Chapter 15

Sabre was pleasantly surprised Kate Ashford didn't scold her overmuch for her absence. Though Kate had no idea where Sabre had been, she had a damned good idea whose company she kept. In actuality Kate was simply relieved to have her back in time for the move to Whitehall. The whole court was abuzz with the latest on the Essex-Elizabeth contretemps. Kate told her they were actually laying bets on the outcome. Most of the gentlemen had put their money on the queen, but the more astute ladies had bet on Essex. She always gave in to him.

The queen had instructed Kate Ashford to transport ten new gowns she had had designed especially for the winter season. Sabre was on hands and knees in the drafty Windsor wardrobe, stuffing the sleeves of the gowns with tissue. The sleeves were slashed and heavily jeweled and could be crushed so easily. Sabre had devised a cushioning way to pack a gown in its own box and take it out later virtually uncrushed and unwrinkled.

A voice behind her startled her. "So you are Mistress Wilde. You have been conspicuous by your absence since the great hunt on the occasion of my birthday."

Sabre's mouth fell open as she found herself in the unenviable position of being singled out by the queen. "Your Majesty." She sat back upon her heels and bowed her head. "I—I was indisposed, Your Majesty," Sabre blurted.

"Not the fever?" asked the queen, greatly alarmed.

"Ah, no, Your Majesty. I fell from my horse during the hunt and found it difficult to walk for a week," she lied.

"It has come to my attention that you ride an Arabian," said Elizabeth with a great deal of disbelief mingled with disapproval. The queen made statements in such a bald manner, she compelled you to explain yourself.

"Ah, yes, Your Majesty. I won it playing cards and was not used to such a high-strung animal."

"Which gentleman wagers for such high stakes as Arabian horses, pray tell me?" demanded the queen.

Sabre skirted the truth once more. "Matthew Hawkhurst, if it pleases Your Majesty," she replied primly.

The queen switched subjects with the speed of lightning. Through narrowed eyes she said, "The color of your hair … is it natural?"

Sabre's hand went to her copper tresses apprehensively. "Why, yes, Your Majesty."

"I will tell you a secret," said Elizabeth confidentially. "I am wearing a wig!"

Since nothing could have been more obvious and since Sabre had spent hours cleaning her vast collection of wigs, it was difficult to look surprised.

"Just that shade of copper is what I desire. I have a royal wigmaker, Master Hooker, who has been searching for just such hair as yours," the Queen said pointedly.

Sabre swallowed with difficulty. She knew without a shadow of a doubt what the queen was asking, nay, commanding of her. Resentment and anger flared up inside her. How demeaning to be down on her knees wrapping this woman's gowns in layers of protective tissue so she could strut about in her finery. Now the old witch actually wanted the hair from her head to attract young men like Essex and Devonport. Sabre tried to stave off what her heart feared was inevitable. "Your Majesty, the wig you are wearing couldn't be lovelier. I don't think my dull shade would flatter you at all."

"I say otherwise, Mistress Wilde, and I am unused to being contradicted. Kate Ashford told me what a generous girl you were. I sincerely hope she did not lie to me."

Sabre had no choice but to acquiesce. She strove to do it with graciousness, but inside she seethed with resentment and added it to the score against this aging, all-powerful creature.

"Your Majesty, I would be honored to provide Master Hooker with a length of my hair to fashion a new wig."

Now she had exactly what she wanted, the queen reverted to their previous topic. "I warn you, Mistress Wilde, not to play with the elder Hawkhurst, Lord Devonport, lest you get your comeuppance!"

The warning was so pointed, she was afraid the queen had heard a rumor linking her with Shane. Sabre saw red. She wanted to spit upon the floor at the queen's feet to show her contempt. Jealousy flooded her heart and her brain. Bessie Tudor was speaking of the man who was Sabre's husband, Sabre's lover, and she was doing so with such a smug air of ownership, Sabre had to fight the impulse to fly at her and scratch out her eyes. For one dreadful moment when first confronted by the queen, Sabre thought she had been discovered for her masquerade as the goddess Diana. The reality was so much worse! The queen would get her beautiful hair and had warned her to keep her hands off the queen's Sea God. As Gloriana departed, Sabre smiled a secret, terrible smile. Shane was hers, totally. He was her absolute private property until the time came when she was ready to toss him aside. Then and only then could Bessie Tudor have him! Her mind was already plotting an outrageous costume for her next escapade, one that would embarrass the queen.

Hawkhurst and the Baron decided that the quickest route to Ireland for O'Neill was the port of Bristol. It was the closest port to London on the west coast, and would entail a hard ride of only a hundred miles. Any assassination attempt on the earl of Tyrone's life would come on land before he left England. Once he had embarked on a Hawkhurst vessel, he would be safe.

Shane had intended to go all the way to Ireland, but he received terrible news from a captain in Bristol and knew he must get to the queen immediately. Sir Philip Sidney had taken a wound in Holland at the Battle of Zutphen and it appeared he would not recover. Sir Philip was Leicester's nephew and one of the most beloved of Elizabeth's peers. He was married to Secretary Walsingham's daughter, Frances, who had never been invited to join the court, because of her dark beauty.

After placing O'Neill on one of his ships Hawkhurst rode back to London with all possible speed and directed the baron to ready one of their smaller, faster vessels to depart for Holland on a moment's notice.

During his audience with Bess he kept a tight rein on his temper. That they were suffering defeat after defeat in Holland against the Spanish could be laid directly at the queen's feet. She kept her purse strings closed tightly, sent only a few thousand men, and equipped them so badly, the officers went deep into debt to pay for supplies. When Shane told her that Sir Philip had been wounded at Zutphen she was visibly shaken.

"They shall all come home! Why should we fight Holland's battles for them?" she raved.

He answered stiffly, "Your Majesty, they are England's battles. It is a dishonor not to sail against Spain!"

A courier with dispatches had arrived from Robert Dudley, earl of Leicester, and she called for his messages while Hawkhurst was there to give her his strength—for she feared the worst. With dry eyes she read the missive that announced Philip Sidney's death. All her emotion was reserved for her dearest Lord Robert. She knew he would be devastated by the loss of his favorite nephew. She railed inwardly that the sea separated them and she would be unable to comfort him. She clenched impotent fists in frustration and shouted, "Damn the young fool for getting himself killed … 'twas most inconsiderate of the fellow. M'lord Devonport, fetch his body home for burial. I will send instructions to Leicester if you will wait while I compose them."

"Bess, I am sorry for your loss. I have a vessel standing ready to sail today."

The whole court was plunged into mourning, and gaudy clothing was forbidden. Shane sought out Kate Ashford and told her that he was stealing Sabre from her for a couple of days. Since Sabre had done most of the packing for Whitehall, she made no protest. She directed him to the water stairs where Sabre was in charge of the stowing of boxes and trunks onto the queen's barge for the short journey downriver. He took her out of earshot of the servants and said low, "I'm sailing across to Holland and I'm taking you, darling. Pack warm clothes and have your own barge take you to Thames View. I'll meet you there in two hours."

Sabre tossed her glorious copper hair over her shoulder. "Ah, 'tis Lord Devonport, I believe," she said as if they were only slightly acquainted.

A black look of warning flashed from him, which she chose to ignore.

"You, my dearest lord, are laboring under a misapprehension if you think I am solely at your beck and call."

"Hellcat! You are the one laboring under a misapprehension. Let me remind you the duties of a mistress are exactly that … to be solely at my beck and call."

She flew at him, fully intending to push him into the river, but he grabbed her, laughing in exultation at how beautiful she was when he angered her. He bit her earlobe and whispered, "I love you, Sabre … come with me?"

She relented. At least this time he had asked her to go along with him.

They had ridden side by side to Harwich, where the baron had the vessel readied to sail. The wind snatched away their words, so they had little opportunity for speech, but he was aware of her every moment. One of the things he found so exciting about her was that she was ready and eager for adventure on a moment's notice.

She stood on deck and marveled at the easy way he took command, shouting his orders from the forecastle. Now she understood why his voice was deep and commanding, even rough at times. It was from a lifelong habit of shouting loud and clear to be heard above the slapping waves, flapping sails, whining winds, and creaking timbers. For a terrible moment she thought she might turn green faced while still riding to anchor in the harbor. Then, as she filled her lungs with the tang of sea air, pitch, and tar, her stomach righted itself and she laughed aloud as she pulled her pale gray, fox-trimmed cloak about her and watched him direct his men to heave-to and hoist the sails.

They cleared harbor, and the sails bellied out like pregnant women. As she looked about there must have been over three hundred lines and ropes, each with a name and a proper place and a special knot all of its own. Shane left his command post to give a hand with the hauling and hoisting, and she shuddered at the pain she knew the recent wound would give him. Then she thought of his strong, callus-palmed hands on her body and shivered again. Finally he joined her, bracing a protective arm across the small of her back and grinning down at her.

"How did you learn all the different ropes?" she asked.

"Not by my quick brain," he said, laughing. "When I was a boy on my first voyage out, the boatswain instructed me with a knotted rope to my bare arse!" He hugged her to him. "Come below while I settle you in my cabin."

As soon as they were enclosed in the small cabin he took her in his arms and kissed her deeply. "Splendor of God, how I missed you," he said, looking down at her with wonder in his eyes. "Thank you for coming, love. It's not a happy voyage. Sir Philip Sidney died of a wound he took in the Battle of Zutphen. I'm going to Holland so that his widow Frances can bring his body home."

She put her hand on his arm gently. "Was Sir Philip a friend?"

He nodded. "O'Neill was placed in the Sidney household and lived there many years until he returned to Ireland. Philip never questioned our association. His widow Frances has a young child. That's why I asked you to come with me, Sabre. Frances will need a woman's gentle company in her time of sorrow."

Sabre let the fur hood fall from her hair. "Is she one of your conquests, m'lord?" she asked, feeling a stab of jealousy.

"Nay, yet she is certainly fair enough to spark jealousy in the queen. Frances Walsingham is daughter to the queen's secretary. You know enough about my affairs, Sabre, to realize he is my enemy and a constant threat. If I can be of any service to Frances, it will be to my advantage. If we support and comfort her in her time of need, she may one day be able to render me a great service." He stroked her cheek with his roughened hand. "If I leave you belowdecks alone, you won't be afraid?"

"I'm afraid of neither man nor beast," she boasted.

He leered down at her. "We'll put that to the test when I return, little wildcat."

He was gone an hour, which seemed like two at least to Sabre, crossing the treacherous North Sea for the first time. She had unpacked her warm clothing and explored the well-appointed cabin. It was snugly paneled in warm satinwood and furnished with a tabletop desk and swivel chairs. The berth was fastened sturdily to the wall and was just wide enough to hold two if they were on very intimate terms. A thick Turkish carpet patterned in red and blue added to the warmth, and brass lanterns swung on rings attached to the walls. Charts and instruments filled the desk drawers, and she noticed a large iron safe had been built into one corner. A great cedarwood chest held thick, warm blankets and fur bed coverings, and a satinwood wardrobe held many changes of dry clothing for the captain.

When Shane came into the cabin he was soaked to the skin. It was second nature to him to strip immediately without drenching the cabin. Sabre watched him rub his body vigorously with a towel, and unable to resist, she took up another and rubbed his wide back. He was freezing cold at first, yet with amazing speed the vigorous rubbing soon had him restored. He tried to take her in his arms, but she resisted.

"Let me see your wound first," she said softly.

He raised his arm obediently, heard her small gasp, and dropped his arm quickly.

"Let me see," she insisted.

"Nay, 'tis too ugly for a delicate female. It will disgust you."

"Your body is a joy to me and a wonder," she said, running gentle fingers along his collarbone, across the bulging muscle, and down to the shoulder blade where the dragon rampaged. He shuddered at her touch, longing to make love to her. She raised his arm, and this time he did not object. The scar was angry red and puckered. "You'll always bear the scar. We should have stitched it," she said with regret.

He shook his head. "The baron is a competent doctor. He left it open to drain any poison." He was shocked, then thrilled, as, incredibly, she put her mouth to the scar and covered it with kisses.

"You do the damnedest things," he groaned as a wave of passion swept from his armpit to his loins.

She smiled at him and whispered, "Why, m'lord, 'twas you who taught me to make love with my tongue."

"Splendor of God, it had better have been me!" he said, his voice rough with desire as his eager fingers unhooked and removed her gown. When she was naked he lifted her high, then let her slide slowly down his body until he sheathed his upthrusting shaft inside her tight, hot center. His hands slipped beneath her round buttocks to support her; then, joined, he walked with her to the high bed. Her arms were twined lovingly about his neck and she thrilled with each step he took as he penetrated deeper and deeper. He did not lie down, but lowered himself and her until he was sitting on the edge of the berth.

"Wrap your legs around me, darling," he urged, and she gasped with the exquisite pleasure-pain as he thrust his long, thick shaft to the hilt, and pulled her onto him another inch and held her there with strong brown hands that gripped her like a vise.

With their mouths fused, he began to flex and relax the great throbbing head of his phallus, and amazingly she felt her own body grip and relax in a compelling, throbbing, sensual rhythm that went on and on and on, bringing waves of pleasure which built and receded, built and receded, until she was sobbing her need for release. He was so attuned to her body, he knew the exact moment to start his seed and plunge her over the precipice. They went down into the vortex together, tasting their names on each other's lips. They lay entwined, still as death, the roll and pitch of the ship lulling them to slumber. Within two hours he was awake so he could go back on deck.

"Where are you going?" she murmured.

"I didn't mean to disturb you, love. I'm the captain of this vessel, remember? I never leave the deck of my ship for more than three hours."

"But in my case you'll make an exception," she said, holding out her arms to him.

"Five minutes," he rationed, and lifted her between his legs with her back resting against his chest. "Ah, Sabre, you fill my senses," he said, breathing in the exciting fragrance of her hair and her sleep-warmed body. "You fill my thoughts." He paused, then admitted, in a voice that was only a murmur, "You fill my heart." He lifted her hair from the back of her neck and kissed the nape. "I adore your hair," he breathed.

"Then you had better get your fill of it. The queen wants me to cut it to make her a wig."

He dumped her unceremoniously onto the berth and was on his feet in a flash. "I forbid it!" he shouted angrily.

"Shane, I have no choice—it was tantamount to a command."

"Tantamount to bare-faced blackmail! Sabre, it is out of the question. I will procure hair for her bloody wig. There are many women willing to sell their hair or any other part of their body. Just leave it to me," he said with finality.

The thought of the queen strutting about in the hair of a prostitute from a brothel had an amusing quality about it. Then she wondered wryly just how many brothels Shane would have to frequent before he found just the right shade!

Hawkhurst sailed his vessel into the English-held port of Flushing. Sir Philip Sidney had been appointed governor of this town, which provided a home base for all the English in Holland. Leaving Sabre aboard, he presented himself to Frances and told her he had come to fetch her home. She was exhausted from the visits of Philip's fellow officers and longed for home. Hawkhurst's strength was exactly what she had needed. He took over and directed the servants to pack everything in readiness for his seamen to take aboard. The coffin was to go in the hold, her little girl and the child's nurse were to get one cabin, and Frances was to have another small cabin to herself. Philip's horses and leash hounds were made comfortable, then Hawkhurst was off to take the queen's messages to Leicester.

Frances came aboard in her widow's weeds an hour before the tide changed to carry them from Flushing at the mouth of the vast Westerschelde into the North Sea. Sabre felt a sharp stab of compassion at the sight of the tiny, black-draped female clinging to the hand of a sweet little girl. Shane beckoned Sabre to go below with them, and when they were in the small cabin he introduced her to the daughter of the hated and feared Walsingham.

When Frances raised her black veil, Sabre could not believe her eyes. The small, pretty girl could not be a day older than eighteen, and looked much younger. When the child and her nurse were settled into their cabin, Shane was needed on deck to weigh anchor, clear harbor, and set the course for England.

Alone with Frances, Sabre felt a rush of affection and wanted to help in some way. "Would you like to be alone, Lady Sidney?"

"No, don't leave me, Sabre, and please call me Frances. I'm not a good sailor and I haven't eaten much in the last days," she said wearily.

Sabre poured her a goblet of wine and mixed it with sugar water. "This will settle your stomach. Why don't you get into bed and I'll sit awhile and we can talk."

Frances gave her a grateful look and sipped the wine as she took off her mourning garments. The wine loosened her tongue and she started to confide in Sabre. "'Fore God, I don't know what I will do. Philip is—was—so far in debt and everything mortgaged to the hilt."

Sabre was shocked; the Sidneys were one of England's premier families.

"He—we—owe over eight thousand pounds, and I haven't even the means to bury him."

Sabre drew her chair up close to the bed. "Your father will help you."

Frances laughed bitterly. "My father's health is deteriorating because of worry over money. He has been in debt for years. He pays his spies from his own pocket … the queen pays him a mere stipend. Walsingham House is mortgaged to the rafters while the queen dines on gold plate and wears a different fortune in jewels every day of the week."

Sabre said thoughtfully, "There is a lesson there if we heed it. The golden rule, I call it—those with the gold rule!"

"How very true. Faith, I've learned my lesson; I shall marry for money next time," Frances vowed.

Sabre probed, "Were you in love with your husband, Frances?"

The dark young woman hesitated, then admitted, "Nay, it was not a love match. It was arranged by our parents, and I think the queen had a hand in it. Philip was a poet, a dreamer, so unsuited to war."

"Mayhap the queen will see to the expense of the funeral. He will be buried at St. Paul's, won't he?"

"The queen!" hooted Frances, gulping her wine and holding out her glass for more. "Philip died for her, but she is the most ungrateful creature on the face of the earth. Did you know that in her younger days she came down with the smallpox and selflessly Philip's mother, Lady Mary Sidney, alone of all her women, stayed with her and nursed her day and night until she was recovered? The queen was very lucky, her only pockmarks are on her neck below her ruff. My poor, dear mother-in-law was not so lucky. She caught the pox from Elizabeth and was left so badly scarred she wears a veil and does not go out in public. Lady Sidney was given one cramped attic room at Hampton Court and made to keep from the queen's company, for Bess cannot bear ugliness or sickness or the scars left from sickness. Believe me, Sabre, the queen never gives, she only takes!"

Sabre said confidentially, "I've stolen one of her prize possessions." Her eyes rolled upward, indicating the Sea God up on deck. "Why don't you do the same?"

"I shall be in mourning, buried in the country at my father's farm in Surrey. 'Tis the only roof my child and I will have over our heads." Suddenly she looked at Sabre with speculation in her eyes. "Who's the best catch in England?"

Sabre thought for a moment, "Probably Essex," she said, laughing.

"Forgive me, Sabre. 'Tis the wine. I am wicked to talk so with my poor husband's body not yet in his grave, yet it would be sweet to be free of financial burden," she said, sighing.

Walsingham, acting upon the information provided by O'Neill and other sources, had caught Mary, Queen of Scots, in the web of the Babington conspiracy, though she was supposed to be safely imprisoned. He had worked day and night to collect enough evidence to bring her to trial. The queen was incensed and his triumph was turned to dross. The death of his son-in-law, whose crippling debts he subsequently inherited, was enough to break his health.

Walsingham was unable to meet his daughter at Harwich, where Hawkhurst weighed anchor, and Sabre had to take her home to Surrey in the barge Shane had bought her. So Frances had come home, but instead of finding a strong family to offer her succor, she instead had to be the strong one in the face of her father's failing health and the daunting debts that were piling up day by day.