The Game (41 page)

Ormond ground down his jaw. “I know what you will say next.”

“Indeed?” Cecil mused.

“You never wanted FitzGerald removed from Ireland in the first place!” Ormond cried. “But it is too late. He has been removed, stripped of all that was his, he is half-mad now, and destitute. The Irish will have to accept me as the most powerful lord amongst them. There
is
no other choice.”

“There is always another choice,” Cecil said calmly.

And Elizabeth knew that he had already decided what to do if she freed the pirate and he brought her FitzMaurice. Silently she thanked God for Cecil, a man she had known since she was but a young princess, a man she had trusted ever since. “What choice do we have, William?”

“Free the pirate,” Cecil said, “Let him finish his game. Allow the fox to run. And let us watch where all the pieces fall, and be poised to pick up the ones we must use again.”

“You can not trust Shane O’Neill’s son,” Ormond insisted angrily.

Cecil smiled. “Trust him? I do not know. But we can certainly control him.”

Silence.

Cecil spoke to the room at large. “After all, the royal astrologer has said his mistress bears a son. What better way to control a man than with his only child, his only heir?”

No one moved. Smiles formed. And then Elizabeth clapped her hands. “How clever you are,” she cried, beaming.

And Cecil smiled, thinking that he was hardly as clever as the pirate, who, if all went as Cecil expected it to, would indeed prove himself master of the game.

L
iam knew that his fate drew near.

He had been told to bathe and shave, and had been removed from his foul cell to a spare but far more hospitable chamber on one of the higher floors in the Tower. He had been given clean clothes and a decent meal. He realized that a meeting with the queen was near at hand.

He prepared himself. He prepared himself to outwit and outmaneuver the queen and her advisors—including the very shrewd William Cecil. Everything he cherished hung in the balance—Katherine, his child, his life.

And then Liam was escorted to the queen.

She awaited him in the antechamber of her Privy Apartments, and for the first moment, Liam thought she was alone. Then he espied Cecil standing behind her. Despite his determination to gain his release, he was also relieved. For it had crossed his mind that he might have to seduce—and bed—the queen if all else failed.

“You appear in better spirits, pirate,” Elizabeth said sharply.

Liam bowed, getting down on one knee. “I am thankful that you allowed me to bathe and don fresh clothing, Your Majesty. More grateful that you can possibly know.”

“I had no wish to entertain a foul wretch in my apartments,” she said. “You may rise.”

Liam got to his feet.

“What am I to do with you, traitor?”

“Have you not thought upon my proposition?” Liam asked.

“Indeed, I have, but my Council is divided. Some suspect it is but another ploy.” Elizabeth moved closer, peering up at Liam’s face. “Is it a ploy? Would you betray me yet again?”

“Dear Bess, I did not betray you before, and I would not betray you now.”

She stared at him searchingly. “I have thought long and carefully on this matter,” she finally said. “And your word is not enough.”

Liam inclined his head. Tense now, waiting.

“I must have some hold upon you, some great hold, to make you adhere to your part of the bargain.”

His heart lurched. Katherine. Would she try to use Katherine against him—or offer Katherine to him as an enticement? That last possibility was exactly what he wanted. “What do you think of, Your Majesty?” he asked softly.

“The child,” she said.

Liam started. His mind raced. Hundreds of years ago, for many centuries, children had been used frequently as political pawns, yet he could not believe that this was the queen’s intent. Not in this modern age.

But he was very wrong. “After the child is born it shall be removed to my household,” the queen stated. “And your son will be a hostage for your good behavior. When you deliver FitzMaurice to me, I shall deliver your son to you.”

Liam stared, stricken. He recalled growing up at court. He had never dreamed his own child might be raised here—and endure the exact same cruelty as he himself had. He could not bear the notion.

“Liam?” Elizabeth asked, her tone puzzled.

He did not really hear her. Visions of his small son—or daughter—surrounded by a crowd of mocking English youth, assailed him, tormented him. He wet his lips. Afraid. He had never doubted his ability to entrap and capture FitzMaurice before, but suddenly now, the possibility raised itself. It frightened him. And then what would happen to his child? “If I fail to deliver the papist?” he asked, his voice rough, sounding strange.

Elizabeth squinted at him. “If you do not deliver FitzMaurice, I will find some proper Englishman, one loyal to me, to foster the babe.”

He found it difficult to breathe.

“And I will send my best sea captains after you,” Elizabeth added, “to return you to the Tower, where you will stay.”

He had no choice. For the child’s sake, an innocent life that must not suffer because of him, he would win. Trying very hard not to show his distress, certain that he failed, he said, “I will deliver FitzMaurice. But you will return Katherine to me, along with the child.”

“Oh ho!” the queen cried. “Nay, I will not!”

Liam stiffened.

“Katherine remains with her husband, John Hawke. And this is not a negotiation, rogue, this is my single offer to you. Bring me FitzMaurice, and I will give you your child.”

His heart beat hard. Painfully so. He had come so far, risked so much, in order to gain the woman he loved. The child alone was not enough—would never be enough.

Liam took a deep breath. The game was not over yet. There was much play still to be had. After all, Gerald was still in exile in Southwark, so the delivering of Katherine to him, Liam, was yet premature. And he did not inform Elizabeth of the fact of their marriage, because if he wound up hanging, then John Hawke would provide for her and his son.

And suddenly Liam’s gaze met Cecil’s. He knew instantly that Burghley comprehended him completely, yet somehow, he was not surprised. He also sensed that he had an ally. There was a hint of encouragement in his eyes. Liam recalled how, five years ago, William Cecil had been adamantly against the dispossession of Desmond’s earl. Their gaze held for another moment, and then Liam returned his attention to the queen. “Hawke does not wish to divorce her?”

Elizabeth said, “He is a noble man. He will do his duty to her. Nor will I try to persuade him otherwise.
You
cannot have her. I will not change my mind on that score.
Already I suspect that somehow she is the one who has led you astray. You will have to forget the girl, Liam, and direct your manly appetites elsewhere.” Elizabeth had grown flushed.

Liam said nothing. Then, casually, he shrugged. “You misunderstand. I want the woman for the child, not for myself. My own pleasure can be taken anywhere.”

“Indeed?” Elizabeth stared at him, but her mouth had softened. “Do you tire of her already?”

“Bess, come, do you think me a man capable of love?”

Elizabeth regarded him. “I do not think any man capable of love,” she finally said. “I think all men are ruled by what they cherish beyond all else, that unruly appendage kept in their codpieces. But she is very beautiful, and very wicked. She has seduced both Leicester and Ormond. And, of course, you.”

Liam refrained from a rebuttal, but his pulse quickened. Did Elizabeth speak literally? He was sickened at the thought. But it no longer mattered. He would forgive Katherine anything that she had done in order to aid him. But he remarked closely the queen’s rampant jealousy—and her evident fear of a beautiful rival. He realized then how easy it would be later to lead Elizabeth—exactly where he wished her to go.

“Well?” Elizabeth peered at him. “Do you accept my terms or not? After the babe is born, I will take him into my household. Then you shall appear to escape. When you bring me FitzMaurice, I give you the child. Not a moment sooner.”

Liam nodded. “I accept,” he said. He took the queen’s hand, bent over it, kissed it. “And I promise you that I will not fail you. As always, it is you I serve.”

“I doubt that,” she said, but her cheeks flushed with color.

He looked into her eyes. Seeing not the all-powerful queen, but the jealous, desperate woman. He could still win. For he had one more move up his sleeve, yet he would not use it until the very end. Then he would play her fear of Katherine’s ability to seduce her favorite, Leicester against her—when it was time to collect the prize.

Hawkehurst

Katherine screamed. And screamed and screamed.

Juliet held her hand and stroked her hair, talking to her. “It will pass. Be brave, Katherine. Be brave.”

Katherine hardly heard her. She had known there would be pain, but she had never dreamed it could be like this. Long and constant, like the brutal stabbing and twisting of a knife blade inside her womb. Oh, God. Liam. How she needed him.

Finally the pain began to dull, and Katherine wept. She knew that within too short a time it would return, worse than before. She did not think she could endure much more.

She had been trying to deliver the child since dawn. The labor pains had started after suppertime, and had begun in earnest around the midnight hour. By sunrise Katherine had already been exhausted. Now it was close to noon. Sunlight streamed into her bedchamber. How much longer could she last?

“Katherine!” Juliet cried excitedly. “The midwife sees the babe’s head! You must push now, dearheart, push as hard as you can!”

But Katherine was sobbing again, racked with yet another brutal pain.

“Push, lady, push,” Ginny cried. “The babe cannot stay in such a condition!”

Fear filled Katherine as she comprehended the midwife’s words. She had no strength left with which to push, yet the babe was no longer safely in her womb, but caught in her birth channel instead. What if she failed to push him out? Surely he would die!

She panted, knowing she must summon her strength now, strength she did not have, in order to expel the babe. Liam’s babe must live. She forced herself to bear down, clawing at Juliet’s hand.

“That’s good, Katherine, that’s good, I can see his entire head!” Juliet cried.

Katherine gave up, collapsing back against the pillows,
sobbing. She had no strength left, nothing. “Liam,” she cried. “Oh, God, I need Liam!”

Juliet paled.

Katherine wondered if this was the first time she had called his name aloud, and then she ceased to care. It should be Liam with her now, holding her hand, encouraging her through the worst trial of her life, not Juliet—and Hawke should not be the man standing outside her bedroom door.

“Push, lady, push now, and let the poor mite be born,” Ginny cried, her plump breasts swinging.

Liam’s image swam before her, concerned, demanding. Katherine knew she must succeed in giving him his child. This was the most important act of her entire life. Groaning, raised up on her elbows, she panted and pushed. And for one single instant it was his face she saw so close to her own, and his hand she felt upon her brow, not Juliet’s. She could do it—for him! She could, she would! The midwife cried out triumphantly, and in that same moment, Katherine knew she had managed to expel the babe.

The pain was gone. Katherine was flooded with relief. And as suddenly as her agony had ended, her weakness turned to strength. Katherine stared at the midwife, who was working between her legs. “Is it all right?” Katherine gasped, straining to see. She saw a mop of brown curls, and the babe’s body, which was covered with a whitish afterbirth and blood.

“’Tis just fine,” Ginny smiled, cutting the cord between mother and child.

“Is…is it a boy…or a girl?” Katherine gasped, on her elbows, desperate to see her newborn baby.

Ginny lifted the child for Katherine to see. “A boy, my lady, you have delivered a fine son to your lord.”

Tears streamed down Katherine’s face as she beheld her child, Liam’s son. The babe’s face was round, his nose somewhat flattened from the birthing, his arms and legs seeming surprisingly long; his tiny fingers were curling, and his blue, blue eyes were wide open—he was staring directly at her. He was the most beautiful sight Katherine
had ever seen. Instant, all-consuming love washed over Katherine, and she held out her arms.

“’Tis a big boy, too,” the midwife said. “Here, let me clean ’im up a bit fer you.”

“Oh, Katherine,” Juliet cried, her eyes swimming with tears. She gripped Katherine’s hands. “You have a son. A lovely, healthy son.”

Katherine sagged against the pillows, but never took her gaze from her son. Ginny was now wrapping the child in clean linens and a lightweight blanket. She held out her arms again. “Bring me my son,” she commanded softly, smiling, her eyes shining.

Ginny turned, the child in her arms, grinning back.

John Hawke stepped between them. “No.”

Katherine froze, turning her head toward the stern sound of Hawke’s voice. “My son,” she whispered, confused and uncertain. “I want to hold my son.”

Hawke’s jaw was rigid. “No,” he repeated. “Ginny, take the child downstairs, now.”

“I want my son,” Katherine cried, raising herself up with difficulty. “I want to hold my son. Why do you deny me?”

Juliet stared at Hawke, pale and wide-eyed.

Hawke looked only at Katherine, his face set in stone. “’Tis better that you do not hold him—that you do not know him. It will be easier for you, in the end.”

“Wh-what?” Katherine cried, struggling to sit. Juliet propped her up. “Hawke! I want my son!” She turned to stare at the midwife, who was bustling out of the door, the child in her arms. Tears filled Katherine’s eyes. “My son! Bring me my son!”

“Katherine, listen to me,” Hawke said.

“
No!
” Katherine screamed, kicking at the sheets and forcing her feet to the floor. She had to grip the bed for balance as a wave of dizziness swept her. Panic, huge and terrible, terrifying, filled her. “Did you lie! Did you lie!
I want my son!
”

“I did not lie, but my plans mean naught now,” Hawke said grimly. “The queen has decided to take the child into her own household, for reasons she has not declared.”

Katherine stared at him, panting, speechless.

“And because she said it was most important, I agreed,” Hawke said. Then, flushing, “I am the queen’s man, Katherine. I could not refuse her.”

Katherine shrieked. Terror engulfed her. “She is taking my son away from me? And you have let her? You cannot do this—you cannot!”

“He will be well cared for, Katherine,” John said. “I promise you that.”

Katherine screamed, doubling over in pain that felt physical and was far more severe than all that had gone before. When she finally straightened, her face was ravaged with rage, with fear, and with grief, making her appear old and ugly. “I want my son!” she screamed. “Give me back my son!”

“I cannot,” Hawke said. He hesitated. “I am sorry.” And he turned and walked away.

Katherine gasped, lunging to her feet. Juliet caught her before she could topple to the floor. “Let me go,” Katherine cried. “Let me go before they take my babe away! Oh God!
God!
Help me,
please!
”

Tears streaming down her own cheeks, Juliet held Katherine upright, preventing her from leaving. “Katherine, dearest, there is naught you can do, not if John has allowed this.”

Katherine ignored her. She found superhuman strength and managed to break free of Juliet. She staggered to the door, pulled on it. The wood seemed to weigh a hundred pounds. Panting, Katherine wrested it open. She stumbled into the corridor, clung to the railing at the top of the stairs. “Ginny! Come back! Ginny! Help me! They are stealing my son!”