The Hawk and the Dove

by Virginia Henley

  She came forward with gratitude in her eyes and placed her hand on his arm. “Thank heavens I always have you to fall back on, Matthew.”

  He wanted to crush her to him as a wave of desire swept over him. At this moment he knew she was very vulnerable, but a warning caution bell was clanging in his brain. Patience. This woman should have been his woman, and if he helped along the divorce it was possible that he would still be able to claim her for his own. He brushed his lips across her temple and stepped back deliberately, then picked up her luggage and carried it downstairs. Later, when he stood on the driveway and waved the traveling coach on its way, the Walsingham files were safely tucked inside his doublet.

  Shane cursed under his breath for not having effectively silenced the guard when he had the chance. There was no room in the sordid business of espionage for mercy, and none knew it better than he. In a flash he undid the fastenings at the front of his doublet and slipped from the garment like an eel. The two jailers recoiled in superstitious horror at the monster painted on his flesh, but they had not seen his face. Once Shane was out of their grasp there was no chance this side of hell that they would recapture him. He was outside the Fleet in seconds, but the two guards sounded the alarm and, joined by others, were bent on taking the Black Shadow, a most prestigious collar.

  It was fortunate that Hawkhurst knew London like the back of his hand or escape would have been an impossibility. He went neither right nor left, but chose to go up instead. He climbed to the roof of the massive fortress because they were close upon his heels and he knew that though they saw him go up, they were not agile enough to follow. Moreover, their lanterns were not strong enough to cast a light past the second story. He surveyed the streets from his high perch and chose his hiding place instantly. With silent stealth he descended to the street and slipped into the churchyard of St. Bride’s.

  His black doublet had made him invisible, but now that he was naked to the waist he knew he would be seen if he made a run for it. He crawled facedown until he had put many tombstones between himself and Fleet Street. Suddenly he heard voices much closer than he thought his pursuers could possibly be. A freshly dug grave loomed before him and without a moment’s hesitation he jumped down eight feet into the cold, damp shaft. He let out a breath of relief as he discovered it was the Irishmen’s voices he heard. Apparently they were taking refuge in the cemetery instead of using what little intelligence God had given them. By now they could have been on a ship bound for home.

  Shane stayed silent, for if the noisy bastards didn’t hush their racket they would soon attract their pursuers. The men were having a gentleman’s disagreement.

  “Youse haven’t the brains of a soddin’ louse, McGuire. Just for the satisfaction of puttin’ yer knee to his cock ’n’ balls, youse let them take the poor bastard who risked his life to free us!”

  “I don’t give a shit. Any bastard stupid enough to risk his life fer others deserves what he gets. Youse two piss-pots shoulda kneed him an’ taken his pistol when I created the diversion wi’ the guard.”

  “Yer a vicious swine, McGuire. I never shoulda thrown in my lot wi’ youse. We shoulda tried to help the poor bastard, I say.”

  “Sod ’im … and sod youse too!”

  Hawkhurst then heard a sound like a shovel being smashed into a man’s skull. There was a grunt and then silence. In that moment Shane realized there would never be peace in Ireland, for if the English were driven out and the lords of Ireland ruled their own land, the clans would again turn on each other.

  Suddenly the heavens opened and the rain came down in icy sheets. This turn of events, like every other in life, had it advantages and its disadvantages. The men in the graveyard took to their heels and the guards out searching for escaped prisoners would give up and return to the shelter of the Fleet. The disadvantage, however, was that Shane was standing calf-deep in a sea of mud and no matter his agility or strength, he could not climb up the sheer, eight-foot sides of the mud-slimed grave. Each effort brought down more clumps of oozing earth and his feet sank deeper and deeper. Suddenly his feet hit something solid and he realized it was a coffin. The humor of the ridiculous predicament in which he found himself had not escaped him. He banged the coffin lid with his heel and said, “Hello, down there. Sorry to be standing on your head, my friend, but circumstances are beyond my control.” He knew one horrific moment as the coffin collapsed and he went through it, then he was out of control. He leaned against the wall of the grave and laughed until the tears rolled down his face. How ignominious to be found down the hole in a quagmire of mud by the gravedigger at first light. Very probably one of the Irishmen lay dead, head bashed in by a shovel, and he would be blamed. No, there was no doubt about it, he could not be found in this predicament. Almost weak from laughter, he used his hands and dagger to cut stepping holes in the grave wall. Though most times the soggy earth collapsed under his weight, occasionally it did not and gradually he raised himself by slow degrees until he was able to haul himself to the mouth of the grave and roll onto the wet grass.

  By stealth he made his way back to the Walsingham House stables and was soon on his way home, grateful again to have the great stallion between his thighs. Every once in a while he threw back his head and laughed. Tonight his spirits soared as he returned from the grave. Tomorrow he would willingly spend two hours on his knees begging the queen’s forgiveness, but tonight he would make love to Sabre whether she would or not. She was a little wildcat and he was the only man in the world who could subdue her. And he would, he vowed with relish.

  Matthew Hawkhurst’s mood, on the other hand, was one of seething resentment rather than elation. In his chamber at Greenwich Palace he had pored over the secret files with horror, reading and absorbing it bit by bitter bit. The one galling fact that he could not forgive was that Shane was the O’Neill’s bastard and yet he had inherited the Hawkhurst shipping empire along with the title of Lord Devonport. His fist crashed down on the table, sending his goblet of wine spilling across the papers in a blood-red stain. Shane had everything—always had! Georgiana had kept quiet and allowed her bastard to get his, Matthew’s, rightful inheritance. They had deceived his father, the poor weak fool, and they had deceived him! In that moment he hated his father, his mother, and his brother with a poisonous venom. The thing that rankled most was that Shane had Sabre. If it was the last thing he did he would take her from his brother! He put the papers away for safekeeping.

  By morning the corridors of Greenwich rang with the news that the elusive Black Shadow had been taken in the Fleet, but had managed once again to elude his captors. The man had been masked, but it was now thought that he was in league with the devil, for on his broad back rampaged a hideous monster. The moment Matthew heard the gossip, a picture flashed into his mind of Shane’s dragon tattoo and he immediately knew that his brother was also the Black Shadow; it was the one thing missing from Walsingham’s secret file.

  Matthew, blinded by jealousy and the need for revenge, sought an audience with William Cecil, Lord Burghley, but was better served when Burghley’s ambitious son Robert Cecil took time to see him. The queen called Robert Cecil her pygmy fox because of his misshapen back and brilliant mind, and he made the handsome young courtier feel welcome.

  Once the greetings were out of the way, Matthew got right to the point. “My lord, the daring escapades of the Black Shadow are on every tongue to the point where he is being admired rather than reviled. We no sooner put an Irish rebel behind bars than he frees him, with nothing more to aid him than a dark night and a black mask. It has occurred to me that someone in Ireland is calling the shots; someone who holds a high place.”

  Robert Cecil studied him a moment, wondering what personal ax he had to grind. “Let us get down to brass tacks. I believe you are alluding to O’Neill, and yet he has always been able to disprove accusations of treason and conspiracy leveled against him.”

  “Nay, my lord, in actuality he has never disproved them, only convinced th
e queen and council that the accusations were groundless and reassured them that he was protector of the queen’s law in the north of Ireland.”

  Cecil conceded a small bow in Matthew Hawkhurst’s direction. He had the mind of a strategist and had always known O’Neill thought himself king of Ireland. Matthew continued. “Set a trap with important Irish hostages, but put them where they will be safe in the Tower of London. It follows as night follows day that the Black Shadow will try to free them.”

  Cecil finished for him, “… and when we have the Black Shadow we will be able to prove him an agent of O’Neill?”

  “Precisely!” Matthew nodded, crushing down a growing horror inside himself at what he was doing.

  “A little wine? I think you will like this, it is spiced with aromatic myrrh.”

  Cecil was proved wrong in this, for Matthew found himself vomiting into the first gutter he came upon after he took his leave.

  * * *

  The queen had paced her chamber most of the night, working herself up to a state of frenzy. Gray dawn had not yet penetrated the corners of her apartment when she began to shout. “Where are my women?”

  A few came running.

  “I want all my women!”

  A short time elapsed before all who had been summoned could ready themselves. She was still wearing the purple gown with the bishop sleeves lined with amethyst satin, and her small crown. Most of the assembled women stood before her trembling, though only a few knew of the previous evening’s debacle.

  In a deceptively sweet voice she asked, “What news of my Sea God?” She stamped her foot at their collective silence and spat, “All deaf and dumb? What news of Hawkhurst?” In her agitation her crown fell askew and she tore it from her head and hurled it across the room, crying, “My crown is a crown of thorns!” Unfortunately her wig came off with the crown and her own graying hair stood up in thin wisps.

  “He has taken that sly she-wolf for mistress!”

  Mary Howard stood closest to the queen, her lips pressed together in terror.

  “You kept it secret from me!” She slapped the girl’s face. “And you, and you!” Each serving woman close to her received a stinging blow on the cheek. One of the older women of high rank tried to soothe her. “The temptations are so great, Your Majesty, you cannot blame him.”

  “Blame him?” flared Elizabeth. “By God’s body, I’ll blame him. He shall pay for all the pleasure he has had with her. They shall go to the Tower for this!”

  Old Blanche Parry, who had been her nurse, pushed through the ranks of women to take charge. “You will make yourself sick over some silly rumor.”

  “I saw with my own eyes what was going on.” Her voice had risen on an hysterical note and Blanche knew she was on the edge of losing control. She said briskly, “It is not as if they were secretly wed, or that she is with child … it is only that he is a philanderer, a rake, a deceiver.”

  The queen heard another of her women say, “Yes, he is the worst of men!”

  The queen turned upon her with the light of madness in her eye. “How dare you say so?” she demanded. “You know he is not; it is all her fault!” The queen began to tear at the sleeves of her gown, and the crystal beads scattered everywhere. A quick consultation between the countess of Warwick and the duchess of Suffolk decided that it was a job for Leicester. Only Robert Dudley could handle the queen when she was out of control.

  He came hurrying to the queen’s apartment clad in a rich velvet bed robe and immediately jumped to the wrong conclusion when he saw her state. She fell into his arms, then pushed him away because he was a man and therefore not to be trusted. He dismissed all her women with an easy command stemming from years of being England’s uncrowned king. “Bess, Bess, what can I say? I knew it would come to this when you learned of what he’d done. But, my dearest dear, you have spoiled Robin to the point where he actually believes he can do no wrong. Come, now, my own Bess, be brave. What cannot be cured must be endured,” he said heartily.

  “Robin?” she whispered.

  “You know he’s a fickle young devil, and I don’t suppose his heart will be involved for five minutes now that he’s actually wed her.”

  “Wed … Robin?” she questioned, fear seeping into her pores and creeping along her veins.

  “Never let it be said that a little chit like Frances Walsingham can make our Gloriana jealous,” he coaxed.

  Wildly she clawed the air. Her own darling Essex wed to Frances Walsingham! The corridors of Greenwich were filled with the bloodcurdling scream that tore from her throat before she collapsed. Leicester gathered her up from the floor and carried her to her bed. It took all his strength, and he was quite winded by the time he laid her down and summoned her closest attendants. He was getting too old for all this nonsense.

  Hawkhurst, bathed, bejeweled, and arrayed in his finest garments, paced the queen’s privy chamber awaiting his chastisement. The small room caged him, imprisoning the essence of him. If anyone had entered the room they would have been able to taste and smell the male recklessness of him. When he had returned to Thames View and found that Sabre had packed and left, he drank himself to insensibility. Now he was in a savage, drink-sodden temper and his three-hour wait for the queen was blackening it minute by minute. A clock ticked on the mantelpiece of the marble fireplace and very deliberately he opened the glass face and plucked off the small pendulum.

  One of Elizabeth’s favorite tricks to bring a man to heel was to summon him, then keep him waiting for hours. Hawkhurst was in no mood for such games. He debated what he should do. He wavered between summoning her household chancellor or going through the anteroom of the privy chamber, up the short staircase, and straight into her private apartment. Finally he did neither. He muttered, “A pox on her!” turned upon his heel, and quit the palace. For all he cared at this moment, she could add the offense to his other transgressions; he would just as soon be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb!

  Back at Thames View the ordered silence of the house inflamed his temper further. “Where the hell is Mason?” he demanded when a housemaid answered his summons. Her eyes widened to saucers at the master’s tone, and her voice deserted her altogether. “Don’t stand there bobbing up and down like a damned jack-in-the-box, girl.”

  The poor maid threw her apron over her head and ran to the kitchen sobbing. Within minutes he was confronted by the ample figure of the cook. “If it please your lordship, I’m shorthanded enough with Mason gone and Meg also, for you to render my servants overwrought.” She was empress of the kitchen and had been so entrenched for so many years, she dared to speak her mind.

  “And just where has Mason gone?” he thundered.

  “I’m sure there is no need to take that tone with me, your lordship. They are gone with Mistress Sabre, and I’m sure I don’t blame her for going if this is the way she’s been spoken to lately.”

  “If you’d spend less time listening at doors and more time tending your kitchen, this house would be less like Bedlam!”

  “I shan’t cater to your temper, my lord, because the mistress has up and left you. In my book you pick what you plant, so I’ll leave you to your own conscience!”

  “By God, woman, next you’ll threaten to complain to the baron if I don’t watch my tongue!”

  “And so I shall, my lord,” she said firmly.

  Shane threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Go on, Mrs. Creeth, I know when I’m bested.”

  Shane told the baron of the harrowing night he’d put in at the Fleet and then in the grave at St. Bride’s, and they shared the macabre humor of it, but then they talked long of what was on their minds, aye, and what was in their hearts. The truth of it was they almost thought alike. Their hearts were no longer wholely given to Ireland and her eternal call to freedom. They had grown weary of risking life and limb for ignorant ingrates, yet they were cloaked in sadness that there would never be an Irish peace, not while there were at least two clans remaining to murder each other in
their beds.

  Shane wanted a more settled life, and he wanted to share that life with Sabre. He found himself wandering about the rooms, completely lost without her. His need for her was so acute, he felt mutilated, for she had become a part of him. The house and everything in it reminded him of Sabre. She haunted every room, filling up his senses until he thought he would go mad from loneliness. She’d been gone only days, yet it already seemed forever. One thing was certain; he must get her back and he must bind her to him so that she could never leave him again, ever. He would get Jacob Goldman to draw up the legal papers that would allow him to divorce Sara Bishop.

  Even in Goldman’s chambers Shane paced the room, revealing his impatience to be done with the whole business.

  “Are you sure about this matter of divorce, my lord? Forgive my question, but less than a year ago you were positive you wanted a marriage with Sara Bishop.”

  “Yes, yes, I’m sure. A year ago it seemed important that I acquire certain Irish lands, but now I am considering ending my ties with Ireland.”

  “I see. Have you thought of annulment, my lord? If the marriage was never consummated, perhaps a legal divorce is not necessary.”

  “Nay, if I sought an annulment, it would be a religious matter depending on the whim of the church. They love nothing better than to drag these things out for years. I want it quick and I want it legal and binding.”

  Goldman fixed him with a serious look. “It’s a delicate matter. You must have grounds for divorce and prove them.”

  “She has the grounds—adultery. She must divorce me,” Shane insisted.

  “My lord, forgive me for being crass, but you are giving her an opportunity to take a considerable chunk of your wealth.”

  “I don’t give a damn what it costs me, Jacob. I want that divorce. She deserves to be well compensated for what I’ve put her through. In all conscience I must leave her a wealthy woman to save her face. Draw up the settlement papers and get them to Blackmoor quickly.”