The Hawk and the Dove

by Virginia Henley

  Sabre shuddered. “She doesn’t do the actual killing, does she?”

  “Ha! Right in the thick of it. The moment the quarry’s brought down, she’s there with her knife to slit its throat and cut off its ears to bestow on her favorites!”

  Then I shall distance myself from the front ranks, thought Sabre, as she hurried to her chamber to don the lovely white velvet riding dress with its delicious black silk waistcoat, for no one was excused from the royal hunt on the queen’s birthday.

  The Hawkhurst groom already had her horse saddled and waiting when she arrived late at the stables. The main party of Elizabeth and her courtiers had set off a half hour since, and they set a hard, fast pace for the hunt deep into Windsor’s forests. The creamy Arabian was dancing nervously, so she crooned softly to her and firmly stroked her flank before mounting. The horse’s flesh quivered beneath her hand for a few moments and then seemed to calm under her touch.

  Hawkhurst had been searching for her, riding back and forth along the wooded trails until at last he spotted her. She was the most vivid sight he’d ever seen atop the white mare, in her all-white velvet habit, with her breasts outlined in black silk. Crowning her glorious copper hair was the sauciest feather curving along her cheek, then dipping beneath her chin. If only he could have her to himself, riding on one of his own estates instead of here among this royal rabble.

  His eyes sought hers, looking for a sign of forgiveness, but her chin went up at the sight of him and she looked most displeased.

  “Sabre, you take my breath away,” he complimented.

  “If you don’t keep away from me, you will take my breath away … my life’s breath if the queen claps me in the Tower.”

  At that moment Essex, resplendent in white satin, thundered into the clearing where they sat mounted, and the Arabian mare screamed her fright at the advancing stallion and began to rear. Both men dismounted in a flash and took her bridle to quiet the young horse. Sabre kept her seat, but she was angry at the men for singling her out. “Can you not keep that damned stallion under control?” she demanded of Essex.

  He spoke suggestively as always. “He knows a fine piece when he sees one. We are always ready to serve.”

  A royal page came riding up, his horse badly lathered. “My lord Essex, my lord Devonport, the queen would know your whereabouts and commands you both for her escort.”

  Both were loath to let go of Sabre’s bridle and tried to stare each other down. Finally Hawkhurst ground out, “You’re her bloody master of horse, you go!”

  “Please, both of you go, I beg you. Did you not know that Lord Hertford and Lady Catherine Grey are in the Tower for having unlawful carnal knowlege of each other? Do not draw the queen’s eye to me, I beg you!”

  Essex and Devonport looked at each other and bent double with laughter. Essex said, “Mistress Wilde, you sit upon a white Arabian in white velvet and accuse us of drawing attention to you.”

  Shane’s eyes narrowed appreciatively. “You little baggage, if you couldn’t be the center of attention, you wouldn’t play! Come on, Robin, I’ll race you to the queen.”

  Sabre’s mouth curved into a pretty smile. How well he knew her! And tonight at the masquerade ball she would be the center of attention and the talk of the whole court as she stole the queen’s thunder. She could hardly wait!

  Sabre had never changed clothes so often in her life. She hurriedly exchanged the white velvet habit for a pale blue day-gown and literally ran to the queen’s wardrobe. It would take them the best part of two hours to disrobe and disencumber her of her hunting attire and array her in fresh wig, makeup, and the costly gold tissue, encrusted with jewels and sequins. Her costume represented the sun, and as such it was a magnificent creation, with narrowed waist, the skirts flaring out over a wide farthingale. The sleeves were slashed and embroidered with topaz jewels in sunbursts.

  The air was filled with the excitement of the special occasion, and the din of her ladies’ voices rose high with the fulsome compliments they showered upon Elizabeth, both sincere and insincere. Sabre kept well in the background, wrinkling her nose at the crush of female bodies in the small wardrobe rooms, secretly appalled that the queen did not intend to bathe after the rigorous hunting. When the countess of Warwick brought forth rose-scented bathing water, Bess simply washed the blood from her hands then held up her arms so they could slip on the gold-tissue underdress. As Kate handed the soiled red gown to Sabre, she surreptitiously pointed out the stain of stag entrails that covered the skirt, and Sabre felt the hatred rise in her gorge. This was her rival for her husband’s affection; well, even the sun could be eclipsed!

  The banqueting chamber at Windsor was able to accommodate twice the number of people as Greenwich. Servingmen staggered beneath platters holding whole kids stuffed with pudding, swans, venison, pike, capons, and wild duck. There were rich sauces of musk, saffron, and ambergris to complement every dish of fish or fowl. The birthday confectionaries were cleverly shaped from spun sugar and marzipan, and every wine known in England was available, including alicante, Rhenish, muscadine, and charneco.

  The queen quaffed ale like a man, but kept her head better than most of her courtiers. The music and dancing were to take place in the queen’s gallery, which she had had especially built for her in the first years of her reign.

  Most of the ladies and gentlemen of the court had spent lavishly on their costumes and jewelry for this birthday celebration. The men dressed as pirates, admirals of the fleet, Arabians, princes, kings, minstrels, jesters, historical figures, highwaymen, and there were at least three dressed as the infamous “Black Shadow.” The ranks of the ladies abounded with milkmaids, shepherdesses, angels, fairies, and princesses, though none were foolish enough to masquerade as queens.

  Sabre’s costume represented spring. It was delicate pale green tissue edged with violets. Her breasts were cupped in flower petals and her mask was in the shape of a swallow-tailed, pale butterfly. Her pulses were hammering madly as she watched the crowds carefully through her mask, seeking Hawkhurst. They recognized each other in the same instant. He had chosen not to wear a costume, though his clothes were a flamboyant midnight-blue, slashed with silver and fastened with diamond buttons. He had conceded to wear a concealing mask, his eyes glittering wickedly through its slits.

  Sabre instantly turned her back upon him, and it had exactly the result she had hoped for. His hands grasped her shoulders from behind and he turned her to face him. “Sabre, you are the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. I approve of your costume with all my heart.”

  “I am striving for demureness, m’lord. Your approval is everything to me,” she said with heavy sarcasm. “I’m sorry if you wished to dance, but I’m promised to another.” She turned and melted into the crush of people behind her.

  He was stung, for he was carrying a present he’d had specially engraved for her. He ground his teeth at the rebuff and bided his time by looking for the O’Neill.

  At eleven o’clock the queen would take her seat on a raised dais at the end of the room, and those who wished to honor her with their special gifts would bring them forward one at a time. Until eleven Elizabeth would dance every single measure, and young men fought for the honor. As usual the earl of Essex did not dance, but, dressed to compliment her in cloth of gold, he never took his eyes from her. When each courtier had partnered her in the gavotte or the pavane, he returned her to m’lord Essex. Finally he broke his own no-dancing rule and led the queen out onto the floor to broach the subject that was eating at his pride.

  “I have heard a rumor which I cannot credit, queen of my heart.”

  She arched a brow at him, knowing by the sulky look of his mouth that he was displeased about something.

  “Rumor has it you intend to make the old lord admiral the earl of Nottingham.”

  “’Tis no rumor, but fact. He has given me faithful service for years, his health is not what it used to be, and I intend to honor him before he departs this earth.”

>   “Madame, do you realize when Parliament opens next month, he will then take precedence over me?” he questioned arrogantly.

  Her eyes narrowed, yet her feet never missed a step of the dance. “I would have you know that I who made you can unmake you!”

  His eyes smoldered at her insult. “Plums for others; threats for me,” he hissed.

  “I will have you know this court has one mistress and no master!” she shouted, uncaring who overheard.

  He cajoled softly, “If I were earl marshal of England, I would take precedence.”

  She set her mouth in a grim line and said, “I would remind you that your queen will not be badgered into yielding to a brash youth’s every whim!”

  He bowed stiffly and deserted her in the middle of the dance floor. A deep, soothing voice floated down to her. “Lass, ye are as lovely as ever … like a young girl.”

  Elizabeth turned startled but grateful eyes to the man who towered above her. He removed his mask and looked deep into the black eyes.

  “Tyrone!” She used the title she had bestowed upon him, then added her affectionate term she reserved for him alone. “My monster of the north!”

  She had always leaned on Leicester, but with him far away in Holland and with Essex’s growing petulance, she was sorely in need of a strong male to lean on, if only for a short time. Who better than an older man who thought her still a young girl? “Would you care to dance?”

  “Nay, lass, I’m an old man compared to ye. Come sit with me awhile.”

  “Lying Irish!” she admonished, yet she took him by the hand to the dais at the head of the room and dispatched a page for ale and marzipan cakes. “What have you brought me for my birthday?” she asked, flirting archly.

  He bent his lips to her ear and whispered, “Information, lass. News of yer enemies more precious than be-jeweled geegaws. But it will wait until morning. I’ll not spoil this night for ye, Bessie.” His soft Irish voice lulled and caressed her and he took possession of one of her beautiful slim hands beneath the cover of her full skirts.

  Shane was momentarily amazed to see the O’Neill sitting cozy with the queen, then he smiled cynically to himself. We Irish have a low tolerance for bullshit and yet a remarkable facility with it For gain the O’Neill would convince an old queen she was young and strong, while discovering her vulnerabilities to use to his own ruthless advantage.

  The music struck up for the saraband, to which a man and woman danced in each other’s arms. The queen was forgotten as he sought out Sabre once more.

  “M’lord Devonport, I dare not. This dance is meant to inflame lust,” she said with an air of practiced innocence.

  He held her pale green gaze with his. “Sabre, you’d dare anything. You’d tell me to go to hell, you’d thumb your nose at the queen, and you’d tell the devil himself to kiss your bottom.” He took a velvet box from his doublet and pressed it into her hands. It held a gold bracelet studded with diamonds. On the inside was inscribed, Can you forgive me? She slipped it onto her wrist and lifted a matching diamond ring from the box. When she held it to the light to read its tiny inscription, she was startled to read, Can you love me? She searched his face long minutes, uncertain whether she should accept or reject his token, while her heartbeat hammered in her breast.

  Unable to bear the uncertainty longer, Shane grasped her hand strongly and forced the beautiful ring upon her finger.

  Damn him, she thought wildly, he has the capacity to make a woman throw everything to the winds in order to spend her days and nights in his strong arms!

  Even the tips of his fingers tingled with the desire to touch her breasts and other secret places, and before she had a chance to refuse he swept her into his arms to the seductive strains of the saraband. He held her so close to his body, she could feel his heat, his strength, and even his violence held barely in check. Her eyes went involuntarily to his lips, and she could not stop her imagination from tasting him and feeling his hot mouth covering hers. She closed her eyes and shuddered. There was no distance in the dance between their yearning bodies. They were both weak with desire as the beat of the music set up a rhythm in their blood. Suddenly his hands tightened on her and she knew he would be denied no longer. The muscle in his jaw jerked as he demanded, “My chasing after you is finished…. I will not kiss the hem of your gown, begging your favors with flowery phrases…. I am a man! I want you, Sabre, and I want you tonight! Is it yes or no?”

  “My answer is yes, of course, for ’tis a man I would have for my lover,” she said huskily.

  He took his hands from her tempting body and forced them to his sides, for they had yet over an hour to get through until midnight. “Meet me at the upper ward by the Norman Gate, where there are many trees to shelter you from prying eyes.”

  Lord Hatton came to claim the dance she had promised him, but she had to disappoint him, for it was time for her to go up to her small chamber and change her costume!

  Chapter 12

  Sabre’s blood sang with excitement as she stripped off the demure green gown representing spring and took from the cupboard the wisp of cloth that would transform her into a figure from Greek mythology. The white silk toga came only to her hips, leaving her long, slim legs completely bared. The white silk toga not only left one shoulder bare, it also exposed one beautiful breast with its pouting, gilded nipple.

  She slipped on the small sandals and bound their golden thongs about her bare legs. Then, paying close attention to cover all her copper tresses, she put on a blond wig fashioned from a portrait of a Greek goddess with golden tendrils falling to her shoulders. She was the huntress Diana with real bow and a quiver of arrows, and as she fastened the winged mask across her eyes, she smiled her secret smile at the impact her unclad form would have on the assembly below. She tossed her head in defiance, her eyes shone brilliantly with their dare-me challenge, and she strode boldly down the staircase, confident that she would be the female most talked about and longest remembered when the queen’s birthday celebrations were discussed.

  She had gauged the time correctly and only had to wait a short time as the last few gifts were presented to the queen. Then she slipped off her long cloak, tucked it into an alcove, and pushed through the doorway of the long gallery. Her courage almost failed her; but she braced her knees, licked her lips, and stepped forward with the confidence of a true goddess.

  There was a hush, then the crowds separated to let her pass through. She heard gasps as her long bare legs were seen and her bared breast with its golden nipple were ogled.

  The members of the court stared, gaped, and gawked as she strode purposefully to the end of the room. The whispers began then became louder and louder until the entire room was abuzz with speculation. Some suggested it was a tableau that had been planned, since it was timed so perfectly to climax the celebrations. Everyone wanted to know the identity of the mystery goddess who had sprung among them in a wisp of white silk that revealed her divine form to perfection.

  She knelt at the foot of the dais and placed there her gift of a golden arrow, the high cost of which would be borne by Hawkhurst. The queen stared bemused at the spectacle. Elizabeth concealed her shock and would not become jealous until days later when she realized the magnitude of the attention the mysterious goddess was receiving.

  Sabre felt the impact of the burning eyes of the arrogant red-haired man who sat next to the queen. She’d never seen him before and didn’t know who he was, but she was impaled by his look of malevolence. In that fleeting moment she knew he hated all women and considered himself superior to every mortal in the room. She tore her eyes from him and bowed low to the queen. Then her long legs sprinted back down the length of the gallery like those of a true Diana, goddess of the hunt. Quickly she slipped into the alcove, wrapped herself in her cloak, and removed the mask and the wig. Within ten minutes she was safely in her chamber, locking away the bow and quiver. She bathed her flaming cheeks with rosewater, then slowly brushed out the tangles from her hair until i
t billowed about her like a copper cloud. She would go to Shane dressed as she was! Her pulses raced at the thought of what his reaction would be. Would he want to kill her for exposing herself to other men’s eyes, or would the need to possess her blot out everything save his hunger? She shivered with anticipation at the thought of his anger and lust; a devastating combination.

  Shane Hawkhurst pulled the diamond buttons from his doublet and secured them in an inside pocket before he began his ascent of the thick stone walls of the north terrace. Her Majesty’s state apartments were in the upper ward of the castle and he was familiar with the queen’s private bedroom and its antechambers, which overlooked the gardens of the north terrace through its elegant arched windows. Although the draperies were drawn at most of the windows, he could easily see into the rooms of the queen’s private apartment. He waited patiently while her ladies divested her of her golden gown and she selected a negligee that revealed more than it concealed. He smiled knowingly to himself. Bess loved to show off her body to men. Leicester, when he was at court, handed her her shift in bed each morning and often she could be seen in dishabille waving from her windows to a favorite in the garden below.

  His mind kept running ahead to the hours he would spend abed with Sabre, and he almost left when he pictured her waiting for him at the Norman Gate; but he forced himself to patience and finally he was rewarded when Bess’s ladies left her for the night and he saw her hurry across her chamber to an inner door. She opened it and the unmistakable figure of his father stepped into the room to dominate the small female who had left her queenship outside her bedchamber this night so she could play the woman.

  Satisfied that the earl of Tyrone was home safe, now that she had allowed him this much intimacy, he descended the stone walls with a feeling of relief. Because of his quick action in bringing him out of Ireland, he had probably saved his life.