Virginia Henley (35 page)

“Catherine, I’ve waited more than an hour, but I couldn’t give up. Thank you for coming. You look so beautiful in the light of the huge harvest moon. Did you bring me your favor to wear?”

“Yes, William. My scarf is emblazoned with the winged Winton dragon, my ancient Scottish emblem.” She draped it about his neck playfully. “Its mystic power will make you the champion.”

He slid it from his neck, kissed the white silk and inhaled its heady perfume. “My lady fair.” He slipped the scarf about her neck and drew her close. “Perhaps it is prophetic that Wilton and Winton are only one letter apart.”

“Prophetic?” Cat asked breathlessly, anticipating his kiss.

“It seems perfectly natural that they be joined together.” He fused his mouth to hers in a demonstration.

“My lord, you go too fast.” She pulled away, but not too far.

He’s certainly experienced in gallantry. It was a seductive kiss, but, thank God and all his saints, his touch didn’t turn me into a wild woman without control. In fact, with William Herbert I believe I shall be the one in control.
“The moonlight is so romantic. Shall we walk down by the river?”

He clasped her hand and took it to his lips. “River? I fear I’m in over my head already, Lady Catherine.”

“I warrant you are a most experienced swimmer, Lord Pembroke.”

“Even so, I could drown in the golden depths of your eyes.”

“By the way, I hinted to the queen that the ladies of the Court would love to see one of Will Shakespeare’s plays performed.”

“Thank you, Catherine. The queen asked me only this morning if I could arrange for the Globe Players to come to Whitehall sometime during her Accession celebration. What sort of play would you enjoy most?”

“A romance, of course.”

He slipped his arm about her. “Then a romance you shall have, Catherine Seton Spencer.”

Patience was not Hepburn’s long suit, but his determination turned dogged as he and his posse scoured the English Borders, going from one lead to another. Early October even took them to the Highlands, but once again the rumor turned out to be false.

As the Hepburns sat around their campfire contemplating their next move, Patrick stared into the blaze, mesmerized by the blue and orange flames. It came to him that he would find Foss Armstrong back on his own midden. In mid-October the marches needed patrolling as cattle reiving became rampant again, after the quiet summer months.

When Patrick stood up the men looked at him with expectant eyes, awaiting his decision. He bit out one word: “Hermitage!”

Two days later, after a hard ride, Hepburn’s instincts had proven infallible. He had Foss Armstrong imprisoned inside the grim fortalice along with eight of his men. Only the warden was trussed, the rest were free to go if they dared take the chance.

“I want my five thousand back, plus a thousand for my trouble.”

“I don’t know what ye’re talkin’ about,” Foss growled.

“Armstrongs are fond of nicknames. Let’s see, there’s No-Nose Willie—how would you like to be known as No-Nuts Foss?”

Armstrong’s swarthy face actually blanched.

Hepburn smiled. “No, even I couldn’t be that cruel—yet. As nicknames go, I prefer Fingerless Foss. I’ll chop one off every day until I get my money.” He picked up his axe.

Armstrong struggled against his ropes. “Ride tae the king!” he ordered his first lieutenant. “Tell him his top Border warden is being assaulted! Tell him I’m layin’ charges against Hepburn!”

Calmly, Hepburn placed Armstrong’s hand on the table and brought down his blade swiftly, severing the little finger.

Armstrong’s second in command bolted from the castle to ride to Edinburgh. No one stopped him.

As Foss stared at his bloody hand in horror, Hepburn said, “You know, Jamie has a tendency to be ponderous when making a decision. If he only takes a week to act on your behalf, that’s seven days. By that time, you’ll have only thumbs left.” Hepburn nodded to Jock. “Cauterize that so he can think straight.”

When Jock stuck an iron poker in the fire, Armstrong cried out, “Go an’ get the money! Be back before this time tomorrow!”

“You know, Fingerless, I’m easy. I’ll take the six thousand in gold,” Hepburn said expansively. He looked at the seven Armstrongs who were ready for flight. “Off you go, lads.”

Catherine felt the bodice of her gown being unbuttoned and gave Herbert’s wandering hand a sharp slap. “My lord, I do not permit such liberties to any man.”

“Not even one who wishes to make you his wife, Catherine?”

She took a deep breath as she digested his words. She had watched him practice jousting earlier in the afternoon and been impressed with his performance. This was a joust of another sort. In the space of a fortnight they had gone from acquaintance to courtship.
Is the Earl of Pembroke hinting at betrothal?
“Her Majesty frowns upon her courtiers marrying, William.”

“My cousin Edward Somerset wed Lady Anne Russell a couple of months back, and Elizabeth, far from objecting, attended the festivities at Cobham’s house in Blackfriars.”

“Ah, but Anne was the widow of Ambrose Dudley, Lord Warwick. Any with a Dudley connection can do no wrong in the queen’s eyes.”

“Some say I am Queen Elizabeth’s new favorite.” He dipped his head and kissed her. “Methinks I can do no wrong either.”

“Are you proposing marriage, William?” she asked outright.

“And if I am, what would your answer be, Lady Fair and Chaste?”

“My answer would be
perhaps,
my Lord Favorite. You may propose the day you become my champion in the tournament.”

Before the end of October, chatter had spread through the palace about the courtship. Philadelphia was the first person to repeat the rumors she had heard. “Is there any truth to it, Catherine?”

“That I have been asked to become the Countess of Pembroke?” she asked coyly. “You must admit, it is rather tempting.”

“He has a reputation as a womanizer. Be sure it’s marriage he’s proposing. Are you in love with him?” she asked bluntly.

“Don’t be silly. I’m wise enough to let my head rule my heart.”

“Good! Promise me you won’t do anything foolish like eloping. If he wants you badly enough, he will wait until you come of age.”

Catherine began to notice all the looks of envy that the other ladies cast her way. She knew it would not be long before Maggie heard the gossip, but she hoped her mother didn’t get wind of it.

The next day, Maggie cornered her. “All the palace servants are repeating the rumor that ye and William Herbert have an understanding. Are they true or false, my lamb?”

“The Earl of Pembroke and I
do
have an understanding, Maggie. When he proposes marriage, he understands that I will answer him.”

“And I understand that ye are speaking in riddles!”

“That’s because I haven’t made up my mind yet.”

“Good. Ye are far too impulsive. Think long and hard. He’s a courtier. His ambition and his life are centered on Elizabeth.”

“That’s a point in his favor as far as I’m concerned. We both wish to remain at Court, rather than be buried in the country.”

Maggie pressed her lips together in disapproval.

The next day Isobel received an invitation for herself and her daughter to dine with the Earl and Countess of Worcester at their house in Charing Cross, which was conveniently close to Whitehall.

“This is quite a coup, Catherine. The invitation is from Anne Russell, who was the Countess of Warwick before she wed Worcester. Anne is the queen’s favorite lady, after Kate Howard and Philadelphia Scrope.”

Worcester is Pembroke’s cousin. William is behind this invitation. If we dine with them, Mother will find out!
“You don’t really wish to go to Charing Cross, do you?”

“Of course we shall go. To refuse would be a slap in the face to the countess and thus to Her Majesty,” Isobel declared firmly.

I cannot believe that only a few months ago I allowed Worcester’s son Hal to escort me to London plays. How could I have been attracted to such a boy?
Once again her damnable inner voice answered:
That was before you met a real man!
Cat cursed herself. Hadn’t she vowed to never even think of Hepburn?

The day after the dinner party, Isobel Spencer consulted with her sister-in-law Beth, and Philadelphia and Kate. “The Earl of Pembroke asked my permission to pay court to Catherine. Since he is reputed to be Her Majesty’s new favorite, I thought it best not to refuse him. I told him that they must be chaperoned at all times since the queen insists her unmarried ladies be virgin. Do you think I did the right thing?”

Kate patted Isobel’s hand. “Catherine will be twenty-one soon.”

But Philadelphia warned, “Elizabeth has never been generous enough to share her favorites with other females.”

“Oh, dear. The last thing in the world I want is her wrath!”

The moment Isobel left, Philadelphia penned a note to Hepburn.

When Patrick Hepburn read the missive from Lady Scrope, he cursed soundly and immediately set up practice lists at Crichton. If Herbert thought he was going to be Hellcat’s champion, he was going to have a rude awakening.

The frosts of November had covered the ground before Patrick defeated every Hepburn, Stewart and Elliot who lived at Crichton. Scores of splintered lances had to be chopped into firewood. Then he took himself off to visit King James.

“Where’ve ye bin, mon? Ye neglect our Court fer months on end an’ turn up when it suits yer own purpose!” Jamie complained.

“I’ve been practicing for the tournament, Sire.”

“What tournament?” the king asked truculently.

“Elizabeth’s Accession Day Tournament, November seventeenth, Sire.”

“God’s toenails, the woman ha’ ruled England fer forty-four years. ’Tis unnatural! I warrant she made a pact wi’ the Devil!’Tis high time she slipped this mortal coil and made room fer her successor.”

“Do not begrudge her the festivities of her last winter, Sire.”

“It had better be her last hurrah!” He bent a threatening glance on Hepburn. “There’s no news that she’s even ailing!” Jamie complained petulantly.

“Sire,” he lied smoothly, “the primary reason for my visit to Whitehall is to bring you details of Elizabeth’s physical and mental condition.”

“Oh, aye; I ken it has naught tae do wi’ scoutin’ a wealthy English heiress fer yersen,” Jamie said shrewdly.

Hepburn managed to look offended. “You wrong me, Sire.”

“I will if the Crown doesna’ come tae me on the date ye prophesied, Patrick, mon.”

“Trust me, Sire.”

T
rust me, Catherine.”

“Males can never be fully trusted, William. If the queen desires you to wear her favor in the tournament, how can I be sure you will wear my scarf tucked against your heart?” Cat teased.

“It’s there now—feel,” he urged huskily.

“Let the queen feel you,” she mocked.

“I do,” he said outrageously. “That’s why I’m her favorite.”

“And here’s me thinking it was your dactyl pentameter that held her in thrall.” Cat often indulged in racy badinage with Pembroke; banter kept him at arm’s length. She moved away and changed the subject. “Which play are the Globe Players presenting after the tournament?”

“
Love’s Labour’s Lost.
I think you’ll enjoy it.”

“Ah, but it isn’t me you have to please; it’s Elizabeth.”

“Do I please you, Catherine?”

“What an odd thing to say. I wouldn’t have given you my favor otherwise, my lord.”

“And will you favor me with a
yes
when I pop the question?”

“I might be persuaded to bestow my hand and my affection upon the Champion of the Tourney. Such a man would be hard to resist.”

During the week before the Accession celebrations, nobles and their retinues descended upon Whitehall, attracted by the tournament. Percy, Earl of Northumberland, and Clifford, Earl of Cumberland, strutted about the Court issuing challenges for the joust. Meanwhile, the ladies of the Court were busy planning their splendid attire, which would be showcased in the stands, where the best seats were being sold for a shilling apiece.

Catherine had designed a gown for herself that would make her stand out in the crowd. Since Elizabeth forbade the maidens of her Court from wearing brilliant colors, Cat chose angelic white velvet. Because the November weather was extremely cold this year, she and Maggie had devised a matching velvet shoulder cape and hood, trimmed with ethereal white swansdown. A white fur muff completed the outfit. When it was finished and she tried it on, Cat knew she looked like the Snow Queen from a fairy tale.

When the
Hepburn Rose
docked in the Pool of London, Patrick noticed there were chunks of ice floating in the water. This time he had brought his cousin David Hepburn to act as his squire in the jousting. The tall young captain with auburn hair cut a gallant figure. “If the ship traffic was not so busy, the river Thames would have frozen over.”

David’s eyes widened. “This is my first visit to London—I never dreamt the city would be this big, my lord.”

“A word to the wise, David. Don’t let the Court or its occupants intimidate you. You have better blood than all the courtiers rolled together. Your natural swagger will carry you through any situation. Just shout,
‘Make way fer a Borderer!’”