim of countenance. How could she? Earlier that day she had learned that Sir John Perrot was on his way to visit her. That bit of information had given her an instant aching of the head. The last thing she wished to discuss
was barbarian Ireland. She had so many other problems now. Another plot to free her cousin Mary had been discovered, one which called for Elizabeth’s assassination and a Catholic rebellion supported by an invasion of the duke of Alva from the Netherlands. Ultimately these plotters intended to thrust Mary upon England’s throne. The duke of Norfolk was one of the ringleaders in the conspiracy, but he was joined by the Pope and Philip of Spain. Just last week Elizabeth had ordered the Spanish ambassador out of the country. Norfolk was in the Tower. The Pope she ignored.

And the plot against her was only the most recent, of all her problems politic. Now she prayed that Perrot would announce that he was about to deliver FitzMaurice’s head to her upon a silver plate, for the papist also intended to overthrow her.

Elizabeth was sick inside, a sickness born of fear. No one understood how difficult it was to be a queen. How difficult, how demanding, and how dangerous.

Richmond was the largest of the royal palaces, and at first glance the numerous buildings, courts, and gardens, the many towers and onionlike domes, gave one the impression of supreme disarray and confusion. Yet Elizabeth did not waver from her course. She went directly to the middle court and then into the hall on its western end.

Elizabeth swept through the hall. Courtiers dropped to their knees as she passed. Upstairs, in her private apartments, she found the lord president of Munster awaiting her impatiently. She ignored Cecil, now Lord Burghley, and her cousin Tom, her gaze riveted upon Perrot’s huge form. The redheaded man dropped to his knees with surprising grace. “Your Majesty,” he said. “As always, I am your ever-loyal servant.”

He was also her half brother, although it was never openly acknowledged. “Sir John.” Elizabeth waved him up. “You bring Us good news, We hope.”

John looked directly at her, unblinking. “Aye, for is it not always good to learn who England’s traitors are?”

Elizabeth was uneasy. She glanced at Cecil and Ormond. She noticed now that Cecil was as calm and com
posed as ever, but her cousin was flushed with anger. “We know who the traitors in Ireland are, and We know their leader, that damnable lunatic, FitzMaurice. Are you going to capture him before the winter sets in and starves one and all?” It was exceedingly difficult to supply the British troops in the winter, and every year their numbers were decimated more by starvation and illness brought on by the wet and cold than by actual warfare.

“Oh, I shall capture him, I promise you that,” Perrot said baldly. But he had made this promise many times before.

“We grow tired of this rebellion,” Elizabeth snapped, losing her temper. “If you cannot catch this single man, perhaps We must put someone else after him.”

Sir John turned red.

Cecil coughed and approached the queen. “I think you should hear Sir John’s news. There is a good reason why we have not been able to touch him these many past months.”

“Aye,” John growled, still flushed. “He is being supported by a far more determined enemy than Philip.”

“Anyone would be more determined than the Spanish king,” Elizabeth snapped again. “He is beset with troubles everywhere, and his only interest in aiding the Irish is to wound me!”

“Prepare yourself, Elizabeth,” Cecil murmured in her ear.

Elizabeth stiffened. “Who aids the papist traitor now? Who dares?”

Perrot smiled, as if relishing the moment. “The infamous half-Irish pirate, the Master of the Seas.”

Elizabeth stared. And she did not understand.

She could not understand. She refused to understand. She forced a smile. “All that Liam has done, as annoying as it is, was to steal the FitzGerald girl and hie himself off to his island to indulge in debauchery and perversions with her. Perhaps that lends credence to the case Tom wishes to make, that Liam is allied with FitzGerald, that he seeks to marry Katherine, that he seeks to restore FitzGerald. But that is the worst of it.”

“Your Majesty,” Perrot said coldly, “I have chased FitzMaurice up and down all of southern Ireland for almost an entire year. I know of what I speak. I care not that O’Neill has taken the FitzGerald girl as his mistress. I care not if she is even his wife. I know of what I speak. The bastard pirate supplies FitzMaurice with victuals and arms and everything else that he needs.”

Elizabeth felt quite faint. She shot a glance at Tom, and saw that he believed Perrot. She turned to Cecil, who also was complacent. “No!” she cried, suddenly stabbed in her breast with a terrible, burning pain. “No, you are wrong! My golden pirate might support FitzGerald, but never,
never
would he support the man who has openly declared that he will dethrone me!” She was close to tears. For she knew Liam could not betray her in such a grievous manner, for he loved her a little—he did.

“I am not mistaken,” Perrot almost shouted, red of countenance now. “I have a spy amongst the rebels, Your Majesty. He has seen them meet face-to-face, more than once. He has seen them shake hands. My God, he has seen the
Sea Dagger
being unloaded three times since last spring.
I know of what I speak
.”

Elizabeth turned away. Cecil guided her to a chair. Elizabeth was close to weeping. She reached out, but it was Ormond who knelt beside her, gripping her hand. “How can this be?” she whispered to her cousin. “How could he do this to me?”

Tom lifted her hand and kissed it firmly. “He has no soul,” he told her. “He serves no master but himself, and you have erred, Bess, ever to think otherwise.”

“But…” She covered her eyes with her hands, choked on a sob, then looked at Tom. “But he was fond of me. I am sure of it.”

“No,” Tom said forcefully, kissing her hand again. “I am fond of you, Bess, I have always been your greatest ally, and we are cousins. O’Neill is the spawn of Shane, and you must think on that, for it explains everything.”

Elizabeth gripped Tom’s hands, growing angry now. How could she have forgotten that the pirate was but the son of a savage barbarian and murderer? How could she
have ever forgotten that first time she had met the father, when she was but a young girl and newly crowned? God! She had been betrayed, and soundly. As a woman and as a queen. She was a fool! She turned to Cecil.

“Why did you not know of this?” she cried, flushed. “Did I not give you all those thousands of pounds so that you might put your spies everywhere? Why did you not learn of this immediately, Lord Burghley?”

Cecil did not blink. “There were signs pointing to this alliance, Your Majesty, but I did not wish to alarm you unless it were true. And as it hardly makes sense, that O’Neill, Mary Stanley’s son, would support a papist lunatic, I deemed it the first order to gain proof, and not present you with mere rumors instead.”

Elizabeth stared. Cecil was right, as always. O’Neill might be a proven traitor now, but it made no sense. He was hardly godly, but he was staunchly Protestant. And if religion did not move him to support FitzMaurice, what else could?

“The man obviously was bought with gold,” Ormond said. “We must bring FitzMaurice down, and we cannot do it unless we capture O’Neill first.”

Elizabeth forced herself to think, no easy task when she was at once heartbroken and furiously angry. But she was queen. These fits could not be entertained. And Ormond was right. She reached for his hand again and squeezed it.

“Clearly,” Elizabeth said, her voice shaking, “Liam O’Neill has not a loyal bone in his body, nor a loyal thought in his head.”

Elizabeth shoved herself to her feet, welcoming the rage. “He is every bit a whoreson pirate, a bloody murderer, and loyal to no one but himself. He is a traitor to the Crown, a traitor to Us.”

Perrot snorted in agreement. Neither Cecil nor Tom moved.

“I want his head,” the queen said.

Perrot moved to stand before her. “Put a price on his head. Send Drake after him, or Frobisher. O’Neill is good, but Drake could bring him in.”

Elizabeth swallowed, licked her lips, and could not re
strain a shudder at the thought of setting her greatest seaman after Liam O’Neill. Who would win in such a fight? Perhaps, in the ensuing battle, she would lose everyone. The thought was distressing.

Elizabeth closed her eyes. It did not matter. She had to capture her golden pirate, capture him and try him for treason. And then…he would hang, a fate he more than deserved.

Elizabeth cleared her throat. “You are right, Sir John. Fifty thousand pounds will be the reward I give to anyone who brings me Liam O’Neill.”

Cecil’s eyes widened. “Our budget is already strained, Your Majesty,” he murmured in warning.

“I do not care,” she cried. She would worry about the damned treasury another time. “I want his head!” Then she imagined his golden head impaled on an iron pike. Her stomach grew queasy. “I want him alive,” she stated harshly. For the woman who lived and breathed and dreamed inside the queen must confront him privately, make him explain his actions—for surely there would be some explanation for these new foul deeds.

And then a new thought occurred to her. Elizabeth froze. She wanted his head—but so did another man, a man whose motivation would be far greater than greed. A man whose motivation was revenge, a man who even now harbored a deep and dark and personal fury against Liam O’Neill. Surely such a man could bring her the Master of the Seas.

“Send me John Hawke!” she cried.

Juliet pulled up her filly. The horse was but three years old, hardly broken, and she danced about, yet Juliet sat her as she might a rocking chair. She had been riding upon the moors since she was a small child, and it was second nature to her.

She had halted her mount upon a rise and below her lay Hawkehurst. The stone manor had been built some centuries earlier, and although some might have called it run-down and dilapidated, Juliet thought it charming, far more so than her own home, which was so gaudy with its
towers and turrets and stained glass windows. She swallowed. She told herself that, being Katherine’s friend, there was nothing wrong with her going to the manor to visit John Hawke. She had just learned from Thurlstone’s steward that he had arrived at his home yesterday afternoon.

Yet deep inside herself, she was aware that she lied to herself, that it was wrong to visit him—wrong and dangerous.

Juliet forced her thoughts away. Hawke was her best friend’s husband. The last time she had seen him he had been consumed with rage over Katherine’s abduction. Juliet wondered what his mood would be this time. Did he grieve? Had he heard from her in all this time? Over the months, Juliet had thought frequently about Katherine and Hawke.

Juliet urged the frisky chestnut filly down the slope. The young mare broke into a canter. Juliet became increasingly anxious as she approached Hawkehurst’s stone entry way. She should turn around, go away, pretend she had never met him, pretend she did not even know of his existence. The filly clattered onto cobbled stone, through the tunneled entrance, and into the circular courtyard.

Juliet pulled the mare to a prancing halt. She made no effort to dismount. Her pulse was thundering now. She should not have come. She should gallop home. No one had espied her yet. She could still leave. The filly continued to dance, moving in small circles now, pirouetting as if highly trained. And the weathered and heavy front door of the manor opened, Hawke appearing on the threshold there.

Juliet’s gaze went to his immediately. Dear God, she had forgotten how dark he was, how imposing. She had forgotten that he frightened her somewhat.

And she had forgotten just how handsome he was, as well.

He did not smile. He moved forward quickly, clad not in his crimson uniform, but in a plain tunic and a worn leather jerkin, in equally worn breeches and riding boots. He gripped the filly’s bridle, instantly restraining her. His gaze caught hers again.

Juliet felt herself coloring. She reminded herself that he did not know—could not know—anything about her. He could not know her most secret thoughts. He could not know about the shameful dreams that came to her at night.

Nor could he know how carefully she had dressed for this occasion. Juliet had rejected one gown after another that morning, finally choosing a particularly lavish and beautiful taffeta, one whose dark green color enhanced her own ivory coloring and striking dark hair. The gown was richly trimmed with fur, with a matching cloak. John Hawke did not seem to notice how the fashion suited her. His blue gaze remained solely upon her face.

“Good day, Lady Stratheclyde. This is a surprise.” He spoke curtly.

Juliet swallowed nervously. She should not have come. Not after all those terrible dreams, in which John Hawke, her best friend’s husband, kissed her in the most shocking manner. Juliet could feel how high her color was. “I had heard you were in residence,” she managed, but her tone was barely audible and she cleared her throat.