Bright tentacles of orange light streaked the eastern sky as the funeral procession wended its way past the graveyard to a grassy incline where three gigantic oak trees stood together like old friends. The grave beneath one of those mighty oaks faced the rising sun.
“This is unhallowed ground,” Father Bundles protested.
“Then bless it,” Keely snapped, losing patience.
Ready to argue, Father Bundles glanced at Odo and Hew. Their great size, combined with their threatening expressions, made him reconsider.
Father Bundles recited a few prayers in Latin, sprinkled the grave with holy water, and hurried away. After offering words of condolence, everyone but Keely and her cousins dispersed.
Odo and Hew lowered the casket into the ground as the sun rose in all of its radiant glory. The air was hushed as if the world held its breath.
Keely closed her eyes, raised her arms toward the sun, and whispered, “Father Sun kisses Mother Earth.” She looked down at the open grave. “Rest in peace, mother. Watch the light come into the world each day.”
Odo and Hew refilled the grave and set the temporary marker, a Celtic cross carved from oak, into its place. Later, the stonecutter would replace it with a permanent cross.
“Rhys should have been here,” Keely said.
“He’ll be furious with Madoc,” Odo remarked.
“My earliest memory is of Mother and me sitting beneath these oaks,” Keely said, tears welling up in her eyes. “We sat here every day, no matter the season or weather, and she taught me the Old Ways. I’m alone in the world now.”
“You have us,” Hew said.
“And don’t forget Rhys,” Odo added.
And Robert Talbot. “Thank you for your loyalty, cousins.”
Brushing the tears from her cheeks, Keely knelt beside her mother’s grave. She removed the oak and mistletoe wreath from around her neck and placed it over the cross. “Send me a sign, Mother.”
A sudden gust of wind blew the hood off her head, and falling oak leaves fluttered around her. Keely closed her eyes and murmured, “Until Samhuinn.”
Odo and Hew looked at each other. Those two fearless warriors of many a raid made a protective sign of the cross.
By the time Keely and her cousins returned to the great hall, clansmen and retainers were crowded inside eating their morning meal. Looking tired and none too happy, Madoc sat at the high table. His complexion was ashen, and his head rested on one hand.
Father Bundles stood beside him. The old priest appeared in a high agitation as he talked and gestured toward the hall’s entrance.
“Aye, Father,” Madoc agreed in a loud voice, his gaze sliding to his stepdaughter. “Megan raised her daughter to be as heathen as she.”
Heedless of the consequences, Keely advanced on the high table. “Do not foul my mother’s memory by slandering her good name, you sniveling son of a—”
“Curse and rot you.” Madoc banged his fist on the table, stopping Keely in her tracks. “I am the lord here. Never speak to me in that disrespectful manner again.”
Knowing her stepfather was all bluster, Keely arched one ebony brow at him. “Your grief makes you cranky,” she said. “Perhaps a mug of ale will revive your good humor.” She threw him a contemptuous look, adding, “A lord? More like a drunken snake masquerading as—”
Leaping out of his chair, Madoc banged his fist on the table again. Rage reddened his complexion.
“You are naught but a bastard witch,” Madoc shouted, advancing on her.
Odo and Hew stepped in front of Keely like two fierce hounds protecting their mistress.
“Stand aside,” Madoc ordered.
“You must go through us to get to her,” Odo announced.
Madoc couldn’t credit the insubordination he was hearing. He glanced from one hulking brother to the other. “Your combined brains are no bigger than a rooster’s balls.”
At the insult, Odo and Hew growled low in their throats. Madoc retreated several paces. “You are not of the Cymry,” Madoc said to his stepdaughter. “Take your few possessions and leave Wales.”
“The blood of Llewelyn the Great and Owen Glendower flows in my veins,” Keely cried. “I am a true princess of Powys and Gwynedd.”
“You are the Princess of Nowhere,” Madoc sneered in a voice that carried to the far corners of the hall. “That blazing dragon pendant and those violet eyes mark you the uncherished by-blow of an Englishman.”
Everyone in the chamber gasped and fell silent.
“Megan is dead,” Madoc went on. “Seek out your English father. Begone from my land.” Turning his anger on clansmen and retainers, he warned, “Show your backs to this bastard or be outcast yourselves.”
Keely turned on her heels in a swirl of white robe and ebony hair and marched out of the hall. Before following her outside, Odo and Hew growled at the baron, who leaped back another pace.
When her cousins joined her outside, Keely said, “I never thought Madoc would—” She broke off with a sob, and tears streamed down her cheeks.
“He wouldn’t dare if Rhys was here,” Odo said, putting a comforting arm around her.
“I thank you for being faithful cousins,” Keely said. “Odo, please prepare Merlin for traveling. Include a bag of feed for her. Hew, ask Haylan to pack a food basket for me. Enough to get me to England.”
“We’re going with you,” Odo said.
“Sharing my exile is unnecessary,” Keely said, refusing to let them give up their home.
“We insist,” Hew said. “Besides, nothing is forever.”
“The three of us will return to Wales one day soon,” Odo added.
“I accept your offer,” Keely agreed, grateful for their company. “My father lives in Shropshire.”
“Who is he?” Odo asked.
“Robert Talbot.”
“Talbot does sound like an English name,” Hew remarked.
Keely looked at him. “The Duke of Ludlow is most assuredly an Englishman.”
“The Duke of—?”
“The Duke of Ludlow sired me,” Keely said, already turning away. “Now let’s not waste any more time. Meet me at the stableyard in one hour.”
* * *
With her few possessions neatly folded inside her leather satchel, Keely spared a final glance at her spartanly furnished chamber and then hurried outside. The stableyard was conspicuously deserted except for Haylan, Odo, and Hew. Apparently, the Lloyd clansmen and retainers were too fearful of incurring the baron’s anger to see her off. Keely didn’t blame them for keeping their distance from her. If Madoc was capable of outcasting his own stepdaughter, he could do the same or worse to them.
When she stood in front of Haylan, Keely pasted a bright smile onto her face. “Thank you for everything, especially for your loyalty to my mother.”
“Megan was a great lady,” Haylan said. “The same as you’ll be one day.”
Keely hugged the woman. “Please tell Rhys not to follow me. I’ll write him after I’ve settled into my new home.”
Haylan nodded and then looked at the two giants standing there. “Protect the girl with your lives.”
Odo and Hew bobbed their heads in unison.
Fighting back tears, Keely gave Haylan another quick hug and then mounted Merlin. Odo and Hew mounted their own horses.
“Wait!”
Keely turned and saw Father Bundles running into the stableyard.
“I’m sorry for the trouble I’ve caused you,” the priest said when he reached her side.“There’s no need to apologize,” Keely told him. “At the moment of my conception, the wind whispered my destiny to the holy stones. What is happening was meant to be.”
Father Bundles refrained from lecturing her about the folly of her religious beliefs. “I’ll celebrate a mass each day for the repose of Lady Megan’s soul.”
“Thank you, Father.” Keely believed in the significance of the Christian rites no more than her mother had, but to insure the peace of mind of people l
ike the priest, they’d always pretended otherwise.
“God protect you, child.” Father Bundles blessed her with the sign of the cross. Without another word, Keely and her cousins rode out of the stableyard. Though an aching sadness settled around her heart, Keely never looked back for a final glimpse of her former home. Her destiny lay in England. Megan had seen it, and what her mother saw came to pass. Always.
* * *
Leicester, England
The sun rode high in a cloudless blue sky that sultry day in mid-August. Unusually hot summer weather gripped the land and its people.
A solitary horseman reached the crest of a grassy knoll and felt a rejuvenating surge of relief at what he saw. After journeying for long days beneath that scorching sun to catch up with Queen Elizabeth on her annual summer progress, the Earl of Basildon had arrived at his destination. Before him rose Kenilworth Castle, the home of Robert Dudley, the Earl of Leicester.
“I can’t believe Elizabeth gifted the son of a traitor with all this,” Richard muttered to himself. To the Dudley family, loyalty was like the weather—subject to change without warning. Eager to put his travels behind, Richard spurred his horse forward and galloped the remaining distance to the great house. He reached the inner courtyard and leaped off his horse, then tossed the reins and a coin to a waiting stableboy.
“Be sure to treat him well,” Devereux said.
“Aye, my lord,” the boy said.
“I wondered when you’d arrive,” a familiar voice said.
Richard turned toward the voice and offered his hand to Baron Willis Smythe, one of his closest friends. “I don’t suppose Dudley’s saved me a chamber?”
“Accommodations are cramped,” Smythe replied. “Luckily, I’ve saved you a cot in mine.”
The Earl of Basildon and Baron Smythe walked together toward the main building. The myriad females they passed—from high-born ladies to lowly serving wenches—paused to admire the perfect picture of virility the two friends presented.
Both men enjoyed magnificent physiques—broad shoulders, tapered waists, and well-muscled thighs shown to best advantage in the tight hose they wore. But all similarities between them ended there.
The taller green-eyed earl sported a thick mane of burnished copper hair and moved with a predator’s grace. The heavier black-haired baron had deep-set blue eyes and moved in a lumbering gait.
Given their pick, those perusing females would undoubtedly have chosen the earl who, as everyone knew, was richer than the pope. Baron Smythe usually lacked funds, though his intense gaze promised rewards more valuable than gold.
“Both Lady Mary and Lady Jane have been pestering me about your arrival,” Willis Smythe said as they entered the main building’s foyer. “How will you juggle two mistresses in the same house without getting yourself into trouble?”
There was no reply. Smythe turned when he realized his friend had paused.
Richard stood in the middle of the foyer and watched a passing young lady. When she recognized the earl, the blond-haired beauty stopped and curtsied in his direction, earning a wink from the earl . . .
“Lady Sarah is looking especially lovely,” Richard said, watching her walk away.
“Is she destined to become your next mistress?” Willis asked. “Or will that greatness elude her?”
Richard glanced at his friend. “You know, Will, I never dally with unmarried women.”
“Devereux!”
Richard turned at the sound of his name and waited as the Earl of Leicester approached them.
“Welcome to Kenilworth. The queen is resting after the morning hunt,” Dudley said. “Shall I have your arrival announced?”
“I’d prefer to wash the dust from my face before I see Her Majesty,” Richard said. “Tell Burghley I’m here with important information.”
“Not bad, I hope.”
“On the contrary, quite good.”
“What is it?” The words slipped out of Leicester’s mouth before he could bite them back. Richard stared at him, a stare that told the older man the information was no business of his.
“Housing the royal retinue does create a crowding problem,” Dudley said, recovering himself. “Smythe and you will share a chamber.”
“I understand,” Richard said, his intense dislike of the earl evident in his polite expressionless response. Without another word, he turned his back and walked away with Willis Smythe.
“Here we are,” Willis said, opening a door.
Richard followed him inside and looked in disgust at the closet posing as a bedchamber. “I should have known Dudley would see me ensconced in the worst chamber at Kenilworth. Call a servant, will you?”
Smythe opened the door and hailed the first passing servant. “You, girl, get in here!” he barked an order.
A pretty serving girl stepped into the chamber. Richard read the anxiety in her expression and smiled to put her at ease. “I’d like something light to eat and a pan of warmed water for washing. Would that be possible?”
“I’ll take care of it right away, my lord,” the girl said, and then hurried away to do his bidding.
“Whenever I order a servant, the service is poor,” Willis complained. “But when you give an order, the wenches trip over their own feet in their haste to please you. Why is that, I wonder?”
“You haven’t been paying attention,” Richard said, removing his dusty doublet and tossing it aside. He sat on the edge of the cot and yanked his boots off. “A world of difference lies between a simple request and an order.”
“What do you mean?” Willis asked, sitting on the opposite cot.
“Give a woman what she wants, and in return she’ll move mountains to please you,” Richard told him. “Reading a woman’s secret desire is so incredibly easy. For example, most serving girls yearn to be treated like a lady, while most of the noblewomen I know—like Lady Sarah—yearn to be ravished like common wenches. Follow that one simple rule, my friend, and the gentler sex will adore you.”
Willis grinned and folded his arms across his chest. “What happens when you finally meet an unreadable woman?”
Richard shrugged. “I’ll probably marry her and make her my countess.”
“What if she’s a commoner?”
Richard cocked a copper brow at him. “England’s wealthiest earl can marry whomever he pleases.”
“With the queen’s permission, of course.”
“I can handle Elizabeth.”
“Is there a chance the servants jump to do your bidding because they know your purse is fat?” Willis asked, his voice tinged with envy.
Richard smiled at the other man’s tone and tossed him a full bag of coins. “Try both approaches and let me know the outcome.”
“Do not deny the queen loves you because your business ventures fill her coffers with gold,” Willis said, irritated that his wealthy friend could afford to toss a bag of coins away with cavalier disregard for what others needed.
“I thought Elizabeth loved me for my devilish good looks and dashing charm.”
Willis burst out laughing. He stood then and crossed the chamber, saying, “I’ll see you later.” Before he could get out the door, two serving girls rushed past him. One carried a pan of warmed water while the other offered the earl a platter piled high with food. Casting his friend a bemused glance, Willis Smythe shook his head and quit their chamber.
* * *
Two hours later, the Earl of Basildon, dressed severely in black except for the white lawn ruff around his neck, emerged from his chamber and headed for Dudley’s study, where he’d been summoned to attend the queen. He knocked on the door and entered at the sound of the answering call. Robert Cecil, Lord Burghley, sat alone at the desk.
“So you’ve finally arrived—and only six weeks late,” Burghley said by way of a greeting. “If you’d delayed any longer, you could have met us at the gates of London.”
“Is she very angry?” Richard sat in the chair opposite him and placed a small packag
e on the desk. “I have good news, and an idea that will make the three of us richer than the pope.”
“Putting business before pleasure is a respectable habit,” Cecil said. “She’ll forgive you for that.”
“I acquired that habit from England’s finest,” Richard replied, referring to the years he’d been fostered in the other man’s household.
Burghley nodded at the compliment. “I suppose Dudley gave you the worst chamber possible.”
“Dudley gave Smythe the worst chamber,” Richard said. “He saved none for me.”
Burghley frowned at the mention of the baron’s name. “I thought I’d advised you to terminate your friendship with Smythe.”
“Why do you dislike him?” Richard asked. “Willis fostered in your household too. Is it because he hasn’t a gold piece to his name?”
“We’ve had this conversation a hundred times before,” Burghley said. “My reasons have nothing to do with his lack of funds. I believe Smythe is untrustworthy, and I harbor suspicions about his involvement in his father’s and his brother’s deaths. You know that, Richard.”
“I cannot believe Will murdered his family to inherit that piddling title.”
“Greedy men murder for less. Do not forget that he squandered the inheritance that—”
The door opened suddenly. The two men shot to their feet and bowed as the queen entered.
Tall and slim and red-haired, Elizabeth Tudor was still a stunningly handsome woman at the ripe age of forty-two. She wore a low-cut gown in lady blush silk that bore a fortune in gold braiding and pearl embroidery. Spectacular diamonds glittered from her throat, fingers, and hair. When she moved, Elizabeth sparkled as brilliantly as a dancing sunbeam. The queen made herself comfortable and gestured Burghley to sit. She left Richard standing like an errant child awaiting punishment while she looked the uncomfortable earl up and down.
“The prodigal courtier arrives,” Elizabeth said. “Your extreme tardiness does irritate Us.”
“Forgive me, Majesty,” Richard apologized, bowing deeply. “Though I yearned to be in your company, your business interests held me prisoner in London.”
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