At the Queen's Summons

by Susan Wiggs

  “Trying to bring the dead to life?” he teased.

  Iago and Donal Og disappeared behind a paneled wall. A few seconds later, they emerged into the high gallery. Donal Og took up a skin drum while Iago helped himself to a long flute.

  A loud trill from the flute halted the dancers in their path. The master of revels, looking white-faced and harassed, went to the rail and gave a forced smile.

  “My lords and ladies,” he called, “in honor of our noble guest from Ireland, we shall give a musical salute.”

  Full of a young man’s swaggering confidence, the Earl of Essex sidled up to Aidan. “That was ill-mannered,” he said, “but I suppose all Irish are rude, judging by those I have met.”

  Pippa gave him her biggest smile. “Why, my lord! Did you practice for years to become insufferable or does the talent come naturally?”

  He stared at her as if she were a worm floating in his cup. “I beg your pardon?”

  She sent him a broad wink. “I suppose, lacking a prick, you endeavor to become one, is that it?”

  Essex’s eyes flared. “O Donoghue, take your doxy from my sight or I’ll—”

  Aidan moved one step forward. He stood so close to the earl that no one but Pippa saw him take a fistful of Essex’s padded doublet and twist until the starched ruff nearly engulfed his face.

  “One more word about her,” Aidan said with icy calm, “and I’ll wipe the floor with you, my lord.”

  The music exploded into a lively, almost frenzied reel. Aidan turned his back on Essex, gave a loud Gaelic howl, and started to dance.

  His wild spirit engulfed Pippa like a wave. In his aggressive, overbearing presence, she felt swept along on a raft of excitement.

  It was easy to dance with him. She simply had to submit. He held her by the waist, lifting her so her feet didn’t touch the floor. She spun and laughed; people began clapping and stamping their feet to the rapid rhythm. Round and round they whirled, and the glittering hall turned in a blur. Before she knew what was happening, he smoothly broke away from the crowd and danced her out through a set of tall doors to a dimly lit loggia adjacent to the hall.

  The music subsided and they came to a halt. Pippa collapsed, breathless and laughing, against his chest. “That was splendid,” she declared. “A good dance is very much like I imagine flying would be.”

  A high-pitched giggle came from the shadows of the loggia. She turned in time to see a beautiful lady rush up through the darkened garden.

  Like Pippa, the lady was breathless and flushed. Unlike Pippa, this one smiled with lips that were full and bruised by kisses. Her ruff hung askew; grass stains smeared the hem of her gown. Her eyes sparkled with the secret joy of having been loved well and recently.

  “Aidan,” Pippa whispered, “who—”

  “Cordelia, there you are.” A man dashed in and snatched her around her wasp-thin waist. “My beloved rodent of virtue has scuttled away!” They both laughed, the lady unoffended, and he led her into the circle of torchlight from the hall.

  Pippa froze. For a moment, she thought her heart had stopped beating, but the next instant it lurched into a rapid, nervous tattoo. As from a distance, she heard Aidan speak her name questioningly, but she could not answer him.

  She could only stare at the fair-haired stranger.

  To call him handsome would be laughable, for so banal a term could not begin to describe the lavish male beauty with which he had been gifted.

  Hair the color of the sun crowned a face that would not have been out of place amid a host of angels. Full, bowed lips. A glorious symmetry of high cheekbones and sweeping brown lashes around eyes the color of morning glory. Just to make certain this man would never, ever, find his equal in looks, his Maker in all Her wisdom had added a perfect cleft in his chin, an incomparable set of white teeth and a look of irreverent humor that made the corners of his mouth turn up.

  “Colleen.” Aidan spoke with amused tolerance. “If you stare at him any harder, he’ll think you’re putting him under the evil eye.”

  She blinked. The image of the stranger shimmered like new-minted gold. He was laughing now, leading his lady into the gallery, head bent toward her as they shared a private jest.

  His appearance garnered many stares. Women young and old contrived to pass by him; one dropped a fan and tittered when he picked it up. Another managed to lose her garter. As the golden Adonis replaced it, he murmured the age-old disclaimer: “Honi soit qui mal y pense.”

  “She looks ill,” Aidan said with laughter in his voice. “Do you think she’ll swoon?”

  All at once Pippa, too, was struck by the ridiculousness of it, and she giggled. “Who is that man?” she said.

  “I don’t know. My question is, how can he bear all the simpering?”

  She leaned against the door frame and watched the young man, a glowing star surrounded by basking lesser beauties. Not just the women, but the men too seemed drawn to him. He had an air of easy grace; he was comfortable with himself and others. He seemed to have no particular problem with being the most beautiful man in the world.

  “Such attention,” she said to herself, “cannot be so hard to bear.”

  Unexpectedly, she felt Aidan’s hand at the back of her waist. The gesture was subtle yet full of tenderness.

  For a moment she was staggered by an idea so outrageous that she caught her breath in surprise. This man, this Irish stranger, understood her. He knew her need for attention, for approval, for a gentle touch.

  “Aidan,” she said, emotion welling in her throat, “I must tell you—”

  “—the honor of this dance?” asked a golden voice.

  Her mouth dropped open. With infinite patience, Aidan placed his finger under her chin and closed her mouth.

  The golden man bowed before her, then held out his hand.

  “I daresay my lovely guest would like to dance with you,” Aidan said. “Perhaps you would do her the honor of introducing yourself.”

  The god took her hand. As he led her to the dance floor, he inclined his shining head in Aidan’s direction. “My name is Richard, my lord. Richard de Lacey.”

  A curious change came over Aidan. Until now, he had shown tolerance and bemused patience. Upon hearing the man’s name, the O Donoghue Mór all but turned to stone.

  Richard de Lacey drew her into a pavane, tilting his head to whisper into her ear, “You are quite the most dazzling creature in here. But clearly, the O Donoghue claims you for his own.”

  She glanced over her shoulder at Aidan. He had not moved. “You know who he is.”

  “My little sugared quince, everyone has heard of the Lord of Castleross. Under different circumstances, I would endeavor to be his friend. But as things stand, he is bound to despise me.” He nodded regally to passing couples. “And not just because I find you dazzling.”

  “Why, then?” she asked, intrigued by him but missing Aidan’s nearness.

  “Because I have been granted a commission in Ireland, in the district of the O Donoghue Mór.”

  By the next morning, Pippa was sick and tired of hearing about Richard de Lacey. The chamber she shared with several other ladies rang with passionate recitations of his charms, both physical and social.

  “I couldn’t believe it. He touched me. He actually touched me.” Lady Barbara Throckmorton Smythe held out a limp, pale hand.

  “Ooh!” Three others gathered around to inspect the favored appendage.

  Finally, after hearing Richard de Lacey compared to every mythical and astrological figure the ladies could imagine, Pippa gave an exasperated snort.

  Lady Barbara glared at her. “Well, mistress of revels, I did not see you sniffing at his invitation to dance.”

  “True.” Pippa winced; the handmaid who was combing her short hair caught a snag. “I reserve my sniffing for less desirable invitations.”

  “What was it like?” Bessie Josephine Traylor demanded. “You must tell us, for you’re the only one he danced with other than that painted tar
t, Cordelia Carruthers.”

  “Yes, tell us,” urged Lady Jocelyn Bellmore. She studied Pippa’s short golden curls, then ran a hand through her own long red hair. “I’ve been thinking I’d have this cropped short. Richard adores short hair.”

  Pippa rolled her eyes. What silly gamehens they were, pecking and squawking after the cock of the walk. But they were looking at her so expectantly that the natural performer in her came out.

  “Well, I am far too much the lady to go into detail,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper. “But if I were to give Richard de Lacey a nickname, it would surely be the Blond Stallion.”

  The women collapsed in helpless giggles and the maid dropped her comb. Pippa picked it up, chuckling at her companions, and grew thoughtful as they chattered on.

  As beautiful as he was, Richard de Lacey had a different sort of appeal for her. She felt drawn to him, but in a mysterious way that had nothing to do with the wanting she felt for Aidan O Donoghue.

  There was something in the way Richard cocked his head, a certain crooked slant to his smile, and a gentle quality in his touch that tugged at her heart. It was not recognition she felt; it could not be. She had never seen him before in her life.

  “What sort of boat race?” Pippa demanded, striding down through the gardens at Aidan’s side.

  “I’m not quite certain.” He watched her from the corner of his eye. “I believe it is a sculling race down the Thames.” She looked as fresh as a newly opened rose with the dew still clinging to its petals. How naturally she fit into this rarefied setting of aristocrats with their elaborate manners and games. The girl’s gift for imitation served her well here. Her courtly graces seemed as seasoned as those of a woman trained from the cradle.

  Today she wore a gown of lilac with all the sleeves and furnishings properly attached and fastened. Her hair was caught back in a coif beaded with gleaming onyx.

  “I believe,” he explained, “that the race is held for a winner’s cup. You and the other ladies will watch at the finish line—that would be the watersteps.”

  “I see.” She squinted at the beribboned string that stretched clear across the river.

  “Did you get on with them?” he asked, then scowled. He was not supposed to care one way or the other.

  “The other ladies?” She looked up, gave him a false smile and fluttered a pretend fan in her face. “Oh, la, sir, surely you know what deep joy I take in discussing fashion and rose breeding.”

  He laughed. “They know no better. The Sassenach keep their women on a short leash.”

  “A charming image. And are Irishwomen kept on a long leash?”

  “Some would say, in Ireland, the woman wields the leash herself.”

  She beamed. “That sounds much more sensible.”

  “I take it they’re all deeply smitten with Richard de Lacey.”

  “Of course. We discussed him in exhaustive detail.” She pantomimed a fluttering fan. “The cleft in his chin, his perfectly turned calf, the tenor of his voice, the charm of his manners, all kept us in gossip fodder for half the night.”

  A stab of feeling he refused to name invaded Aidan. “So you’re smitten with him, too.”

  She blew upward at a curl that had escaped her coif to dangle upon her brow. “I should be. It seems almost a sacrilege not to be.”

  “But?” Undeniable hope kindled inside him.

  “But…” A teasing light glinted in her eye. “I don’t know, Your Potency. I’m not certain how to put this. I prefer my men to be tall, dark and Irish.” She laughed at his thunderstruck expression. “Richard de Lacey is too perfect to render me smitten and swooning. Does that make sense to you?”

  He held a smile in check. “Perfect sense. Being smitten is a serious and sometimes painful business.”

  She caught her lip in her teeth and gazed at him with eyes so luminescent that he could see his own reflection.

  “Aidan!” Donal Og called from the end of the garden. “Reel in your tongue and get down here.” His broad Gaelic rang like pagan music through the fussy arbors and knot gardens of Durham House. “The Sassenach sheep-swivers want a lesson in rowing.”

  “My lord,” Pippa called as he turned to leave, “Richard said you would hate him because of his commission in Ireland. Is that true?”

  Aidan paused, startled both by her question and by how much she pleased him. He was not accustomed to a woman’s empathy, her understanding. “I do not hate him,” Aidan said, turning toward Donal Og. “Yet.”

  He left her seated amid a few dozen spectators at the river landing, then went to hear the particulars of the race.

  He was fast learning that the social games of the English had subtle and serious purposes. A man’s status among his peers rose or fell with his prowess at sport. Most important of all, the queen herself was given a full report of each man’s performance.

  They rode a mile upriver to the contestants’ boats. Donal Og settled eagerly into one. “It is like a curragh!” he declared, referring to the seagoing rowboats of the Irish.

  “They will all drown like dogs in our wake,” Iago said with complete certainty.

  As he saw the other teams settle into the boats, Aidan felt no need to disagree. Not one of these Sassenach looked as if he had ever exerted himself into an actual sweat. They wore precious clothes and precious, smug expressions on their faces.

  Strutting in front of their ranks, Iago put on his scariest I’m-a-savage look, with glowering eyes and protruding lips, muscles flexed until they bulged. The air of English superiority dissipated.

  “I think they get the point,” Aidan said, smothering a laugh. Already he had decided what to do with the winner’s cup. He would give it to the queen as a gift with all the others he had brought for her.

  The hoary old bitch. She was beginning to try his patience.

  Then the gorgeous Richard de Lacey appeared and Aidan felt his first stab of doubt. The charming young man had two extraordinary retainers in tow. They looked almost as exotic as Donal Og and Iago. Though not as tall as Aidan’s companions, they were broad and powerfully built. One had cropped black hair, a black mustache and black eyes. He wore black boots, old-fashioned trews and a richly embroidered tunic with a sleeveless red jacket over it.

  The other man had a mustache so wide that its stiffened tips extended past the width of his face in the shape of a stout set of bull’s horns.

  As these formidable challengers scrambled into their boat, Richard smiled and greeted all his rivals. He was a merry fellow indeed, and clearly it was not just the ladies who thought so.

  Richard would need to bring more than charm to Ireland, Aidan thought. He had seen young men, Irish and English alike, made old in mere months by the rigors of privation during the endless, pointless campaigns.

  Then Richard spoke to his companions, and an odd chill shot down Aidan’s spine. It was a strange language they spoke, guttural and nasal, so wholly foreign he could not pick out a single word of it.

  “What are they?” Iago asked. “Demon men?”

  “Prussian or Turkish?” Donal Og guessed.

  “No matter.” Aidan clamped his hands around the oars. “As far as we are concerned, they are defeated.”

  A whistle pierced the air, and they were off. As Aidan had predicted, the Sassenach fell behind immediately. The only serious challenge was from Richard and his cohorts.

  Setting his jaw, Aidan threw all of his strength into the race. He rowed with a vigor and rhythm that caused the sweat to pour down his face and arms. His hands blistered and the blisters burst, yet he did not slacken his pace.

  He held one clear thought in his mind. Pippa watched from the finish line. He would be less than the O Donoghue Mór if he let her see him lose.

  Yet some equally powerful thought was driving Richard de Lacey and his crew, for they too rowed at a furious rate; they were as grim and focused as Aidan and his companions.

  Before long, he could hear the low roar of cheering. He blocked it out. He
listened only to the thump and splash of the oars, the pounding of his heart, his own steady breathing.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw Richard’s boat draw even with his. Then, whipping his head around for a split second, he saw the banner of ribbons stretched across the finish line.

  The strength that surged through him had deep roots. It was the stubborn ferocity of the ancient Celt that gripped and held him, then shot energy like fire through his limbs.

  The last oar stroke flowed from his shoulders to the tips of the oars, and on a surge of speed that drew gasps from the crowd, the boat shot forward. Aidan snatched down the banner. To loud huzzahs and a few anti-Irish boos, he held it aloft.

  Richard’s boat ran alongside his, and Richard inclined his head. “Well done, my lord of Castleross. I only regret I was not a more worthy opponent.”

  “You were not so bad for a Sassenach,” said Donal Og, examining the raw blisters on his hands.

  De Lacey’s companions exchanged words in their incomprehensible tongue.

  “By my soul, but I’ve worked up a sweat.” Aidan sluiced water over his neck and shoulders. Iago and Donal Og did the same.

  The spectators were oddly quiet as the Irishmen drifted toward the river landing. Aidan did not realize why until he set aside his oars and looked up to see the crowd drawn to the very edge of the landing, the women pushing past the men to gape at the drenched savages. Even Pippa went to the brink, her soft eyes wide with interest.

  It was more than any man’s pride could resist. Aidan exchanged a sly glance with his cousin and then with Iago. All three of them managed to row with the maximum display of flexed muscles that drew murmurs from the ladies.

  Unnoticed by Pippa, a grossly overdressed man—Lord Temple Newsome, Aidan recalled—came up behind her.

  From a distance, Aidan could not see exactly where Newsome put his hand, but the outraged expression on Pippa’s face gave him a good idea. She straightened up and, in the same motion, seized the gentleman by his left arm. In a move that would have done a seasoned wrestler credit, she bent forward, jerking Temple Newsome up and over her head. Screaming, he flopped head over heels into the water.