The Hawk and the Dove

by Virginia Henley

The Reverend Bishop stepped from his study and dispatched a servant to summon Sara. His wife overheard the order and approached him with a question in her eyes. He dismissed her with a pat of the shoulder. “Business, my dear, don’t worry your little head over it. Run upstairs now and make sure that Sara’s appearance is respectable before she presents herself.”

  Sabre hesitated at the study door. The room held only hurtful associations for her. She could not help thinking the next blow would not be long in arriving.

  “Come, come, girl, our time is precious,” said her stepfather impatiently. It galled him to have her consulted on any matter, let alone one connected to Rory Wilde, his dead rival for his wife’s affections. “Mr. Goldman, this is my daughter Sara.”

  She curtsied to the short, dark man. “Good day, sir.”

  Goldman was startled, though he didn’t show it outwardly. The girl was breathtaking. The ill-fitting, nondescript gown did little to conceal her glory. Her beautiful face was crowned by a coronet of red-gold braids. Her mouth was set in stubborn lines at the moment, but if it smiled she would be glorious. Her pale green eyes, set off by dark brows, long, dark lashes, and the black beauty mark, were startling, almost mesmerizing, when she leveled them at him.

  “Miss Bishop, I am here on business concerning land in Ireland your late father bequeathed you.”

  Her brows rose in astonishment. The man was here because he had business with her!

  Reverend Bishop said, “This will be difficult for you to understand, Sara. Mr. Goldman needs you to sign your name to a paper. It’s really as simple as that.”

  She leveled her gaze upon her stepfather, thrust up her chin dangerously, and said, “Please don’t address me as if I were a four-year-old.” She turned to the other man, but her attitude did not soften. “Mr. Goldman, I assume you are a solicitor and you need my signature on a legal document concerning my land in Ireland. Why?” she asked baldly.

  Jacob Goldman concealed a smile. She possessed intelligence as well as beauty. She also had spirit. So much spirit this narrow-minded, small-town, Bible-thumping authoritarian hadn’t been able to quell. “Miss Bishop, I am acting agent for a gentleman who wishes to purchase your land.”

  “It is not for sale, Mr. Goldman. You see, it is the only thing I have left of my father besides his sabre. The Irish land is the only dowry I possess.”

  Reverend Bishop could not prevent his mouth from hardening into a thin line. “The land is worthless, you stupid girl, so filled with stones and rocks that crops cannot be grown on it.”

  “If it is worthless, why is this gentleman so avid to purchase it?” Her delicate brows arched their question.

  “Mr. Goldman, you can see she is impossible to deal with. I apologize for such impertinence. I am ashamed that a young woman under my roof would offer you such insult!”

  “Not at all, Mr. Bishop,” Goldman said smoothly. God’s feet, if the man didn’t shut up he was going to jeopardize the deal he had come to finalize. “Miss Bishop, please feel free to ask any questions at all. The gentleman I act for needs your land for easier access to his own lands. May I ask if you have ever seen your Irish holdings?”

  “No, sir, with deep regret I have not, but I hope to remedy that situation one day.”

  “Your land is in Ulster. It lies between the Mountains of Mourne and the foothills of Slieve Croob. There is a long, narrow waterway that leads almost to Newry. My client owns all the land around Newry, almost up to Armagh, but your few acres separate his land from the waterway that provides access to the sea. I am authorized to offer you two hundred pounds to purchase your acres outright,” finished Mr. Goldman.

  “I’m sorry, sir, the land is my only dowry,” she declined politely.

  “Are you mad, girl, or merely possessed of the devil?” thundered Bishop. “Dowry indeed! Who in their right mind would take you as wife? If you had any sense of duty you would take the money and give it to your mother and me for your keep. The likelihood of your ever receiving an offer of marriage is slim, and we shall be obliged to pay for the privilege of your company for years to come!”

  The animosity in the room was almost tangible. Mr. Goldman despaired. He sighed inwardly and suggested on a soothing note, “I am actually authorized to go as high as five hundred pounds, Miss Bishop. The five hundred pounds could be set up legally as your dowry, which in my humble opinion would be more attractive to a suitor than a few acres in a godforsaken country, begging your pardon for the blasphemy, Reverend Bishop.”

  Sabre almost jumped at it. Surely five hundred pounds would bring her a husband. She looked at her stepfather and read his expression clearly. If she did not agree to this sale he would be enraged. Why did he want it so badly? she asked herself. To be rid of her? If that were so, why hadn’t he accepted the offers he’d had for her? At least two of her sisters’ husbands had offered for her first. No, he wanted her to accept the money so he could fill his own coffers. He certainly couldn’t spend land.

  “Your offer is most generous, Mr. Goldman. Please understand, it is not the money that makes me refuse you. My father gave the land into my keeping and there it shall remain.” She flashed her stepfather a triumphant glance. “Good afternoon, gentlemen.”

  “You see?” demanded Bishop after she had left. “As a man of the law surely there is some way you can legalize my signing the papers for her.”

  Jacob Goldman closed his leather portfolio and thought scornfully of the churchman’s ethics. “I shall report to my principal, sir. If he still wishes to obtain the land, I shall again contact you. Good afternoon.” He bowed his way out into the fresh air, glad that he had refused all offer of refreshment. A country inn would be a more congenial atmosphere for dining.

  Sabre returned to her room, this time taking care to lock the door from the inside. Reverend Bishop would either be incensed enough to commit violence upon her person, or would use more subtle means to bend her to his will, and until she knew which tack he would take, she decided to lock her door for protection.

  Shane Hawkhurst had spent ten summers with the O’Neill from the ages of eight to eighteen and as a result of his strong influence Shane’s loyalties were divided. He had tried to serve and please two fathers all his life, no easy task, for they were both strong-willed, demanding men in their own right. Shane had a network of couriers who went back and forth between England and Ireland. One of his ships used solely for this purpose was not even registered to the Hawkhursts. It was registered in the name of its captain, Liam O’Malley, who had been chosen for the job because of his name. If he was ever caught it would be assumed he was connected with the pirate queen, Grace O’Malley. The name of the ship was the Liverpool Lady, sailing between the port of Liverpool and Carlingford Lough to Newry. The halfway point between London and Liverpool was Birmingham and the couriers who went back and forth were referred to by these cities’ names rather than their own.

  The O’Neill ruthlessly traded on his son’s loyalty, taking all by way of arms, monies, and information and giving nothing in return. O’Neill was building an army with modern weapons right under England’s nose.

  Shane did what he could to free Irish prisoners either by paying their fines or ransoms, or by bribing their jailers so they could escape. The baron often acted as go-between, especially where matters of the greatest secrecy were involved. He was almost invisible when alone, appearing to be merely another monk wandering England’s countryside. Sometimes the country roads seemed glutted with these holy men since the late King Henry VIII had closed the great monasteries.

  The baron took a message from Hawkhurst to Francis Drake in Plymouth. It was short and to the point:

  “Rumors true. Armada being built.”

  The baron returned with an equally brief answer:

  “At court—next week.”

  Matthew Hawkhurst’s ship arrived in port on schedule. He had just returned from Holland, where he had taken supplies to the English forces fighting there, helping the Dutch in their war
against Spain.

  Hawk was on the quay by the time Matthew dropped anchor, and the two brothers embraced heartily.

  “Hawk, you old sea dog, glad to see you safely returned.” He was a younger, slimmer version of Shane, much less serious, with an open, laughing countenance. He was a sweet-tempered youth who set maidens sighing and brought out the maternal instinct in older women.

  “Matt, you young devil! Did you encounter any trouble with your deliveries?”

  Matt grinned. “Nay, I’ve had five runs while you were away and I did what you suggested each time.”

  “Good lad!” approved his brother. Elizabeth was a miser when it came to supplying her English armies in Holland. The commanders were paying their men out of their own pockets, because the crown would not foot all the bills. Hawk told Matthew to take half the armor, muskets, and ammunition from each cargo and store them in their own warehouses. The space on the ships was then filled with food, uniforms, blankets, and much-needed horses. The horses came from Ireland and Hawk exchanged the stolen weapons for horses through the O’Neill.

  “How’s Father?” Matt asked anxiously.

  Hawk shook his head unhappily. “Worse each day, but he’ll be better for your company, I’ll wager.”

  Matthew nodded his head toward the Spanish prize. “Are we keeping that in our fleet?”

  Hawk ran his fingers through his mane of hair. “She’s a bit toplofty. I’m having the men take off four brass cannons to mount on our ships, then I think England can have her. Tomorrow you can help me select some cargo to take up to London.”

  Matthew grinned, knowing his brother’s tactics. “What did you smuggle?”

  Hawk rubbed his nose. “Enough! God’s cock, why don’t ye shout it from the topdeck? You’re getting too big for your breeches!”

  “That’s what the ladies tell me,” Matt said with a suggestive leer. Hawk threw his arm about his younger brother and they went up to the big house.

  After supper, when Hawk visited his father, he found him and Matt laughing together. He held his tongue when he saw that Matt had somehow concealed a bottle of brandy from his mother’s sharp eyes and joined them in a toast to Sebastian’s return to health, although both knew this was unlikely. Their father then proposed a toast.

  “We’ll drink to the upcoming nuptials.”

  Matt was so amused, he sprayed a mouthful of brandy across the room as he guffawed at the jest. Hawk scowled darkly, which told Matt there was perhaps a grain of truth in what their father had said. “Who’s the bride?” he asked, trying to keep his face straight.

  Sebastian said, “Matthew, I’m serious. Your brother has given me his word that he will marry before he comes into the title.”

  “Poor bitch!” said Hawk mockingly, and the two brothers bent double at the dark humor of it all.

  In the morning they gravely doubted the wisdom of their revelry, for Sebastian had slipped into a comalike state from which he could hardly be roused. After a quick consultation with Matt and Georgiana, Hawk decided to leave for London immediately so that he could return before anything worse happened. It was plain that death was inevitable; only the timing remained unknown.

  The Hawkhursts loaded jars of powdery red cochineal and chests of indigo balls with which to dye good English cloth. They set jars of olives and bottles of olive oil carefully in the hold. Hawk chose some fine Oriental porcelain and bolts of silk that had probably come all the way from the Philippines and been hauled across Mexico before he had taken it as contraband off the Azores.

  Georgiana spoke privately with him before the flood tide once more took him away from her. “I know Sebastian has extracted a promise of marriage from you, but if you wait until you are Lord Devonport you will probably do better in the marriage market. There will be dozens of titled heiresses to chose from at court.”

  “Mother, you are deluding yourself if you think Elizabeth will let me marry one of her ladies. She flies into a jealous rage at the merest hint of marriage. When I wed I’ll likely have to keep it secret or spend time in the Tower.”

  “Then marry a Devon girl and let her stay here with me. Every single friend I have has a daughter who has tried to wangle an invitation to meet you. Shane, darling, you are a legend!”

  He gave her a short, deprecating laugh. “Legends pick their own women, surely?”

  Contrite, she knew she had stepped over the boundary line by suggesting she choose a wife for him. “Good-bye, darling, hurry back.”

  The two galleons sailed through the Straits of Dover, rounded Margate, headed for Southend and up the River Thames toward the London Pool. As soon as his ship was sighted off Margate the news of his arrival would spread like wildfire until it reached the ears of the queen herself.

  Hawkhurst preferred to announce himself, so keeping his famous dragon sail hoisted in the stiff river breeze, he waited until he drew abreast of Greenwich Palace, then ordered a cannon be fired for one salute. The queen’s private apartments overlooked the river where she could watch ships from all over the world travel this busiest of her highways.

  Hawkhurst knew the startling uproar the boom of a ship’s cannon would create so close to the palace, but he loved to be dramatic. He allowed five minutes to elapse to give the queen and her court time to run to the windows, then he swept off his feathered cap and bowed low in homage to Gloriana.

  The corridors of Greenwich Palace were abuzz with the news of the Sea God’s arrival, accompanied by the whispers and giggles of every female, from the lowest scullery maid to the highest-ranking lady of the bedchamber. Within the hour he strode through the public gallery resplendent in the latest fashion from France. His soft leather boots reached his thighs and he wore a short fur-edged cape and a narrow Italian rapier in a jewel-encrusted sheath. The white pleated ruff at his neck set off his bronzed face and lion’s mane of hair. Today he wore two great thumb rings, one a black diamond, the other a blood-red ruby as big as a pigeon’s egg.

  He made his way to the presence chamber, where the queen greeted many guests as she sat in her great chair of state. In the ensuing hour she had changed her dress twice and her jewelry thrice, losing her temper with her ladies even to the point of slapping Mary Shelton’s face. She had finally decided upon the Tudor colors of green and white. The deep green satin sleeves were slashed to show white undersleeves encrusted with crystal beads. She had selected a stiff lace neck whisk to show off her white breasts and throat and she wore no fewer than ten strands of pearls. A pearl-and-diamond coronet anchored down a vivid red wig, and she wore a different-jeweled ring on every single finger of her long, slim white hands. Her skin was as white as Albion rocks, bleached by a secret lotion she always used. Her nose was too long and her lips too thin, yet she expected her ladies to tell her how beautiful she was, and her gentlemen to tell her they would die of the passion they had for her.

  In spite of the fevered preparations of the past hour she sat now in the chair of state and looked past Hawkhurst as if he were invisible. Shane smiled to himself. She was punishing him for shooting off the cannon and for being away for six months. He wondered arrogantly how long she would be able to resist him. Cynically he gave her half an hour, but at the end of fifteen minutes in the crowded room, she arose and ushered everyone from the room with an imperious “Leave us now. We would be alone.” She paused dramatically, then commanded, “Captain Hawkhurst, I believe you desire private audience.”

  She had not dismissed her ladies-in-waiting yet and they encircled her in the pale insipid gowns she insisted they wear so she would stand out like a jeweled centerpiece. Every female in the room lusted for him and he was fully aware of it, yet not by one look or gesture did he acknowledge or notice them. He knew intimately of each lady’s youth and beauty, but at this moment he had eyes only for the queen’s most precious person. She was well pleased with him. The black pupils of her eyes glittered. “You may leave us now. The queen would be alone with her Sea God.”

  Before the door to the privy
chamber had fully closed behind her ladies, Shane swept Elizabeth into strong arms and strode with her down the room to the chair of state. “Bess, I’m starved for the sight of you!” Hawkhurst knew she loved a man to be independent and daring. She could not stomach weakness in a man.

  “Put me down! God’s blood, you are a bold fellow!”

  “Who intends to be bolder,” he said, pressing his lips to her neck just beneath her ear, then sat himself in her chair of state and held her in his lap. He grinned down at her. “I brought you a present.”

  “I heard about the Spanish galleon. Your daring transcends ordinary sanity!”

  “I mean a present for you, Bess, not England.”

  Her black eyes glittered with excitement at being held captive against his broad chest.

  “Where is it?” she commanded.

  “Find it!” he challenged.

  Her long, slim hands made short work of frisking his body until she detected a box tucked inside his doublet. Her fingers slipped between his doublet and his silk shirt, but still could not close over the treasure, for it was beneath even the shirt. Her nimble fingers undid a button and slipped teasingly between the silk and his naked flesh, and he pretended to groan with the passion she aroused in him.

  Exultantly she drew forth the box and opened it greedily. There lay a magnificent pair of dangling ear ornaments of jade and emeralds. She was inordinately fond of jewels and allowed him to fasten them onto her ears. Then he looked deep into her eyes and said suggestively, “What hidden treasure do you have for me, Bess?”

  She slapped his bold hand from the hem of her gown. “You forget yourself because I call you a god.”

  “Nay, I’m all man!”

  “Knave is more like it,” she scolded archly. “If I invite you to return tomorrow will you bring me another jewel?”

  He grinned. “Aye, but if you invite me to return tonight, I’ll give you that which I treasure most.” Then he bent and kissed her full upon the mouth.

  She melted into his arms; then, like quicksilver, she jumped from his lap and assumed her queenship again. “Sirrah, I command you to come for the dancing tonight. More you dare not hope for.”