The Game (42 page)

But no one responded to her cries, and Katherine collapsed upon the floor. Juliet, rushing after her, found her prone, clawing the parquet with bloody fingernails, moaning like an animal.

Her tormented whispers filled the hall. “
They have no right! They have no right! God help me—I want my son!
”

Hawke stared blindly at the moors, which were almost
lushly green and dotted with yellow wildflowers. The sky was so blue overhead that the day appeared idyllic. Yet it was an illusion. Hawke could still hear Katherine’s screams. Not her screams during her labor, but her screams afterward, the anguish far greater, when he had ordered the midwife to take the babe away.

The courtyard was filled with saddled horses and soldiers. A covered cart had been prepared for the wet nurse and the child. Elizabeth had stressed how important the child’s safety and survival were, and she had ordered Hawke to bear the babe to London personally.

He was sick. He was sick from it all. His wife loved O’Neill fiercely, and on this day, he had finally realized that she was the kind of woman to go to her grave still yearning for the other man. Oh, she might do her duty toward him, she might never discuss the pirate again, she might run his household willingly and warm his bed, she might bear him half a dozen sons, but she would always love Liam O’Neill. Hawke wondered what it was like, to love another so much, so completely.

And now he was denying her not just her lover, but her child, as well. Bile rose up in his gorge. God’s teeth. He had become weak. To tear a child from its mother’s arms was one of the most grievous crimes he could think of—one he wished never, ever to have to perform again, not even for his queen.

But Katherine would survive. She was made of strong stuff. Yet his confidence in that did not chase away his anguish.

“How could you!”

Hawke turned around to face an enraged angel. It was Juliet.

“I thought you a noble man, a decent man, a good man, but what you have done is monstrous!” Juliet was crying.

Hawke had stiffened. Her accusations stabbed him hurtfully. He knew he did not need to defend himself to this moon-eyed chit. “I could not refuse the queen.”

“Yes, you could!” she cried.

He saw that her fists were clenched. “You do not understand.”

“I understand,” Juliet said bitterly. “I understand that I have harbored a great illusion about you. I understand that you are not half as noble as you appear. I understand that you are jealous, yes, jealous, because Katherine loves another man. Perhaps you planned this all along!” she cried furiously. “To rid yourself of O’Neill’s child!” She held her head high, daring him to refute her.

He did not. She would not believe him if he tried. “How is Katherine?”

Juliet’s laughter was sharp. “How is she? She has finally collapsed—damn you.”

Hawke blanched.

Juliet wheeled around and, lifting her skirts, raced back to his house.

His mouth downturned, Hawke received his horse from a groom and mounted. “Send for the child and wet nurse,” he told one of the soldiers. “We are ready to depart.”

Katherine refused to speak to anyone, not even Juliet. She lay in bed for two full days, regaining her strength. Not completely. But she could not wait until she was in fine form to do what had to be done.

She took no one into her confidence, not Juliet, not Ginny—both of whom were almost as aggrieved as she. On the third day after her babe had been born, Katherine dressed in a servant’s clothing, clothing she had ordered a slow-witted kitchen girl to bring to her in the middle of the night. Underneath her gown, she strapped an Irish dagger to her thigh, careful to make certain that it could not be discerned by any observer.

That night, when the manor was asleep, including Juliet, who had refused to return home to Thurlstone, Katherine slipped from her bed and left the house, wearing a plain gray mantle over her borrowed dress. She stole into the stables, which were deserted, all the grooms and horseboys asleep in their adjacent quarters. She chose the mount she had ridden on her last journey, when she had left London for Cornwall, that spring. Savage determination gave her strength, and within moments she had saddled the docile
mare herself. It was not until she was in the saddle, and through Hawkehurst’s front gates, that weakness assailed her. She felt so faint that she clung to the saddle, telling herself she must not swoon, not now, not when she had a long journey to make.

She was going to London, to confront the queen. She was going to London, to recover her babe. And nothing and no one was going to stop her.

Whitehall

“I must see the queen!”

It was early morning, and the queen was still closeted in her Privy Chamber with her maids. Numerous noblemen, including the Gentlemen Pensioners, several Guardsmen, and other retainers milled about her antechamber, awaiting her. Katherine faced the two uniformed soldiers in front of her closed doors. “I must see the queen!” she repeated.

The desperation in her hoarse voice caused many heads to turn her way. “How did you get in here, wench?” one of the soldiers asked. “Get on with you. Commoners don’t petition Her Majesty.”

Katherine squared her shoulders. Her cloak was torn and caked with dust; her hair had come loose long ago, and it was tangled and snarled, her coif lost; her hands were dirty, her nails torn, and her face was pale, sweat-streaked, and ravaged. She had not eaten in days, and she was terribly weak. But she had made it to court, and she would not be deterred. Not by these louts, nor by anyone else. “I am no common wench,” she spit. “I am Katherine FitzGerald, daughter of Gerald FitzGerald, the earl of Desmond!”

The courtiers who had overheard her cried out, shocked, staring. Katherine knew she had become the object of everyone’s attention, but did not care. “I demand to see the queen,” she gritted, her fists clenched.

“You cannot be an earl’s daughter,” the soldier said. “What crockery is this? Leave! Leave now before I have to heave you out of here myself.”

Katherine’s face contorted in rage and she began to push between the two soldiers, reaching for the door they barred. The soldiers instantly closed rank, forcing her back quite roughly. Katherine stumbled and almost fell, but someone caught her from behind and steadied her. She did not look at the man standing behind her, who even now gripped her shoulders. “I am Katherine FitzGerald,” she cried, her voice high, cracking.

“Katherine.” Leicester turned her away from the closed doors of the queen’s bedchamber so that she was facing him. His eyes were wide and shocked. But his voice when he spoke was low and concerned. “Dear God! What has happened to you?”

“Dudley!” Katherine shouted, clawing his arms. “I must see the queen, I must! She has stolen my child! I want my child!”

Leicester stared at her. Then, his jaw ticking, he nodded imperiously at the guards. Instantly the first soldier turned and knocked. The doors opened ever so slightly. The soldier spoke in a hushed tone to one of the queen’s ladies, who remained out of sight. And a moment later Elizabeth herself stepped into the doorway, her face lined with curious concern. The earl of Ormond appeared behind her. “Robin? What is so urgent that you cannot wait another moment to—” Abruptly she broke off her words. Her eyes fixed on Katherine. Comprehension dawned in them. She gasped. And Ormond had paled.

“I want my son,” Katherine cried, her breasts heaving. “You have no right, none! I demand my son—this instant!”

They were surrounded now by onlookers, every single person in the room a witness to this bizarre confrontation, everyone paling in shock at hearing Katherine’s bold tone and even bolder words. His legs brushing her skirts, Dudley murmured a warning in her ear, which Katherine ignored.

Elizabeth stepped forward. “Robin, remove your hands from her.”

Dudley dropped his hands, reluctantly.

The queen faced Katherine. “You will not make demands of Us.”

“She is distraught over the child, she knows not what she does,” Ormond said quickly.

“Quiet,” Elizabeth snapped. And the entire chamber became deathly still, as if the royal command were directed at everyone.

Katherine touched her dagger through her skirts, for Leicester had loosened it from its binding. The seething, murderous rage she had been nursing ever since the queen had abducted her child roiled in her veins. She pressed the dagger against her thigh. “You have stolen my child, like any ordinary thief,” Katherine cried accusingly. “Does not your court know?” She laughed hysterically. “Why not, Your Majesty? Do you not want your people to know what you really are? A stealer of children—a thief of innocence?”

The crowd gasped. Fury mottled Elizabeth’s countenance. Ormond was deathly white now. “You are impudent beyond belief,” Elizabeth cried. “Take her away, now. Throw her in Bridewell Prison—where all strumpets belong!”

Instantly a group of soldiers moved forward toward Katherine. But Katherine had not come to court to be locked away with whores and vagabonds. She fumbled with her skirts, lifting them.

And Leicester gripped Katherine’s right wrist from behind, preventing her from finding—and wielding—her knife. “Do not do it!” he cried sharply.

Katherine shrugged free of him, managing to grip the dagger and pull it from beneath her skirts. Even as she did so she saw the five approaching soldiers, Ormond at their forefront, and in her dazed mind, she understood that they would stop her from doing what she must do, that they would force her to leave Whitehall, send her to Bridewell Prison.

Ormond realized what she intended. He broke into a run. “No, Katherine,” he cried, reaching for her.

Leicester also saw, and from behind, he tried to grip her wrist. But her madness made her move far faster than
either man, and Katherine darted to the side, away from them all, brandishing the blade.

And the queen screamed. “She has a knife! She thinks to murder me!”

Pandemonium erupted in the antechamber. Elizabeth backed up, instantly surrounded by her Gentlemen, while a dozen soldiers descended upon Katherine. Suddenly Katherine was afraid. Leicester shoved her in the direction whence she had come. “Katherine, flee!”

And Katherine whirled, shoving past Ormond, who made no attempt to stop her—who even blocked the corridor, momentarily deterring any others from pursuing her.

“She is mad!” the queen cried from behind the men guarding her. “The girl has gone mad! Seize her! Seize her!”

Metal shrieked as the soldiers drew their swords and gave chase. Katherine pounded down the corridor, heard loud, racing footsteps and looked over her shoulder. Her eyes widened when she saw that two soldiers were gaining on her—and that one of the two men almost on her heels was none other than her husband, John Hawke.

It flashed through her mind that she was doomed. In another second Hawke or the other soldier would be close enough to grab her, and even if she fought them with her knife, they would ultimately subdue her, they would ultimately win. And she would be sent to Bridewell, where whores were imprisoned—never to be released, never to know her own child.

Katherine waited for the feel of a hand upon her shoulder. But nothing happened.

She glanced back again. And saw John Hawke, an inch from her now. Their gazes seemed to met. And in his eyes she saw a silent message, a message that could not be. And then he mouthed
—“run
.”

And then John Hawke lunged for Katherine—and tripped and fell. He fell in such a manner that he took down the soldier beside him as well. And as he fell and rolled, he became tangled up with the other soldier, and the two men succeeded in blocking the entire corridor.
The three soldiers following them crashed into them and also went flying to the floor.

Katherine ran.

Katherine crouched behind a pile of garbage outside of a timbered warehouse just across the street from St. Leger House. She was on her knees, for she did not have the strength to stand. She clawed the rotten wood in the refuse heap, peering across the street. She was exhausted, so exhausted that her head throbbed painfully and her insides heaved. She had been running through London all afternoon, eluding her pursuers.

Dusk had fallen, for which she was thankful. The sky was pink and gray, and the long shadows hid her well. She licked her dry lips, which were cracked and swollen. She watched the queen’s soldiers, led by John Hawke, as they sat their mounts in the cobbled courtyard of the manor, speaking with her father. She could not hear their exact words, but she knew what was being said. Hawke wanted to know if she was there, and her father was telling him that he had not seen her—truthfully.

Several soldiers dismounted and entered the house. Katherine supposed that they would search the entire manor and the grounds very carefully to see if she were hiding there.

Katherine choked on her despair. She was so tired. She did not think she could last much longer. If a soldier saw her now, she would not be able to run away. She prayed to God for His help.

And then the soldiers returned, mounted, and the dozen or so troops turned around and left St. Leger House. Katherine’s heart began to pound. She watched them riding away, down the street, toward the Tower Bridge. And then Hawke suddenly turned in the saddle and stared back—not at the manor but toward the depot—toward her.

Katherine shrank down, out of sight. Her pulse rioted. But he had not seen her, for he gave no command to his men to turn around and seize her.

Panting, Katherine slowly stood. She swayed a little; the soldiers were no longer in sight. She crossed the street
slowly, pulling up her hood. She saw her father standing in the courtyard still, staring at her as well.

And then Gerald went to the manor’s guards, posted at the gates, and began to speak. The guards listened, and turned, looking toward the east—away from Katherine. Gerald pointed and gestured. Then he shot a brief glance at Katherine, and it was a command. Katherine sucked up her courage and ran through the front gates just as Gerald and the two guards walked toward the back of the house. No one in sight now, she entered the house—and collapsed in the entry hall.