Virginia Henley (36 page)

David started to laugh, then saw that Hepburn was serious.

“We’ll leave everything aboard while I acquaint you with Whitehall. The first thing you must do is speak with the Master of Ordnance, who’ll assign a place for my horse, armor and lances.”
The first thing I shall do is take the measure of Pembroke!

At Whitehall, Sir Henry Lee, Master of Ordnance, took Patrick and David into the royal stables and assigned a stall for Hepburn’s horse, which wasn’t Valiant, but another tall black he had used in jousting practice. The stables were busy and Hepburn thanked Lee and said casually, “I was told to take a look at Pembroke’s mount—a fancy piece of horseflesh, I understand.”

“The white gelding, yonder. Her Majesty is partial to white horses. If there’s aught you need, just ask a groom, m’lord.”

Patrick wandered over to the large stall. He was looking for something that belonged to William Herbert. He’d always had great success at divination from holding an object in his hand. Possessions often revealed hidden knowledge about their owners. He spotted a small tobacco pipe and palmed it immediately.

Inside the palace, a silver coin tossed to a servant furnished him with the location of Pembroke’s chambers. Patrick pointed David in the direction of a dining hall, then went to the kitchens for his own food. The fewer people who knew he was here, the better. He found an alcove that was shunned because of its drafty window and, as evening descended, he held the bowl of Pembroke’s pipe in the palm of his hand and concentrated. He immediately discerned that William Herbert had put out the pipe when he entered the stables because it was a fire hazard. Then, after he had tended the horse, he had forgotten the pipe.

Hepburn’s sixth sense explored for some essence of the man left behind on the object. The moment he discerned something, his inner eye focused intently. He smiled slowly.
Pembroke has a secret he wishes to conceal. He also has a quest—no, two quests that are linked. The first quest is simple to discern. He wishes to become Elizabeth’s champion in the tournament. I sense a trinity—Elizabeth, Catherine and another. Could it be Isobel? I also sense a trinity of emotions—ambition, affection and animosity. His second quest is matrimony with Catherine. The ambition is connected to Elizabeth and the affection is linked to Catherine. Animosity is for the third female—possibly Isobel, if she refuses her consent.
Hepburn’s grip tightened on the bowl of the pipe, but he received no further impressions. He finished his ale, made his way to the vicinity of Pembroke’s chambers and waited for him to appear.

Hepburn concealed himself for over an hour before Herbert left his rooms. The earl wore a dark cloak, and Patrick, sensing that he was on his way to an assignation, followed the tall, fair man. Pembroke left Whitehall and made his way to Canon Row, nearby. Patrick saw him meet a youth also garbed in a long, dark cloak. The two spoke and seemed to have an altercation. Hepburn suddenly sensed that the black-haired youth was a female dressed as a male.

“Hellcat!” he muttered. “Dressing as a boy is just the sort of impulsive behavior the little bitch would indulge!”

Hepburn perceived that things were not going well between the pair as Pembroke strode away, back toward the palace, and the small dark female stood looking forlorn before she turned away. Hepburn crushed the urge to stick his dirk between the courtier’s ribs and, instead, strode across the street. His long legs soon closed the distance between himself and the girl. He reached out a powerful hand, gripped her shoulder and spun her to face him. The female was pretty, but she was not Catherine.

The small young woman stared up at the dark giant who had accosted her and almost fainted from fright.

She was not any more shocked than Hepburn, however. “I humbly beg your pardon, mistress! I thought you were an acquaintance of mine. Please don’t be afraid; I mean you no harm.”

He cursed under his breath as she hurried away. Fury at Catherine had blinded him to all reason. Since the moment he met her she’d had the ability to affect his dreams, his thoughts, his moods and his actions. Hepburn was unused to anyone else’s influence; it chafed him like a burr beneath a horse’s saddle. Irritated beyond normal, Patrick went back to Whitehall and found David, and the pair went back to the ship to sleep aboard.

The following day, Hepburn issued a challenge to Pembroke, in the name of the Black Leopard, which was the device that decorated his breastplate and shield. Pembroke was jousting as the Golden Flame. Many jousters used this custom, and before the day was out Patrick had also challenged the Raven’s Wing and the Crimson Dragon.

November 17 dawned crisp and sunny. Old Whitehall Palace had a festive air about it today; banners flew everywhere, emblazoned with ELIZABETH REGINA and pronouncing that it was Accession Day.

As Catherine took her seat beside Philadelphia in the tiltyard stands, her outfit drew gasps from many of the other ladies of the Court. Cat was in her glory being the center of attention.

“This is rather exciting, don’t you think? Men poking each other with huge phallic symbols should prove entertaining.”

Catherine laughed. “It’s definitely a cockfight!”

“Poor Kate has been chosen to sit with Her Majesty, whom I warrant is in a demanding mood. Ah, well, better her than me, darling. Oh, look, the parade is starting.”

Fifty Yeomen of the Guard in full pomp were followed by dozens of trumpeters and drummers. Then those taking part in the joust rode by on curveting mounts caparisoned in brilliant silks.

“The Crimson Dragon is Cumberland! See the queen’s glove on his helmet? He wears the damn thing as a symbol of chivalry,” Philadelphia declared.

By the time the first pair of combatants entered the lists, the crowd was cheering and stamping its feet, partly to keep warm. Cat recognized that the Golden Flame was the Earl of Pembroke. As he couched his lance and started to gallop, she stood up and began to shout encouragement. When he unseated the Raven’s Wing, Cat’s cheers were drowned out by everyone else’s.

The next two jousts were both declared draws, and Philadelphia bought herself and Cat cups of spiced hippocras to warm their blood. A frown marred Cat’s brow as she studied the Black Leopard. Garbed in sable armor, he wore black from plume to spurs. In the recesses of her mind, a memory stirred. He defeated his opponent with ease, but Cat reminded herself that Pembroke had already unseated the same opponent in an earlier joust.

“The Black Leopard’s a dangerous-looking devil.” Philadelphia licked her lips. “Big with it, too!”

Cat remembered at Crichton she had sat in a chair whose wooden arms were carved leopards.
Hepburn leopards,
Patrick had told her. A frisson of excitement rippled through her. The thought danced away from her as the Golden Flame took on the Crimson Dragon and defeated him. Cat sat basking in reflected glory, since many at Court were aware that Pembroke was pursuing her.

One by one the challengers were defeated, and in the early afternoon only two champions remained for the final joust: the Golden Flame and the Black Leopard.

“Darling, you won’t be too disappointed if Pembroke goes down in defeat, will you?” Philadelphia teased.

“He won’t be defeated! He’s the Queen’s Champion.”

“Well, my money’s on the big fellow. Their lances may be the same length,” she said bawdily, “but I wager the Black Leopard wields his great weapon with more staying power.”

Cat watched the pair of combatants as they entered the lists.

It was like a contest between good and evil, light and darkness. The Golden Flame, mounted upon his milk white steed, saluted Elizabeth while the crowd roared. The Black Leopard, astride the huge black stallion, dropped his visor and couched his lance.

The baton fell and clods of earth flew into the air. Hepburn visualized his lance point striking the hostile shield with such force his challenger was flung from the saddle. A split second later it happened exactly as he had envisioned.

The white steed galloped from the lists. The Golden Flame lay prone, unmoving. A woman screamed. Pembroke’s squire ran onto the field. Catherine jumped to her feet, nimbly ran down the steps of the tiered stands and rushed to the wooden barrier. The Black Leopard, still mounted, blocked her view.

Hepburn looked down through the slit in his visor and saw Catherine. His breath caught in his throat at the exquisite beauty arrayed in white velvet, her delicate face framed in white swansdown, her golden eyes glittering with apprehension. He raised his visor so that she could see his eyes.

Cat looked up into the black eyes and recoiled. “You!” Her gaze swept over the crumpled heap of the Golden Flame. “You’ve murdered him!” she accused.

“Nay, I’ve only muddied him and laid his pride in the dust.”

Pembroke’s squire helped him struggle to his feet, and a great cheer went up from the stands. Cat raised her chin and went back to Philadelphia, valiantly trying to not feel humiliated. When she sat down, Philadelphia took her hand.

“It’s Hepburn,” Cat said in a tight voice.

“Yes, I rather thought it might be.”
He lost no time in coming to place his brand on his possession.
She squeezed Cat’s hand.

Elizabeth raised her royal hand and beckoned the two jousters. A hush fell over the crowd. The Black Leopard dismounted and gave his horse and his lance to his squire. Then he walked over to where Pembroke’s shattered lance lay in the dust. He picked up the queen’s favor, bowed gallantly to his vanquished opponent and handed him the fluttering silk banner. The crowd cheered wildly.

The two men approached Elizabeth and knelt. She told them to rise and then said something that none but the two combatants heard. The man in sable armor bent his head and spoke words for her ears alone.

Her Majesty the queen stood and raised both arms for silence. “The Black Leopard graciously disqualifies himself on the grounds that he is not an Englishman. We therefore declare that the Golden Flame is Queen’s Champion of the Tourney. However, I invite both champions to present their shields so that they may be displayed in the Shield Gallery.” The crowd, thoroughly enjoying the spectacle, gave them a standing ovation.

“Gracious?” Cat hissed. “Hepburn has never acted graciously in his life!”

“Grace is better suited to a woman ... Hepburn is all man.”

Cat flushed, remembering. “I’m freezing, Philadelphia,” she lied. “I really must go in now. I shall see you this evening.”

Catherine always took great care with her coiffure, but for tonight’s festivities she took special pains fashioning an upswept style with loose curls about her face. Maggie helped her thread a string of crystal droplets that resembled tiny icicles through her tresses. Her white velvet gown, with the shoulder cape and hood removed, was severely plain, except for its deep-cut décolletage. When the white satin sleeves encrusted with crystal beads were attached, however, the gown became spectacular.

Maggie fastened the delicate ruff around her neck. “I hear Lord Stewart put on quite a show at the joust today.”

“Yes, he did make a spectacle of himself.” Cat looked at her reflection in the mirror.
I’ll show him!
She licked her lips and pinched her cheeks.
I’ll show him what a prize he has lost!

Isobel came into her bedchamber carrying a small posy of white Tudor roses. “This just arrived for you, Catherine. I believe it is from your devoted admirer,” she said coyly.

“Oh, how lovely! They must have been grown in the royal hothouse.” She lifted them, breathed in their fragrant scent and sighed. “An Elizabethan courtier is the epitome of gallantry.”

Cat arrived in the Privy Chamber, where the play was to be presented early, followed by the banquet. She spotted Kate and Philadelphia and joined them.

“Catherine, you look absolutely divine,” Kate said. “Elizabeth will likely be late tonight. She’s in one of her fussy moods. She kept poor Mary Fitton on the run all day fetching wine, then rosewater to dilute it, then glowing coals for her hand warmer, then hot bricks for her feet. I hope she didn’t catch cold.”

“Or we’ll all suffer,” Philadelphia said dryly.

“The Globe Players have arrived. I understand we have William Herbert to thank for arranging the play,” Kate said.

“Yes, Shakespeare is a personal friend of his,” Cat confirmed.

“It’s Pembroke’s shining hour, first as the Golden Flame and now as Elizabeth’s golden-haired patron of drama.”

“It’s a romance,” Cat told Philadelphia. “
Love’s Labour’s Lost.
”

“Some romances are full of drama ... if you’re lucky, darling.”

Catherine saw her aunt Beth across the chamber and used her as an excuse to move away from Philadelphia before she made any more innuendos about Patrick Hepburn.
Hellfire! I must have conjured him.
Cat knew she would never reach Beth before Hepburn’s long strides overtook her, so she stopped and, raising her chin, struck a challenging pose as the black-clad devil bore down upon her.

She dazzled his eyes. It was as if her white gown drew all the light and held it.
Mine!
He felt completely possessive of her. His mouth curved in a sensual smile as he looked down at her. “I’m glad you like my flowers, Catherine.”

“
Your
flowers?” Her hands clutched the posy desperately as she searched for a cutting remark. Heat sliced to her belly because of his closeness, and her eyes lowered to the roses. With dismay she saw that he had made her crush the delicate flowers. “They are lovely; allow me to share them with you.” Impulsively, she raised her hands high and showered his shoulders with crushed rose petals.

She tried to walk away but was horrified to feel his powerful fingers clamped about her wrist, holding her captive. Her eyes blazed with fury. “My lord, you are hurting me ... again.”