The Silver Rose (2 page)

Her gaze finally fell upon a man at the far end. A man in his mid-thirties, with dark hair cropped close to his head, his powerful frame clad in a somber coat and britches of gray velvet. His large ringless hands rested on the table, the knuckles prominent, the nails filed short. They were a swordsman’s hands and bore the calluses of many a battle on the fields of Europe.

“Lord Hawkesmoor, we bid you welcome. You have a report for us from the duke of Marlborough.”

Simon Hawkesmoor bowed as he remained in his chair. “And it please Your Majesty. His Grace has entrusted me with a full report of the battle of Malplaquet.” His voice was low and deep, strangely melodious issuing from a rugged countenance marred by a livid scar down one cheek.

“I trust your wounds have healed, sir.”

Lord Hawkesmoor bowed again. “Tolerably well, ma’am.” He handed a sealed paper to a footman, who took it to the queen.

She broke the seal and read in silence for a few minutes, then she put it to one side. “Our general talks most highly of your exploits in the field, Lord Hawkesmoor. He deeply regrets that your wounds will prevent your return to his side.” The duke of Marlborough had also begged his sovereign to reward the earl’s skill and devotion, but Queen Anne was not known for her generosity.

She took another sip from her goblet. Fresh pain creased her brow. Her gloomy gaze wandered again along the two sides of the table and came to rest upon a dark-visaged man with angular features and charcoal gray eyes. He wore a full-bottomed wig and a suit of emerald brocade, in startling contrast to Lord Hawkesmoor, sitting opposite. But then the Ravenspeares, unlike the Hawkesmoors, had never been tainted by the cold sobriety of the Puritan.

In 1649, Simon Hawkesmoor’s grandfather had sentenced the king to death. His family had been prominent in Oliver Cromwell’s protectorate, and, with the Restoration, their punishment had been as severe as that which the Cromwellians had previously inflicted on the royalists. But now such times of conflict were over. In public. In private the queen knew they persisted. And among no two families did they run more deeply than between the Hawkesmoors and the Ravenspeares.

She smiled, although it was more a grimace than an expression of pleasure. Her Lady of the Bedchamber, Sarah,
duchess of Marlborough, had had a most happy notion. It was a sovereign’s task to promote peace and happiness among her subjects, and not least among those who held high place at her court. It was also a sovereign’s task to reward those who had served her well, without depleting the privy purse. The duchess had hit upon a neat plan to gratify the duke of Marlborough by rewarding the earl of Hawkesmoor without it costing the queen more than an elegant gown, and perhaps a trinket, for a bride. And, by the same stroke, creating an alliance between two warring families.

“Lord Ravenspeare, you have a young sister, I believe.”

Ranulf, earl of Ravenspeare, looked startled. “Aye, Your Majesty. Lady Ariel.”

“How old is she?”

“Approaching twenty, ma’am.” Ranulf’s dark eyes narrowed.

“And she is not wed . . . nor betrothed as yet?”

“Not as yet,” he agreed carefully. He and his brothers had yet to find the perfect husband for Ariel. The husband who would bring the greatest benefit to the house of Ravenspeare.

“She has no stated preference?”

“No, Your Majesty.” She might well have, but Ranulf didn’t add that whether she did or no, Ariel’s wishes would be of little account in such a vital family matter.

“How very fortunate.” Queen Anne smiled again. “I have it in mind to bestow the hand of your sister, the Lady Ariel, upon the earl of Hawkesmoor.”

The silence in the council chamber was profound. The two men concerned didn’t move, but their eyes met across the massive mahogany table. Met and held. And spoke of the deep and deadly enmity that each, as the head of their respective families, carried for the other.

“There is some land that is in dispute between your families, I believe,” the queen continued. She was known as much for her phenomenal memory as for its selective quality. Matters of vital importance would disappear, never to be acknowledged by her, whereas strange trifles heard
long ago would be dredged up and treated as enormously significant, frequently to the great inconvenience of others.

She looked inquiringly between the two men. Ravenspeares and Hawkesmoors were the great lords of the Fens and had held sway over that damp, flat, foggy land since William the Conqueror. Cromwell had given a large proportion of Ravenspeare land to the Hawkesmoors as a reward for their loyalty, but on Charles II’s return as king, the land had been confiscated from the regicide’s family and given, together with a large chunk of Hawkesmoor territory, in perpetuity to the royalist Ravenspeares. The Hawkesmoors had spent enormous sums on draining the fenland, reclaiming it for agricultural use, and with one stroke of the king’s pen had seen their efforts and its rich rewards handed over to the rival dynasty.

Since the death of Charles II in 1685, the Hawkesmoors had been petitioning for the return of their land, a petition violently disputed by its present owners.

“If the land forms part of Lady Ariel Ravenspeare’s dowry, then it will be jointly owned by both families,” the queen continued into the silence. “Should she die before her husband, the dowry reverts to her birth family. Should she die in the fullness of time, it will be inherited by her children, who will carry the blood of both families. A happy solution, I believe. And one that will bring to an end a feud that has gone on for too many generations. We cannot have around us men whose service and advice we rely upon divided by such personal conflicts.”

She seemed serenely unaware of the lack of reaction to her proposal and was completely ignorant of the surging speculation in the minds of the two men. She had set her heart upon her little scheme, convinced now that it had come from her own fertile brain, and would not be persuaded out of it.

Simon Hawkesmoor’s half smile was ironic as he read Ravenspeare’s mind. Either one of them could reject the queen’s proposal, but to do so would mean immediate loss
of favor and exile from the court. The queen never forgot a slight, and however irrational her dislikes, they were irreversible. The earl of Ravenspeare lived for his power at court. He had a hand in every intrigue and was as blatantly corrupt as any man serving the queen. He feathered his nest with bribery and extortion, influenced every court appointment, and could bring a man down as easily as he could raise him up. He thrived on the fear he induced in all who came into his orbit, and he would not willingly give up such power.

But could he tolerate such a price? To join his family with their blood enemies. The land quarrel was public knowledge, a common enough bone of contention between the country’s great families in the wake of revolution, but the dark river of spilled blood that flowed between Ravenspeare and Hawkesmoor was known only to the chosen few—and to no one who was not born to either name.

“So, my lords, how do you answer my scheme to bring harmony to your families and to my council chamber?” The queen’s voice was suddenly petulant. She was tired of the silence.

“I do not believe, madam, that either Lord Hawkesmoor or myself would presume to bring our private quarrels into Your Majesty’s presence,” Ranulf said with a stiff bow.

“So, my lords, how do you answer my scheme to bring harmony to your families and to my council chamber?” Her Majesty repeated. It was a trick she had perfected. She would resolutely ignore any response that didn’t suit her, merely repeating herself until she heard what she wanted to hear.

“For my part, Your Majesty, I would be honored to agree to your proposal.” Simon spoke in his melodious voice, a ripple of amusement running beneath the smooth words. “Since I am compelled to retire from the battlefield, I could do much worse than take a wife and tend to my lands.” He nodded across the table at Ranulf, the ironical smile still in his eyes. “And I am more than prepared to resolve an old quarrel so evenhandedly.”

Ranulf’s dark eyes were unreadable. He was convinced that only death would end Simon Hawkesmoor’s hatred and need for vengeance, as it would end his own. The land was nothing. The blood and dishonor were everything. So what lay behind this cool acquiescence to the impossible?

“I would discuss this in greater detail with Lord Hawkesmoor, madam,” he said neutrally.

“Very well.” Her Majesty sounded displeased. “I trust you will soon put matters in hand for the wedding. I would gift the bride with some trifle.” She drank again. “And now to other matters. Lord Godolphin . . .?” She gestured to her chief minister.

Half an hour later the men rose, bowing low as the queen tottered painfully from the chamber. The minute she was gone, Ranulf’s chair scraped angrily on the oak boards as he thrust it aside and stalked from the room without so much as a glance in the direction of Simon Hawkesmoor, who calmly sat down again, remaining in his chair until the council chamber was empty.

“I trust our enterprise went well, my lord.” The tapestry curtain behind the throne chair was pushed aside to admit a tall red-haired woman in a gown of scarlet silk.

“So far so good, Sarah.” Simon reached for the ivory-topped cane beside his chair and with its help rose to his feet again, offering the duchess of Marlborough a courteous bow. “But I think a little more pressure on the queen may be necessary. Ravenspeare may need a hint of coercion.”

The duchess came over to him. “My husband was most insistent that I do everything to help you, Simon.” She leaned against the edge of the table, her green eyes curious. “Do you play some deep game?”

The earl of Hawkesmoor laughed softly. “Deep enough, my dear ma’am.”

“John says he stands much in your debt.”

The earl shrugged. “No more than one man on a battlefield stands in the debt of his neighbor.”

“You saved his life, then?”

Another shrug. “As he saved mine on many an occasion.”

“You are modest, sir. But I know when my husband feels an extraordinary debt.” She stood upright. “My influence over the queen remains firm, despite . . .” Her lips tightened. “Despite Mrs. Masham’s attempts to supplant me. Have no fear. The queen will offer such inducements . . . or threats . . . that will persuade the earl of Ravenspeare to agree to the marriage.”

“I don’t doubt your influence, Sarah.” Taking her hand, he raised it to his lips. “And don’t you ever doubt your husband’s love.” He smiled. “A message I was charged to deliver personally.”

The duchess’s responding smile lit up her pale face. “I could wish you were returning to his side to deliver my answer personally. For I own I miss him most dreadfully.” She added with a deep sigh, “It’s hard for a woman in her prime to be without the . . . the pleasures and satisfactions of marriage.”

Most women, when deprived of their husband’s attentions, sought satisfaction in other arms. Not so the duchess of Marlborough. She sublimated physical passion in wielding control over her sovereign, whom she had dominated since she was maid of honor to Princess Anne at the court of Charles II.

Simon kissed her hand again, a graceful gesture that should have sat oddly with the overwhelming physicality of his presence, accentuated by the plain, uncompromising dress and the lines of an old suffering etched into his face. And yet it didn’t. His eyes, blue and deep as the ocean, were filled with both understanding and humor.

“Your husband will be home before Christmas, Sarah. And homecomings are all the sweeter for long anticipation.”

She laughed with him, a flare of passion in her eyes. “If I were inclined to spread my favors, my lord, I swear you would be the first recipient.” She curtsied with another laugh and glided from the room.

The humor left his eyes the minute he was alone. Leaning
heavily on his cane, he limped to the door. Would Ranulf take the bait?

“Can we turn this to good use, Ranulf?” Lord Roland Ravenspeare held up a hand to halt his elder brother’s explosive description of the events in the council chamber.

“You can be certain Hawkesmoor is playing his own game.” Ranulf poured wine into two crystal goblets. “If we knew what it was, we could play to his serve.”

Roland took the glass handed him with a nod of thanks. He had the cooler head of the two brothers, although he was castigated as a dull plodder in a family of lightning-tempered, impulsive, quick thinkers. “If you wish to keep your power and influence at court, we have little choice but to agree to the queen’s proposal,” he said slowly. “As long as Ariel can be induced—”

“Ariel will do as she’s told.”

Roland held up a placating hand at this interruption. He had less confidence than his brother in the compliance of their little sister, but nothing would be gained by mentioning that now.

“Ariel married to Simon Hawkesmoor could be turned to our advantage,” he continued reflectively. “It could be arranged that the Hawkesmoor predeceases his wife, and the land will return to Ravenspeare hands beyond all possible dispute. In addition,” he added with a little smile, “a little amusement could be arranged at the Hawkesmoor’s expense . . . before, of course, he so unfortunately meets his untimely end.”

He had his brother’s full attention. “Explain.”

The Lady Ariel Ravenspeare galloped her horse across the flat, marshy fenland, the massive octagonal tower of Ely Cathedral—known throughout the land as the Ship of the Fens—stark against the gray autumn sky behind her, the spires of Cambridge fingering the sky in front of her. The wolf
hounds streaked ahead of the horse, enjoying the exercise as much as the work of the hunt Ariel had brought down a snipe with her pistol, and the two hounds raced each other and the horse to reach the bird first.

Ariel let her horse have its head. Bird hunting was tame sport for wolfhounds, but Romulus and Remus needed a daily full-out sprint with some purpose to it, even if it was only racing against a young stallion in order to mark a fallen snipe. Not that this was any ordinary stallion. Mustapha was bred from the line of a great racehorse, the Darley Arabian, and was the pride of Ariel’s stud.