At the Queen's Summons (20 page)

“Mistress Pippa.” He took her hand and lifted it in formal greeting to his mouth. When his flame-blue eyes met hers, she saw her startled face reflected in their depths and remembered her purpose.

“My lord, I just found out—”

He touched a finger to her lips. Perhaps it was her imagination, but he seemed to be studying her intently, drinking in the sight of her. Could it be that he had missed her, too?

“A storin,”
he said, “a most singular thing has occurred.”

“Seize him! Seize the rebel O Donoghue!”

The call came from the arched doorway of the Presence Chamber.

Aidan's head snapped up. “What the—”

She grasped his thick, muscular arm and tugged with all her might. “Run!” she said desperately. “They mean to arrest you!”

Instead of fleeing as she begged him to do, he planted his feet and glared at the oncoming guards and pensioners. The captain of the guard bellowed his orders again.

“Seal the doors! Seize the rebel Irish lord.”

Strong hands grabbed Pippa and dragged her away from Aidan. She screamed a curse. The roar of raised voices and thundering footfalls drowned her protest. Reverting to tactics she had learned from street fighters, she lashed out at those who detained her, kicking and elbowing, looking for something vulnerable to bite.

There were too many of them. This was the queen's chief residence, after all. It was more heavily guarded than the royal treasury. Firm hands subdued her. Furious, she stopped struggling long enough to look at Aidan.

He towered over the guards, but at least a dozen sur
rounded him, making escape impossible. He was like a great noble stag cornered by snapping curs.

His gaze found hers, and she felt her heart turn to ice. For the eyes of the O Donoghue Mór were filled with hatred and accusation.

Dear God. He thought she had betrayed him.

 

So this, thought Aidan grimly, was the great Tower of London.

He had been given a room in Beauchamp Tower where, years before, Guilford Dudley had suffered and pined for his Lady Jane before being led off to die. The room was hexagonal in shape, with walls of light-colored stone, narrow windows giving a view of the Thames on one side and Tower Green on the other.

Tower Green, where the heads of traitors were lopped off.

He paced like a caged lion. Three days and nights had passed, and no one save the warden and guards had come to ease his isolation. No one had told him the precise reason for his arrest.

Ah, but he knew.

He continued to pace, noting that the furnishings in the room, though sparse, were of good quality. The low bedstead had rails of carven oak, and the thick tabletop was covered by a chessboard. His noontime meal—untouched—sat upon a tray of silver.

He had all the amenities of a prisoner of rank. That was something, he supposed. But it was not enough.

He swore under his breath, went to the window, and braced his palms on the ledge. Fury boiled silently inside him. He did not know who made him angrier—Revelin of Innisfallen, for advising him to stay on in London, himself for heeding that advice, or Pippa for her part in
his arrest. There, in the gallery of Whitehall, she had given him the Judas kiss. How quickly she had deserted him.

News from Ireland had arrived like an ill wind. The rebels had fired flaming arrows at the Browne residence in Killarney. Most of those involved were violent men of little honor and lesser sense.

His reply had been an express and urgent order to withdraw and await the chieftain's return. Obviously, Revelin had either not received the message or was ignoring it. The rebels had seized English hostages.

Panic clawed at Aidan's throat. He was afraid—but not for himself. The past few years had stripped him of all fear of dying.

Nay, he feared for the people of his district, what would become of them if the Sassenach host took it upon themselves to avenge the insult dealt by the rebels. Aidan had seen Sassenach justice at work in Ireland.

It took the form of wanton, wholesale slaughter.

Old women and babies were dragged from their cottages and gutted like pigs. Men were hunted in the forests and spitted on swords and pikes. Women were raped and left to die or to bear the children of the men who had brutalized them.

The barrier between the atrocities and a peaceable solution was thin and fragile. For now, there was a standoff. Six Englishmen were prisoners of the rebels. Aidan was likewise a prisoner of the Crown.

Nothing would happen until one side or the other lost its hostage.

Stricken cold by an idea, he turned away from the window. For many long moments he stood unmoving, staring at the table with its hearty meal of meat and wine laid out for him.

A wave of fatalism rolled over him. With glass-edged clarity he saw a way out.

Perhaps the most useful thing he could do for his people now was to die.

W
e had a most singular visitor today—Rosaria, the Contessa Cerniglia. I found her to be delightful and unfettered in her conversation. I was early taught that women should press down their frank opinions and bold ideas; what a mercy my dear Oliver showed me otherwise!

Worldly (as most Venetians are), the contessa took a great fascination in the Russian retainers in Richard's service, and even found merriment in trying to read words written in that alphabet.

Ah, Richard! My son! The very thought of him mars my pleasure in recounting the contessa's visit.

For tomorrow, he takes ship to Ireland.

—Lark de Lacey,
Countess of Wimberleigh

B
its of litter, buffeted by an unseasonably chilly wind, rolled along the street in front of Pippa. She clutched her shawl tighter around her and lowered her head, hurrying on.

The queen's ladies, eager to train the newest royal plaything, had cautioned her not to stray from the palace without formal leave.

“Formal effing leave,” she muttered, her words swallowed by the wind, “my pink backside.”

“Come with us, sweetling,” called a rough voice.

She saw a pair of wet-mouthed soldiers clutching flasks and ambling toward her. “We'll keep you warm.”

In the weeks she had spent with Aidan, she had almost forgotten the ugly sensation of being threatened by brutes. But she would never forget how to dispense with them.

As she had dozens of times before, she bit the inside of her lip until she tasted blood. The routine was so familiar that she didn't even wince. She spat blood on the street in front of the soldiers. “Want to take your chances with me, lads?”

Cursing her, they stumbled off, cramming themselves through the doorway of the nearest tavern.

She nursed her cut lip with her tongue and quickened her pace. Her heart was pounding by the time she reached the street gate of Lumley House.

Please be here, she thought.

But no one greeted or challenged her at the gatehouse. She pushed through to the inner courtyard and went around to the kitchen garden behind the main house.

The entire place echoed with emptiness. Shivering, she leaned against the well sweep to catch her breath. Memories crept up and seized her unawares.

“No,” she whispered, but the feelings raged like the wind, unstoppable, impossible to ignore. She had no idea memories could be so sad and so sweet all at once.

There was the pear tree where she had juggled for Aidan, easing the frown off his face and finally coaxing laughter from him. There was the arbor under which she had shown him the cut-and-foist technique of a seasoned thief and the eastern way of self-protection, taught to her by a tumbler from the Orient. At the top of the steps she had sat with Aidan and explained the intricacies of dicing while shafts of sunlight had bathed him in radiant splendor.

He had touched her that day, as he did so often, with gentle solicitude, his long fingers brushing back a curl of her hair and then lingering, for perhaps just a heartbeat too long, upon her cheek. He had taught her things as well, good things, valuable things, magical Gaelic words to describe the color of clouds at dawn and the feeling one gets while watching children at play. He had taught her that she did not always have to measure her value with the applause of strangers. And he had shown her that families could take many forms and that some of the
strongest bonds were forged not by blood, but by the heart.

Tender leaves and blowing petals drifted down, littering the pathway. The herb garden had burst into bloom, and the pungent dry aroma of lavender and mint hung in the air.

She swallowed past a welling of grief in her throat. The house and garden stood still and silent, empty and desolate, as if her weeks with Aidan had never happened. As if the halls had not rung with laughter, with Pippa mimicking Donal Og's accent or singing an island ballad in Spanish with Iago.

They had been, for one brief, shining season, a family.

Dashing away a stinging tear, she went to the back wall of the garden and entered the adjacent priory of Crutched Friars. The only sign of life was a thin trickle of smoke from the glassworks.

She stood in the doorway of the foundry and waited for her eyes to adjust to the dimness. A lone artisan worked at the forge, heating molten glass into a glowing blob at the end of a steel rod. With several deft twists, he transformed the shapeless mass into a goblet, expertly using tongs to break it off when he was finished.

“Hello,” said Pippa.

The goblet slipped and shattered on the packed earth floor. The area was already littered with broken glass.

The artisan let loose a stream of invective that impressed even Pippa.

“I'm sorry to startle you,” she said.

He set aside his rod and yanked off his thick gloves. “It's not your fault,” he said in disgust. “Actually it is, but you ought to tell me it's my punishment for working on the Sabbath.”

She had forgotten it was Sunday. “I thought that was against the law.”

He propped a hip on the worktable and spat on the floor. “I fell behind. The Earl of Bedford wanted his goblets yesterday.”

The dull glow of the forge lit his face, and she saw that he was a mere boy, beardless and soft cheeked, a troubled frown puckering his brow.

“You're an apprentice?” she inquired.

He nodded.

“What happened to the guests at Lumley House?”

“All gone away, and good riddance, I trow.”

“Do you know where they went?” She tried to show only casual interest. She had come dreading the worst—that Donal Og and Iago and Aidan's men had been rounded up and arrested or, Jesu forfend, put to death.

“They just sort of slipped away in the night,” he said. “Odd, that.” The youth smiled. “I think it were
her
idea.”

“Her?”

“The foreign mort. Blond, she were. Big—dimples.” He winked. “A mite bossy, but after she yammered at them for a while they all up and followed her. Never came back.”

Pippa sagged with relief against the door frame. The contessa. Somehow she had warned Donal Og and Iago of impending danger.

Perhaps they were in hiding or on their way to Ireland. Once there, Donal Og would know what to do. He would free the English hostages and put down the rebellion. The queen would have no further need to detain Aidan in London Tower.

Pippa thanked the apprentice and left, taking Petty Wales Street south toward the river. Nearby loomed the Tower, handsome and imposing, pennons flying from each corner tower.

Aidan, she thought. The merest thought of him made her turn weak and warm.

The idea that he was in danger filled her with a fear that ripped like the thrust of a sword through her. She stood across from the grim edifice for a long time, staring and thinking while the evening closed around her and deepened into night.

After a while, she heard the Ceremony of the Keys being called out. A scarlet-coated and feather-bonneted warder appeared with a lantern and a massive escort. Bemused, Pippa crept through the shadows of Water Street, watching their progress. As each gate of the fortress was locked, a sentry called out, “Halt! Who comes there?”

“Queen Elizabeth's keys,” the warder answered. “All's well.” At the end of the ceremony, the men removed their massive hats and cried, “God preserve Queen Elizabeth!” A bugle signaled the end of the ceremony.

Pippa wanted to laugh at the determined formality of it all, but the thought of Aidan drove all mirth from her.

She had to find a way to get him out.

But first, she had to find a way to get herself in.

 

The queen was in a fine rage. The usual lavish nightly feast lay uneaten before her, and her attendants scurried to clean up the plate of comfits she had just swept to the floor.

Standing amid the queen's ladies, Pippa looked on goggle-eyed as Her Majesty darted up from the table and began to pace. She was spry despite the weight of her jeweled and embroidered court dress. She paused to glare at Sir Christopher Hatton, who stepped forward to offer her a cup of spiced wine.

“Begone, Sir Mutton,” she snapped. “I need wise counsel, not strong drink.”

He bowed from the waist and stepped back. Distinguished by steel-gray hair and long, elegant legs, Hatton
was one of Elizabeth's most seasoned courtiers. Pippa suspected he was used to braving the storm of the queen's temper.

“The O Donoghue Mór means to shame me,” wailed the queen. “How dare he?”

How dare he what? Pippa wanted to yell back. A Tower official had scurried in, and the moment the queen had gotten the report, Pippa had known it was something serious.

She pressed her hands together and squeezed her eyes shut. Please let this mean he has escaped, she thought with all her might. Please please please.

“He'll make me out to be more of a monster than Czar Ivan,” Elizabeth bit out. “I ought to have him beheaded at once.”

“Madam,” William Cecil pointed out, “that would serve his purposes quite well.”

“I know that, damn your feeble eyes.” She glared at her ladies, who pretended, like well-trained parade horses, that nothing was amiss. “But the insolent foreigner has angered me enough to move me to murder.”

Pippa gritted her teeth to keep from choking in horror.

Elizabeth swung around to glare at the constable of the Tower. “Tell me, sir. Did the O Donoghue Mór explain precisely why he has decided to starve himself?”

Pippa did not hear the mumbled reply. Starve himself! Had Aidan gone mad?

No, she realized with a sick lurch of her stomach. He knew precisely what he was doing. There was a terrible, cold logic to it. He meant to die in the custody of the English Crown.

If he did, Elizabeth would be shamed, disgraced, vilified in the eyes of the world even more viciously than she already was by her enemies.

“Make him eat,” the queen snapped. “I won't have it said that I allowed an Irish lord to starve. I won't lose my one bargaining lever against the Kerry rebels. If you have to, tie him down and feed him by force.”

The image made Pippa ill. “Ma'am!” She spoke before she lost her nerve. She sank to one knee in front of the dais.

“What is it?”

“With all due respect, perhaps there is a better way than forcing him.”

“Ah.” The exclamation dripped with sarcasm. “And I suppose you have just the answer. If you dare to suggest I set him free, then you shall find yourself in custody as well.”

“I can persuade him to eat,” Pippa said recklessly.

The queen's black eyes flashed in the candlelight. “Since you came to court you have done nothing unforgivably foolish. This would be a very bad time to start.”

“I am asking you to let me try, Your Grace. If I fail, then punish me.”

Silence lay over the gathering like a heavy cloak. The queen stood motionless, expressionless, an icon carved of stony power. “You think you can make the Irish chieftain eat,” she said at last.

“Yes, ma'am.” Pippa's face burned. Her wits lagged far behind her quick tongue tonight.

“Your success would mean a great deal to me,” Elizabeth said with soft steeliness. “A great deal indeed. In fact, if you do as you promise, I would be inclined to grant you the favor we discussed this morning.”

The floor pressed hard and cold against Pippa's bended knee. This morning, the queen had questioned her about her background and Pippa had confessed her earnest wish to find the parents who had abandoned her
so long ago. A word from Elizabeth could summon every noble in the land, could send officials poring over census rolls and records. The possibility shone like a beacon in her mind.

“Oh, madam,” Pippa said, rising as if buoyed by hope alone. “I could ask for no greater boon.”

“You could,” the queen said wryly, “but you're wise not to. Very well, visit the prisoner. Talk sense into his thick Irish head. And pray you, don't fail me, mistress.”

 

With each successive meal, the fare looked better—more succulent, more plentiful, more delicious.

Or so it appeared to Aidan.

The current meal was dainty enough to grace the royal table. A large bowl of shining black olives, a delicate poached trout, cheese and smoked meat. The bread was nearly white and looked as soft as a cloud.

More tempting to his empty stomach than the food was the jar of deep red wine set beside a stoneware goblet. It took all the powers of his will to resist the wine. He imagined its harsh, hot bite and the numbing oblivion that would come over him, blotting out his frustration.

He cursed and went to the hard, narrow bed, flopping down to glare at the chipping plaster on the ceiling. Correspondence was so slow between London and distant Kerry on the far western peninsula of Iveragh. He wondered how long he would last.

A bitter smile thinned his mouth. What an unpleasant predicament for Queen Elizabeth, to have the death of the O Donoghue Mór on her hands. It might force her to unbend in her policies regarding Ireland.

A pity the cost might be his own life.

He heard the patter of footsteps and an incessant, familiar voice.

“…and don't give me any of that blather, for I've a paper right here that says I, Pippa Trueheart, have a warrant to visit him.”

Aidan stood so quickly that he nearly bumped his head.

“Where?” demanded the nasal voice of Smead, the sentry. “Show me where it says that.”

She laughed. “Ah, that's an old ruse, sir, to keep me from finding out that you don't know how to read.”