The Hawk and the Dove

by Virginia Henley

  Devonport watched Sabre indulgently as the men flirted and danced her off her feet. Each was eager to dally with “Her Majesty” and try for liberties that she only ever permitted to Essex, Leicester, and Devonport. A black-bearded Spaniard turned out to be Matthew. He kept his distance from Shane, but spent an inordinate amount of time at Sabre’s elbow.

  Elizabeth had chosen her courtiers for Theobalds, and these included Leicester and Drake, Anne Cecil and her husband Lord Oxford, Sir Christopher Hatton, her lord chancellor. Since Lord Norris had entertained her at Rycote and Lord Montagu at Cowdray, she invited them to escort her to Theobalds by way of returning their hospitality, and saw nothing pecunious in doing so. For ladies she had the duchess of Suffolk, the countess of Warwick, Lady Hastings, Lady Hatton, and Lady Chandos. For maids she took Elizabeth Southwell and, much to the girl’s disgust, Mary Howard.

  The queen’s barge had just been refurbished with new awnings and freshly painted with the Tudor colors and her pages and maids held up the purple velvet train of her new gown as she climbed aboard. She graciously greeted her old bargemaster, George, who had served as the head rower on the royal barge for many years and knew the Thames better than any man in London. Everything went smoothly until there was a sudden holdup and the queen’s barge slowed to almost a stop. Impatiently she was on her feet in a trice. There, in front of her, blocking her path, was a most sumptuous barge of scarlet and gold. She recognized it instantly as belonging to her hated archrival, Lettice. She swept up to George and shouted, “Command them to give way in the name of the queen! Damned impudence,” she fumed, angry that Lettice’s barge was such a showy piece with its scarlet-liveried rowers.

  The other barge had no choice but to give way to the queen, but even when they sailed past, Elizabeth’s annoyance did not abate. “I thought these awnings were supposed to be new, George.”

  “Yes, Yer Majesty, brand-new … best awning-maker in London.”

  “What color are they supposed to be, George?” she demanded.

  “Why, yer own Tudor colors, Yer Majesty … white and Tudor green.”

  “Tudor green? They never saw Tudor green! Goose-turd green is more like it. Yes, by God … goose-turd green!”

  “Robert,” she said, interrupting Leicester and Hatton’s conversation without a thought, “tomorrow I want fresh awnings for this barge. I am the queen of England and will not sail about beneath a goose-turd green canopy. See to it!”

  The traffic upon the river was busy, and each time she spotted a private barge she compared it with her own and fumed. When Mary Howard brought her a cup of mulled ale to take the chill off the ride, she snatched it from her ungraciously, ready to find fault with everything. “It seems everyone and his brother are on the river this evening. Where do you suppose they are bound?” Her maids kept silent, inwardly trembling lest she catch wind of the Thames View masquerade. The queen’s eyes caught sight of a small luxurious barge in cream and royal purple moored just past Kew water steps. “God’s death! There’s another puts this tub to shame!” She strode along the deck to the rowers. “George, whom does that barge belong to?” she demanded.

  He grinned. “That belongs to the Sea God’s mistress, Yer Majesty.”

  She froze. Had she heard the damned fellow correctly? Her mouth set in a grim line. She was sick and tired of the gossip and innuendo that clung to her favorites. She would see for herself. “George, turn my barge about. We will make a short stop at Thames View.”

  The river was clogged with boats and barges as they drew closer to Thames View. The gardens were filled with noisy merrymakers, and lively music filtered down to the river from the big house. Four pages, with their small gold trumpets slung about their necks, were scrambling from the barge, and up the water steps when Elizabeth’s imperious voice halted them. “Have done! Have done! I’ll have no trumpeting pages announcing my arrival. They say I am tricksy as Puck, so we shall launch a surprise attack, like Cadiz!”

  Like quicksilver she was off the barge and up the grassy bank to Thames View. Her attendant women trailed behind with heavy feet, knowing that the fat was in the fire and an explosion was inevitable. Robert Dudley, now quite portly in his older years, made no effort to follow her, but Sir Christopher Hatton gallantly hurried to catch up with her. She swept past her subjects, who fell to their knees upon recognizing her. She pushed aside the Thames View servants and strode into the glittering ballroom. Her sharp black eyes swept the room, until with unerring accuracy they found their target. For a moment she thought her heart had stopped. There in the center of the room stood a replica of herself. A very beautiful replica. It was that Wilde woman! Their eyes met and instinctively she recognized the woman as the Sea God’s mistress. A dreadful hush fell on the room and Shane Hawkhurst stepped protectively to Sabre’s side. The queen’s black eyes glittered with anger as she raised an imperious forefinger to point at her imitator. “Mistress Wilde, you are nothing but a notorious trollop. You are banished from my court forever!” She did not trust herself to say more, but turned swiftly upon her heels and retraced her steps to the river. Her eyes had missed nothing. She had seen and marked well everyone who had been in that ballroom.

  Hawkhurst was after her in a flash. He pushed aside Hatton and said, “Bess, the girl has done nothing.”

  Her cold eyes swept him up and down that he had the temerity to speak to her. “You will address me as Your Majesty. The whore mocks and mimicks me!”

  “She is no whore!” he defended hotly.

  “Do you deny that you are bedding her?” she demanded.

  “That is none of your business,” he shouted.

  “Silence!” she ordered. “You, sirrah, will present yourself tomorrow morning.”

  The queen went straight back to Greenwich; Theobalds was forgotten. She locked herself up in her bedchamber for the night, pacing the floor and plotting her revenge.

  Most of the female guests at Thames View were in panic. They knew the queen’s beady eyes had seen them in what was now probably the enemy camp and they knew they would not escape her wrath.

  Sabre was livid to have been so singled out and humiliated in front of a hundred guests. She was in a high rage and wanted to smash everything she could lay her hands upon. The moment she withdrew upstairs, the guests departed. Essex and Frances had vanished the moment the royal barge drew up to the water stairs. By the time Shane returned to the house, it had emptied except for the servants and the musicians. He braved the stairs, not knowing what to expect. Sabre needed to vent her temper, and naturally he was her only outlet.

  The moment he came through the bedchamber door he caught a shoe, which she’d thrown viciously. “How dare she insult and humiliate me in my own home?” she demanded.

  He said matter-of-factly, “Sabre, you knew you were playing with fire when you ordered that outfit.”

  “So! You have taken sides with her against me, you damned knave!” she cried.

  “I defended you hotly, Sabre. You know she is furious with me, and I’m the one who will pay,” he countered.

  “My reputation lies in ruins! She has called me a trollop before all London and banished me!” She tore off the hated purple velvet gown and trampled it furiously beneath her feet. ’Tis all your fault, you damned rogue. You made me become your mistress!” She flung herself facedown upon the bed and began to sob.

  Feeling wretched at her distress, he sat down on the bed and reached out a hand to comfort her. “Sweetheart, don’t cry…. I can’t bear it when you cry.”

  She recoiled from his touch, her anger still full blown. “Well, sir, it is over. I’ll be mistress no more. I’ll be a respectable wife or know the reason why!”

  “Sabre, you know I love you,” he soothed.

  “Love me? Love me?” she gasped. “You love me as your mistress, but I’m not good enough to be your wife!”

  “Sabre, you know I’m married,” he said patiently.

  “Then you can get unmarried!” she cried.

&n
bsp; “You mean divorce?” he said quietly.

  “Of course I mean divorce, do you think I suggest murder, you damned rogue? Since King Henry made it so fashionable, ’tis only a small legal formality. Sir Edward Coke, the attorney general, is a friend of yours, isn’t he?”

  He looked at her with astonishment. Apparently she’d given it a great deal of thought, and he wondered why the idea had never occurred to him. He could divorce Sara Bishop and marry Sabre. She burst into tears again. “Darling,” he said, taking her into his arms and cradling her, “if it’s possible, I will get a divorce—I promise you, my little love.”

  His doublet was soaked as she sobbed out her heart. Her anger reared its head again. “Imagine! Her calling me a notorious trollop! The bloody Virgin Queen! She forgets I’m the one who cleans the stains from her gowns, and many’s the time they are covered with semen stains!” She looked at him angrily as a suspicion dawned on her, “Have you bedded her?”

  He knew at this moment it was an admission she would never forgive. “Sabre, I’ve never been unfaithful to you; I’ve never even bedded my wife.”

  “That just proves what a damned rogue you are! You’ve treated that woman shamefully and deserve to pay dearly for it.”

  “But now you expect me to divorce her to marry you.”

  She stiffened. “I don’t expect anything from you, my lord. Matthew would marry me in an instant.”

  He said angrily, “Matthew always fancies himself in love with my mistresses.”

  She gasped. It was like a slap in the face to her to be lumped in with the women he had kept in the past. The moment he said it, he could have bitten off his tongue. “Darling, my little love, I didn’t mean it. Of course we shall be married. I’ll have the papers drawn up. I’ll go to Blackmoor and settle everything—just as soon as the bloody queen takes her pound of flesh.”

  “Don’t touch me … don’t you dare to touch me! I hope she claps you in the Tower!”

  Grimly he stalked from the room. “I’ll not stay in this bloody Bedlam!” he swore. He strode to the stables and saddled Neptune. He needed the clean wind in his face and some fresh sea air in his lungs. In that moment he was seriously tempted to sail the seven seas. He knew a need to be reckless, as if by risking his life he could purge himself of the mess in which he was mired. His hand absently brushed back his long mane of dark hair and his fingers caught in the strings of the black mask now hanging forgotten about his neck. He glanced down at his clothes and remembered the outfit he had chosen for the ball was all black. Instantly he knew where he could go and what he would do.

  Fulke-Greville had taken an Irish fishing vessel off the Scottish coast as it was buying guns and powder. Its captain and crew now languished in the great Fleet Prison. At the party tonight he had intended to arrange with Fulke to pay their fines and secure their release, but now he decided secrecy was far better. The Black Shadow would free the Irishmen this night and send them home to carry on their freedom fighting. He turned the black stallion toward the city and made his way to the Strand through lightly traveled streets. At Walsingham House he quietly stabled Neptune, knowing he could retrieve the stallion at a later time should it become necessary. On foot he completed the short journey past the Royal Courts of Justice to the Fleet Prison. It was a grimy, formidable building looking exactly like the stronghold prison it was. London’s prisons were run on graft and corruption. A thief or a prostitute could buy a relatively safe night’s lodging within its vermin-infested walls.

  Hawkhurst, using one of the underworld signals to gain entrance, had no initial trouble. The jailer who admitted him assumed he was a highwayman willing to pay well for a night’s refuge. He figured the money was better in his pockets than in those of the magistrate he’d be brought up before if he were arrested.

  The stench inside the Fleet almost took Hawkhurst’s breath away until he became accustomed to it. The walls were wet with seeping dampness and it was badly lit with primitive lamps that burned acrid animal tallow. He chinked two coins together in his pocket to gain and hold the jailer’s attention. Down the first dim passage Hawkhurst had his arm about the man’s throat before he knew what hit him, and the man felt something hard under his knee.

  “I have found,” whispered Hawkhurst, “one of the very best places to cock a gun is behind the knee. When I pull the trigger the bullet goes up along the whole thighbone to shatter it completely, and then if the fellow still defies me, I have the other one to work on.”

  His arm felt the man swallow with difficulty and he smiled into the darkness, knowing his savagery was about to give him anything he wanted. “Take me to the Irish prisoners who came in last week.” Silently, without protest, he was taken where he wished to go. In a trice he had the keys and opened the cell holding the men. All would have gone smooth as clockwork except for the fact that they were Irishmen and could manage nothing on earth without inciting a riot. The first man out of the cell, seeing the jailer incapacitated, looked him up and down with contempt and spat, “You long streak o’ piss … may God rot yer bloody eyes!”

  The Irishman behind him wasn’t getting out of the cell fast enough to suit him and shouted, “Bejasus, Sean McGuire, shut yer bloody mouth and move yer arse.”

  “Bugger youse,” came the belligerent reply.

  “Christ, somebody will take youse up on that offer if we don’t get the hell outta here,” cried a third man.

  The last man out was small and wiry as a terrier. He had a vicious face. As he came past the jailer, like quicksilver, he kneed him in the balls. The man let out a bloodthirsty scream that reverberated through the passageways to alert other guards, who came on the double.

  Hawkhurst leveled his gun at the small man and ordered him to move out fast. The wiry man spat on him and cursed, “May God wither the hand that holds a pistol on me.”

  Hawkhurst had to fight the desire to render him unconscious with the pistol butt, but forced himself to be satisfied with a vicious shove in the back to send him on his way after his countrymen. Then he let the butt fall heavily on the jailer’s temple and stretched the unconscious man on the slimy floor of the dim passageway. He saw the last man go through the heavy door of the Fleet before he felt two guards, one on either side, grab him fast by the shoulders and utter with relish, “We’ve caught the bleedin’ Black Shadow!”

  Chapter 20

  Sabre bathed her swollen eyes and tried to think what she should do. She knew she should leave London in case the queen decided to punish her further. It soon dawned on her that she had nowhere to go but Blackmoor. She started to pack immediately. The first thing she put in her trunk was the incriminating files from Walsingham. She would soon have her revenge on Shane Hawkhurst O’Neill. When he arrived at Blackmoor to serve his wife with the divorce papers, he would discover he was married to his mistress and the irony would smite him between the eyes. She would be avenged upon him by insisting upon the divorce. If he refused, she had the means at hand to force him.

  A small voice persisted inside her head. What if she were with child? Wouldn’t forcing a divorce between them be the height of folly under the circumstances? The answer came back a resounding no. She did not want him to marry her because of a child. She only wanted to be his wife if she were the choice of his heart. She would be all or nothing at all! She needed to be wooed. She needed a real proposal and she needed to be wed in a church, exchanging vows before God.

  She put on a pale aqua velvet traveling gown with a warm quilted bodice and gathered her hair into a jeweled net. She chose fur-lined kid boots and took her sable cloak from the wardrobe. She whirled about with a crystal perfume bottle in her hand as she heard a light tap on the door. “I’m warning you, Hawkhurst, to keep your distance!” she called angrily.

  Matthew cautiously opened the chamber and stuck in his head. “Don’t throw that, sweeting, you’ve got the wrong Hawkhurst.”

  “Oh, Matthew, I thought you’d deserted the ship long ago with the other rats.”

&nb
sp; “I thought you might need me,” he said, surveying the packed trunks. “Where are you going?”

  “I’m on my way to Blackmoor.”

  “That’s ridiculous, you can’t ride over two hundred miles on your own. Go to Mother at Hawkhurst—it’s only forty miles off, but still far enough from the queen’s wrath.”

  “I’m not removing myself from the queen, I’m removing myself from your brother. It’s all over, Matthew, he’s promised me a divorce.”

  For a moment his heart soared. He asked, “He knows, then, that you are his wife?”

  “No, but he will when he turns up at Blackmoor with the divorce papers for Sara Bishop to sign.”

  “Sabre, you are deluding yourself if you think he’ll divorce you when he finds out you are legally wed.”

  “I don’t think so, Matthew, for I have the means to force his hand.”

  He scoffed. “He’s like a damned dog with a bone— he’ll never let you go!”

  She tossed her head. “I’ve Walsingham’s secret files on him.”

  For a moment he looked at her blankly. “Walsingham had secret files on Hawk? For what?”

  She looked at him strangely. “You don’t know?”

  He shook his head, perplexed, then asked incredulously, “You mean he suspected him of piracy? But the queen knew and looked the other way.”

  Sabre realized she should have said nothing. She veiled her eyes and changed the subject. “I’m taking the carriage and I’ll take a maid and also ask Mr. Mason to come with me. What about you, Matt, will you come?”

  He was sorely tempted, but she had whetted his appetite about his brother. She obviously considered the secret files damaging enough to use as blackmail and he immediately realized she must be taking the invaluable papers with her. “Sabre, I can’t come tonight, but I will as soon as I can. You go and tell Mason and the girl to get ready and I’ll have a reliable Hawkhurst man from the stables drive you to Blackmoor in the carriage. Give me your trunks and I’ll take them down to the stables.”