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Chapter 1
Wales, August 1575
Dark gray clouds, changing afternoon into twilight, hovered over the lush green land. A flash of lightning brightened the sky and then vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
Eighteen-year-old Keely Glendower stood at the window and watched nature unleashing her forces. The gathering storm outside the keep mirrored the storm brewing within her. Worry troubled Keely's delicately chiseled features; her aching sadness mingled with constricting fury, making breathing difficult.
Her beautiful mother was dying young.
Keely sighed raggedly, brokenly. Her heart railed against what her mind knew to be true. Her gentle mother was dying.
Megan Glendower Lloyd lay in the bed across the chamber, slowly bleeding to death from a final, futile attempt to give her husband a second son. There was nothing to be done but await the end.
“Is she dead yet?”
Keely whirled around at the sound of that voice. Her skin prickled with loathing at the sight of her stepfather.
Baron Madoc Lloyd filled the doorway. Tall and muscular, the baron could have been a handsome man except for the revealing coldness in his gray eyes.
Keely stared hard at him. Her startling violet-eyed gaze judged him guilty of murdering her mother.
“Am I a free man?” Madoc asked in a loud voice.
Keely flushed with appalled anger, pointed an accusing finger at him, and opened her mouth to speak. Before she could utter a word, a spectacular bolt of lightning zig-zagged across the sky outside the window behind her, and a deafening boom of thunder reverberated in the chamber.
“Hex me not,” Madoc cried, crossing himself. He slammed the door shut.
Keely started to go after him, but the voice from the bed stopped her.
“Leave him to the divine forces,” her mother said.
Keely hurried across the chamber and sat on the stool where she'd been keeping a lonely vigil beside her mother's sickbed. In spite of her sadness, Keely managed a smile for her mother.
“What Madoc desires most will kill him in the end,” Megan told her. “Trust me, for I have seen it.”
Keely nodded. Whatever her mother saw came to pass. Always.
“There was a time when Madoc loved me beyond reason,” Megan said, her voice soft with remembrance, “but my heart belonged to your father. And still does.”
That bit of information surprised Keely. Her mother had always refused to answer her questions about her real father, and so she'd stopped asking. Keely hoped her mother would say something more now. She'd waited a long, long time to learn about him. And now perhaps the waiting was over.
“You resemble me, but your violet eyes are his,” Megan went on. “Each time I looked into your eyes, I saw him. Madoc could never forgive you for being his daughter.”
“We'll speak more of this after you've rested,” Keely said, realizing her mother was wasting what little reserve of energy she had left.
“My beloved daughter, I stand at the gateway to the Other World and will soon be gone,” Megan told her. “By the time the cock crows, I will have begun the Great Adventure.”
Keely opened her mouth to refute her mother's impending death.
“Do not deny what I have seen,” Megan said, “It is Lughnasadh, the time of marriage and divorce, and I will finally be free of Madoc . . . Fetch my sickle.”
Keely hurried across the chamber to her mother's chest. She returned in a moment, sat on the edge of the bed, and offered her mother a tiny golden sickle used for cutting mistletoe from the mighty oak trees.
“Upon my death, that golden sickle passes to you,” Megan said. Then she removed the only piece of jewelry she'd ever worn and gave it to her daughter.
From a heavy chain of gold hung a dragon pendant. A blaze of sapphires and emeralds, lit by glittering diamonds, the pendant was the head of a dragon. One ruby rose flamed from its mouth.
“Wear this always. The magic of its love will protect you,” Megan said. “Your sire wears the dragon's tail.”
Keely placed the necklace over her head and touched the dragon where it rested against her chest. “Will you tell me his name?”
“Robert Talbot.”
A smile of pure joy lit Keely's face. She had waited so many years to hear her father's name, and now she knew.
“Walk among the powerful, but find happiness where the birch, the yew, and the oak converse,” Megan said. “Trust the king who wears a flaming crown and possesses the golden touch. Beware the blacksmith.”
A chill danced down Keely's spine. “The blacksmith?”
“Go to your father when Madoc exiles you,” Megan said.
“That will never happen as long as Rhys lives,” Keely assured her. She wanted her mother's final hours to be without worry.
“Though he does love you like a sister, Rhys is only your stepbrother and must obey Madoc or be disowned,.” Megan said. “I know these things because I have seen them. Promise to go to your father.”
“I swear it,” Keely said, then planted a kiss on her mother's cheek. “Where will I find this Robert Talbot?”
A soft smile touched the dying woman's lips. “Robert Talbot is the Duke of Ludlow.”
Keely paled several shades. “The English Duke of Ludlow?”
Megan merely smiled at her.
“I'm a blasted Englishman?” Keely cried, appalled.
“Englishwoman,” Megan corrected, patting her daughter's hand.
Disturbed by her mother's incredible revelation, Keely stared into space. She'd been bred to despise all that was English, but that tainted blood flowed through her own veins. Oh, Lord! Where did she belong? Here in Wales, the land of her birth? Or in England, the land of her enemy? Nowhere?
“Teach your children the Old Ways,” Megan said.
Keely gave Megan her full attention. Thinking only of herself when her mother lay dying was horribly selfish. Thoroughly English.
“I will be with you again at Samhuinn,” Megan promised. “Give me your hand.”
As Keely watched, Megan drew an imaginary circle in the palm of her hand and said, “Remember, my child. Life is a circle with no beginning and no ending. You are born, you live, you die.”
With one finger, Megan circled Keely's palm a second time. In a soft, chanting voice, she said, “You are born, a child, a young woman, an old woman . . . you die.”
Again, Megan circled her daughter's palm and chanted, “Born, grow, die. Reborn.”
The hand holding Keely's went limp and fell away. Keely gazed at her mother's serene expression and knew she had passed into the Great Adventure.
Keely kissed her mother's hand. She leaned down, buried her face against her mother's chest, and wept.
Gradually, her sobs subsided and then finally ceased. Still, she rested against the comforting solidness of her mother.
What would become of her now? Keely wondered. She had lost not only her mother but her home. Though she'd lived her entire life at her stepfather's holding, Keely knew she was no Lloyd and had never felt that she belonged there. Now she was alone in the world.
Perhaps not. Her stepbrother Rhys loved her like a sister, as did her cousins Odo and Hew. And now there was Robert Talbot, the man who sired her.
Slowly and wearily, Keely stood up and went to her mother's table. She returned with a bouquet of oak leaves and mistletoe and a hooded white robe. Her mother's lavender scent clung to it, nearly felling Keely with aching loss. Placing the bouquet in her mother's hands, Keely kissed her cheek and whispered, “Until we meet at Samhuinn.”
Keely shrouded her mother's empty shell with the white ceremonial robe. She touched the dragon pendant, gleaming against the crisp whiteness of her linen blouse, and prayed its magic would give her the inner strength she needed.
After taking a deep breath to steady herself, Keely left the chamber and walked down the torch-lit corridors toward the great hall. She stepped inside and nodded at her mother's women, who hurried away to prepare the body for burial.
Keely stood alone inside the doorway and scanned the crowded hall. Rhys wasn't there; but Odo and Hew, her loyal cousins, saw her stricken expression and hurried toward her.
Seated at the high table, Madoc looked up from his mug of ale and saw her.
“Well, she took her sweet time dying,” he drawled in a voice slurred with drink.
Keely stepped back a pace as if she'd been struck. Her flawless complexion paled to a deathly white. All around her sounded the shocked gasps of the Lloyd clansmen and retainers.
How dared Madoc speak of her gentle mother in that despicable manner! Intending to set him straight, Keely started toward the high table, but her cousins reached her in time to prevent the confrontation.
Odo and Hew were larger than most men and possessed in brawn what they lacked in intelligence. Standing on either side of her, the brothers held her arms and warned her to silence.
Odo, the older of the two, nodded in the baron's direction. “Baiting him will serve no purpose.”
“Where is Rhys?” Keely asked.
“He rode out earlier to go raiding,” Hew answered.
That surprised and hurt Keely. “You mean, he went raiding even though my mother was near death?”
“He had no choice,” Odo told her.
“Madoc ordered it,” Hew added.
Keely stared with barely suppressed rage at her stepfather, who sat like a king at the high table.
“Where's my supper?” Madoc demanded, banging his fist on the table. “Bring more ale. I cannot celebrate my freedom without ale. And I want Elen with the big teats to serve me.
Keely's violet gaze cursed him, but heeding her cousins' advice, she turned away, her ebony hair swirling around with her movement. Keely left the great hall and headed for the kitchen. Like two gigantic hounds, Odo and Hew followed behind her.
“Greeting, Haylan,” Keely called, crossing the kitchen to the middle-aged cook.
“I'm very sorry for Megan. Such a wise and gentle soul,” the older woman said, hugging her. “'Tis the baron's loss, though I doubt he realizes it.”
“Grief makes Madoc hungry,” Keely told her, blinking back tears. “Serve supper promptly, and be certain Elen attends the baron.”
Haylan nodded and then shouted, “Elen!”
Answering the call, a pretty serving girl appeared and hurried across the kitchen toward them.
“Deliver this to the high table,” Haylan ordered, handing the girl the bowl. She yanked the girl's bodice down a couple of inches, saying, “Cleavage comforts a grieving man. Be kind to the baron.”
“I hope my kindness will kill him,” Elen said with a grimace.
“You know my mother's last wishes,” Keely said, turning to her cousins. “When supper is done, clear the hall for the deathwatch. I'll return then.” With that, she left the kitchen.
Three hours later, Megan Glendower Lloyd lay in state inside the torch-lit great hall, her simple wooden coffin resting on trestles. Wrapped in her white robe, Megan appeared to be sleeping.
Keely walked into the nearly deserted hall. With her ebony man cascading to her waist in pagan fashion, she wore her own white ceremonial robe and the blazing dragon pendant. In her hands she carried a fresh bouquet of oak leaves and mistletoe.
Odo and Hew stood beside the bier and waited for her.
“Have you seen to the grave?” Keely asked.
“Dug where you wanted,” Odo answered.
“And the cross?”
“Carved to your order,” Hew replied.
Keely nodded with grim satisfaction and placed the bouquet across her mother's chest. Then she sat on a wooden bench beside the bier.
Odo and Hew sat down on either side of her. Faithful Haylan walked in, carrying her own stool, and sat with them in silence. Finally, Madoc arrived and took a seat on the bench next to Odo.
“Keeping the watch means losing a good night's sleep,” Madoc complained.
“It's the least you can do to honor a loving wife who died trying to give you another son,” Keely shot back.
“Megan was never a loving wife,” the baron grumbled, his voice filled with bitterness. “Her heart always belonged to him. Never me.”
Keely froze. He spoke of her father. Had Madoc known him? Keely opened her mouth to question her stepfather but felt her cousins' hands touch her forearms, warning her against rash speech.
An hour passed. And then another.
“I'm thirsty,” Madoc announced, breaking the silence as he rose from the bench. “I'm in need of something fortifying. I'll be back.”
He left the hall and never returned.
Father Bundles arrived in the crowded great hall an hour before dawn. As he made his way through the mob of clansmen and retainers, the old priest muttered under his breath about the earliness of the hour. Burying a body in the middle of the night was barbaric, he thought. And that was before he saw Keely.
Keely looked like a pagan princess in her flowing white robe. Around her neck hung a wreath fashioned from oak leaves and mistletoe.
“Shame on you for wearing that to Megan's funeral,” Father Bundles scolded her. “You'll be needing my absolution before the sun sets this day.”
Keely arched a dark brow at him. “I honor my mother's memory, Father Bundles. If you want to waste time in sermons, we'll forgo the funeral mass. The choice is yours.”
“ 'Tis blasphemy,” Father Bundles said. He scanned the crowded chamber. “Where are Baron Lloyd and Rhys?”
“The baron is sleeping off the effects of his drinking,” Keely told him, “and my brother is busy plundering the English.”
“ 'Tis an unnatural family,” the old priest grumbled.
“These friends have come to bury Megan,” Keely said, gesturing toward the crowd. “Please begin the service.”
With Odo and Hew acting as pallbearers, Father Bundles led the way from the great hall to the chapel. Keely walked behind the casket, and everyone followed her.
The old priest opened his mouth to pray, but Keely called out, “Celebrate the short mass, Father. Megan desired a dawn burial.”
Father Bundles's expression told Keely that Madoc would hear of her blasphemy. The short mass took exactly twenty minutes.
“Megan will not be interred in the Lloyd vault,” Keely announced. “My mother wished to enjoy the rising sun for all of eternity.”
Though he did look ready to explode, Father Bundles swallowed his fury. Expressing anger in the house of God was a terrible sin.
Keely pulled her hood up to cover her ebony mane and led the unusual funeral procession out of the chapel. Odo and Hew, carrying the casket, followed her. Behind them walked Father Bundles and then a piper playing a mourning lament. The baron's clansmen and retainers marched behind in silence.
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 you must 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, dear 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 place the permanent cross there.
Rhys should have been here,” Keely said, her disappointment obvious.
“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.
“But you have us,” Hew protested.
“And don't forget Rhys,” Odo added.
And Robert Talbot, Keely thought. But she said with a sad smile, “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, whispering, “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.”
Unnerved, Odo and Hew looked at each other. Those two fearless warriors of many a raid made a protective sign of the cross—just to be sure.
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 consequence, 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 shouted, banging 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 and added, “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 bitch!” 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 and said, “Your combined brains are no bigger than a rooster's balls.”
At the insult, Odo and Hew growled low in their throats. Madoc wisely retreated several paces.
“You are not of the Cymry,” Madoc said to his stepdaughter. “Take your few possession 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 audibly 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 simpering bastard, or be outcast yourselves.”
Keely turned on her heels in a swirl of white robe and ebony hair and marched proudly out of the hall. Before following her outside, Odo and Hew growled as menacingly as they could 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.
“Madoc lies,” Hew added.
Both Keely and Odo stared at him blankly.
“You never simper,” Hew explained. “At least, I never saw you simper.” He looked at his brother and asked, “What does simper mean?”
Odo cuffed the side of his brother's head. “What does it matter, you blinking idiot?”
Hew shrugged. “I guess you don't know either.”
In spite of her predicament, Keely smiled at her two giants. “I thank you for being faithful cousins,” she 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.
“Then 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 renowned Duke of Ludlow is most assuredly an Englishman.”
“The Duke of—?”
“Your hearing is keen. 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,” she said quietly to the older woman. “Especially for your loyalty to my mother.”
“Megan was a great lady,” Haylan replied. “The same as you'll be one day.”
Keely hugged the woman, saying, “Please tell Rhys not to follow me. I'll write him after I've settled into my new home with my father.”
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!” a voice called.
Keely turned and saw Father Bundles running into the stableyard.
“I'm sorry for this 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 sinful folly of her religious beliefs. “I'll celebrate a mass each day for the repose of Lady Megan's soul,” he promised.
“Thank you, Father,” Keely replied. She believed in the significance of the Christian rites no more that her mother had, but to insure the peace of mind of people like the priest, they'd always pretended otherwise.
“God protect you, child,” Father Bundles said, blessing 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 once 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.
Tradition linked the ancient castle with the reign of King Arthur, but Richard Devereux knew better. The great house actually began as a Norman fortification.
Henry V added a summer house on the shore of an artificial lake, and Dudley built his own block of buildings in the light high-windowed style so popular in these modern times.
“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 ordered.
“Aye, my lord,” the boy said with a toothy grin.
“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?” he asked.
“Accommodations are cramped,” Smythe replied. “Luckily, I've save you a cot in mine.”
The renowned Earl of Basildon and Baron Smythe walked together toward the main building. The myriad females they passed—high-born ladies no less than 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 man 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 that 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, curtsied in his direction, and smiled winsomely. After undressing her with his smoldering emerald gaze from the top of her head to the tips of her slippered feet, Richard winked suggestively at her.
“Lady Sarah is looking especially lovely,” Richard remarked, watching her walk away.
“Is she destined to become your next mistress?” Willis asked. “Or will that greatness elude her?”
Richard glanced sidelong 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 replied. “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 replied, his intense dislike of the pompous earl evident in his polite expressionless response. Without another word, he turned his back and walked away with Willis Smythe.
Had he glanced back, Richard would have caught a deadly expression etched across his host's face. The Earl of Leicester, possessive of the queen's affection, harbored no fondness for the Earl of Basildon. In fact, the older man eagerly awaited the arrogant upstart's comeuppance.
“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 nervously 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,” Richard said, his voice a soft caress, soothing the girl's worry. “Would that be possible?”
Mesmerized by the handsome earl's smile, the girl stared at him and said nothing.
“Miss?” Richard prodded, pressing a coin into the palm of her hand.
“I'll take care of it right away, my lord,” she said, recovering herself, 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.”
“Never fear. 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,” he suggested. “Let me know the outcome.”
“Do not deny the queen loves you because your business ventures fill her doffers 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.
Feigning surprise and dismay, Richard replied, “I though Elizabeth loved me for my devilish good looks and dashing charm.”
Willis burst out laughing. He stood then and crossed the chamber, saying, “I'm off. 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 asked, sitting down in the chair opposite him and placing a small package 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 remarked. “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. With a smile he said, “I suppose Dudley gave you the worst chamber possible.”
“No, Dudley gave Smythe the worst chamber,” Richard replied. “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,” he said.
“Why do you dislike him?” Richard asked. “Willis fostered in your household too. It is because he hasn't a gold piece to his name?”
“We've had this conversation a hundred times before,” Burghley replied. “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.”
“You sound like Cecil. Too many years in my dear Spirit's household have made you an overly serious young man,” the queen replied, pleased with his artful apology. “Sit down, dear Midas. Tell Us what you have touched and turned into gold these past weeks.”
“I've received important information from the East,” Richard said. “My sister Heather writes that Sultan Selim is dead. Prince Murad is now sultan. His mother and his wife favor trade with England.”
“Your sister married whom?” Elizabeth asked.
“Prince Khalid, the sultan's cousin.”
“Ah, yes. I remember now. All three of your sisters possessed the incredible impertinence to marry without Our permission.”
“Flighty girls,” Burghley interjected. “Nevertheless, each of the Devereux chits have proven themselves to be loyal Englishwomen, especially the youngest sister.”
Richard flicked his mentor a grateful glance and continued, “I have a scheme that will make the three of us rich.”
“My dear Midas, you are already rich beyond avarice,” Elizabeth teased.
“Then you can be certain that I am incorruptible and do this for you,” Richard quipped. His expression became animated as he explained his plan. “Grant me a royal charter for my latest venture, the Levant Trading Company, and we will share the profits. Eastern diplomacy moves slowly. I calculate three years will see us fully operational.”
“And what share goes to the Crown?” Elizabeth asked.
“The lion's cub deserves the lion's share of fifty percent,” Richard answered. “Burghley and I will split the other fifty, and England will prosper with this powerful ally.”
“Seventy percent,” the Queen insisted.
“Sixty,” Richard shot back.
“You have a deal,” Elizabeth said with a smile. “Cecil, you will see that he gets the charter without delay.”
Richard opened the package he'd brought with him, saying, “The sultan's mother sends this humble gift to show her good faith.”
The humble gift was a fan. Its feathers were a billowing rainbow of hues set with diamonds, and its hilt a mass of emeralds, sapphires, and rubies.
“And this comes from the sultan's wife,” Richard added, producing a nosegay of porcelain flowers also set with priceless jewels. “We'll need to send reciprocal gifts. Heather informs me this is the way of eastern diplomacy.”
Impressed with her newest trinkets, Elizabeth examined them closely and asked without looking up, “And how shall we reward your sister's loyalty?”
“Her loyalty needs no reward,” Richard replied. “Though she begs me to send her a litter of piglets.”
“Why piglets?” Elizabeth asked.
“To raise for the slaughter,” Richard explained, a smile lurking in his voice. “My sister is a remarkable woman. She loves pork but hasn't tasted it in nine years, since it's forbidden to Moslems. Heather feels certain her husband couldn't refuse her a gift from England's queen.”
“How cunning,” Elizabeth complimented his sister. “You have served Us well, Richard. Is there anything else you wish to discuss?”
Richard hesitated for a fraction of a second and then began, “About my tour of duty in Ireland—”
“You're much too valuable to serve abroad,” Burghley interrupted, earning himself a censorious glance from his protégé.
“Request denied,” the queen said.
“But Your Majesty—”
“Peers of my realm may not serve abroad unless they have an heir.”
“Then I request permission to produce one,” Richard said.
“What? Shall you visit the market and purchase a son?” Elizabeth quipped.
Burghley chuckled, a sound that few people ever heard.
Richard flushed hot with embarrassment. “I request permission to marry and produce an heir,” he amended.
“My dear boy, protocol requires you to select a bride first and then ask Our permission,” the queen explained as though speaking to a child. “Whom did you have in mind?”
“I have an interest in the virtuous and lovely Morgana Talbot, Ludlow's daughter,” Richard lied, hoping he'd happened upon a suitable name. One woman was much the same as another. Besides, marriage was business venture, and love was unnecessary to sire an heir. He needed to get to Ireland to help protect his oldest sister's family from the greedy vultures governing there. Perched in Dublin Castle, those corrupt English birds of prey awaited the opportunity to swoop down upon the proud Irish nobility and seize whatever they could. Only a rich man like himself stood beyond temptation's reach. Otherwise, civil war was inevitable.
“Do you love Us so little that you would leave Us to take a wife?” Elizabeth asked.
“Lady Morgana's simple prettiness could never compare with your beauty,” Richard assured her, then gifted her with one of his boyish smiles. “You hold my loyalty, my admiration, and my heart in thrall. Morgana Talbot is merely a poor substitute for you.”
“Impertinent flatterer.” Elizabeth tapped the top of his hand with her fan's jeweled hilt.
Richard flicked a glance at Burghley, whose hand covered his mouth to hide a smile.
“Get Talbot's permission and then court the chit,” Elizabeth told him. “You are a financial wizard and a born courtier. We cannot understand what you find so appealing about war.”
“I worry for my sister Kathryn,” Richard admitted. “She writes that Ireland is in turmoil.”
“Tyrone's countess,” Burghley explained to the queen.
Elizabeth sighed. “We find that We sent wolves to govern in Ireland.”
“By the way, Kathryn writes that she is suffering a severe roofing problem,” Richard added. “But her husband's request to import lead has been ignored.”
“Lead can be made into ammunition,” Burghley said.
“Send Richard's brother-in-law whatever he needs,” the queen ordered. To Richard, she added dryly, “You've a sister in Scotland. No special request from her?”
“None at this time,” Richard lied. He was not about to tell the queen that his Scots brother-in-law barraged him with requests to aid in having Mary Stuart released from her English captivity. Even Brigette's three older sons now wrote him beseeching letters asking that the queen be returned to Scotland. For all his family loyalty, Richard dared not push his queen too far.
The queen stood, indicating the audience had ended. “Well, then, Our subjects await Our presence in the hall.” At that, she breezed out of the chamber with Burghley.
“And if Devereux should produce an heir?” Burghley whispered to the queen as he escorted her to the banquet hall.
“I care not if the pup produces a hundred sons,” Elizabeth replied, flicking a sidelong glance at her minister. “I refuse to allow one of my most valuable courtiers to run off to Ireland and get himself killed.”
Burghley nodded, satisfied.
Richard followed behind them and stood in the entrance to the banquet hall. The gift-giving ceremony was about to begin.
Elizabeth sat regally in the castle's most comfortable chair, set upon a raised dais. The Sheriff of Leicestershire approached, bowed formally, and presented her the usual silver-gilt cup filled with gold coins.
“It is a remarkable gift,” Elizabeth said, looking at the cup and its contents. “I have but few such gifts.”
“If it pleases Your Majesty, there is a great deal more than gold in it,” the sheriff replied.
“What might that be?” the queen asked, a puzzled smile on her face.
“The hearts of all your loving subject,” he answered.
“We thank you, Mr. Sheriff,” Elizabeth said, sincerely pleased. “It is a great deal more indeed.”
Watching her, Richard was filled with admiration and love for Elizabeth. In spite of her womanly vanity and difficult temperament, a more magnificent monarch had never sat upon England's throne.
“You always wear that pained expression as if you walk about with a pike stuck up your—”
Richard whirled around to find the Earl of Leicester standing beside him. He stared stonily at the queen's longtime favorite.
“Her Majesty's summer progress should be a time for gaiety,” Dudley said. “Don't you ever laugh? Smile, at least?”
“Ah, Leicester, laughter indicates empty-headedness,” Richard told him, “and smiling hides deceit.” With that he turned to leave the hall.
“Departing so soon?” Dudley asked, his voice laced with sarcasm. “We shall miss you.”
“Shropshire and a bride await me,” Richard said, surprising the other man. He walked away, the unusual sight of a speechless Leicester bringing the hint of a smile to his lips.
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