Kissed by Shadows (7 page)

Lionel's face was a mask as he continued to stare sightlessly up through the leaves. Behind the mask his mind moved rapidly along well-traveled routes.

It was not possible alone to take on the might that was the Holy Roman Empire and its vile confederates, but there were others who shared his loathing, the devouring force of vengeance. Together they could send Philip of Spain, one arm of that empire, slinking home, driven out by a hostile people, his appetite for England unsatisfied, his emperor father's grand design in ruins.

As long as the marriage produced no child.

Even if Mary conceived, no one expected her to carry a child to term. If she did, then there were those in place who knew how to deal with it. His own task lay with the other strand to the royal plot: Lady Nielson and the child she carried. And what better way to overturn a plot than to be intimately involved in its execution?

The acknowledgment brought a bitter derisory smile to his lips. His plans were already in place. He needed only to gain Pippa's confidence, and he believed he was well on the way to doing that.

One woman's peace of mind was a tiny price to pay for the many thousands of lives that would be saved.

And for the satisfaction of vengeance.

Or so he told himself as he left the grove, directing his steps back towards the voices and music under the beech trees.

“Tell me, Martha, is your mistress quite well, do you think?”

The maid turned from the armoire at the sound of Lord Nielson's voice. “Oh, sir, you startled me. I didn't hear you come in.”

“You were busy,” Stuart observed with an engaging smile. “You are most diligent in caring for my wife.”

Martha, with a gratified air, smoothed the folds of the velvet gown she had been about to hang up in the armoire. “I do my best, my lord.”

“Yes, indeed you do.” He closed the door behind him with a snap, and stood leaning against it with a deceptively casual air. He had no desire to be surprised by Pippa's sudden return to her bedchamber.

“So, Martha, have you noticed anything amiss with my wife? Does she appear to be in good health?”

Martha hesitated. She was not in her mistress's confidence, a fact that she resented as much as it puzzled her. Lady Pippa could not possibly imagine that her maid, the woman who served her in the most intimate fashion, would not notice the absence of her terms, the morning's greenish pallor, the fluctuations in her appetite, and yet she had said nothing. It had occurred to Martha that perhaps her mistress didn't recognize the signs, but she had dismissed the thought. Lady Pippa was no naive girl.

But why would she keep her pregnancy a secret? It was advanced enough now to be confirmed. Martha pursed her lips in thought.

“Well, girl?” Stuart's prompting was sharp, his eyes narrowed in impatience.

Martha decided she needed to keep in his lordship's good graces. It wasn't as if Lady Pippa had taken her into her confidence and asked her not to disclose the information.

“My lady hasn't said anything to me, sir, but I think it likely that she's with child,” she said, her eyes downcast, her hands demurely clasped against her skirts.

Stuart felt a great wash of relief. It was over then. Never again would he have to deliver her unconscious to the antechamber. He would have no further part to play. His wife would become now the concern,
the property,
of the Spanish.

Revulsion and the old fear followed close on the heels of relief. What would happen to them all now? Pippa was safe while she carried Philip's child. Her husband was a necessary prop as the proud father-to-be. But once the child was delivered . . .

But perhaps he could use the pregnancy as a bargaining counter. Perhaps he could now negotiate Gabriel's freedom from persecution. It didn't matter for himself, he deserved whatever Fate, or Philip and his cohorts, had in store, but Gabriel was an innocent. He knew nothing of this.

As innocent as Pippa.

Stewart nodded at Martha and left the chamber hurriedly. There were some things it was not useful to contemplate. What was done was done. Now he would take the glad tidings and try to gain some advantage from being the bearer of good news.

The guards outside the council chamber came to attention as Lord Nielson approached. “Is His Majesty within?” Stuart's tone was haughty.

“Aye, my lord. With Her Majesty, the queen, and the king's close councillors.”

“Good. Pray tell them that Lord Nielson craves an audience.”

“Aye, my lord.” The guard bowed and knocked with his stave of office on the oak door. It was opened by another guard. Whispers were exchanged, then the door closed again.

Stuart waited, pacing the narrow antechamber between the window and the door.

“Their Majesties will see you now, Lord Nielson.”

He spun from the window and without acknowledging the guard's bow strode into the paneled chamber. Philip and Mary sat together under the canopy of state on a raised dais. Below them at the long council table sat the members of Philip's council and, of course, Simon Renard. They regarded Stuart expectantly but no one offered him a seat.

He stood at the foot of the table and bowed low to Their Majesties, before offering a more moderate courtesy to the council. “I have news, madam, sire, my lords.”

“Good news, I trust,” Ruy Gomez said in a lazy drawl.

“I believe Lady Nielson to be with child,” he responded, and the words now stuck in his craw. The contempt directed at him in the chamber was thick enough to cut, but it was no greater than what he felt for himself, crawling to them with what was now a humiliating confession.

“Has this been confirmed by a physician?” inquired the queen, leaning forward slightly.

“No, madam. But by her maid.”

“And by Lady Nielson, of course.”

“Not as yet, madam.” His discomfort increased and he could feel the sweat gathering in the hollow of his throat beneath his ruff. “I have but just now had the information from her maid. I have not yet discussed it with my wife.”

“Well, I trust you were not in too much of a hurry to bring us this news,” Simon Renard declared, tapping his beringed fingers on the table.

“Maids are usually the first to know,” Ruy Gomez said. “But I suggest, my lord, that you make haste to have a physician's confirmation as well as your wife's. We will hold back our celebration until such time as you do.” He gazed with cold eyes at the man before him.

Stuart stood straighter, and for the first time when confronted with the insolence of his tormentors he fought back. “You need have no doubts, sir,” he snapped. “And I would ask assurances now that Gabriel be released from his duties in Her Majesty's service and permitted to leave the palace, as it was agreed.”

Simon Renard raised an eyebrow. “Ah . . . your bauble, of course. But where would he go? An indigent lyre player would be eaten alive in the streets of London.”

Stuart was very white, his eyes brilliant as gems. “I would make provision,” he stated.

Renard's mouth curved in a narrow smile and he nodded slowly. “But of course you would.” He turned to his fellows at the table. “However, we believe your friend would be safer under
our
protection. Is that not so, my lords?”

“For a while longer,” agreed Ruy Gomez with a smooth smile.

“My lords, I demand—”

“You
demand,
sir?” Philip exclaimed, half rising from his chair. “Bear in mind that there are witnesses to the man's crimes of perversion . . .
sodomy . . . and heresy.” His voice shook slightly with the depth of his emotion.

“Crimes against God,” he declared with sudden force, his eyes burning with the fires of conviction. “It wants only my signature to send him to the hangman by way of those who would most assuredly succeed in persuading him to repent his sins.”

“And any of his partners in these acts of bestiality,” put in Ruy Gomez, leaning across the table now, his gaze steady, with a politician's coldness rather than the fanatical burn of the king's.

Stuart knew that once more he was defeated. He stood silent, awaiting dismissal from Their Majesties. It was Mary who released him with a curt word. He bowed and backed from the chamber.

Outside, he wiped his brow with his handkerchief. He needed Gabriel. He needed to see him whole, smiling his wonderful soft smile as he plucked sweetness from his lyre; he needed to hold him, eager and loving. Only then could he banish the dreadful images that had been conjured in the council chamber. Gabriel screaming on the rack, broken on the wheel, burning in the fire. They could do that. They
would
do that.

But he dared not go to the minstrels' dormitory, where Gabriel would be resting before the evening's duties. They only ever met outside the palace, in the little tavern where bedsport of all kinds was tolerated with an indifferent shrug, so long as the indifference was well paid for. Stuart hated it, the hole-in-the-corner sordidness of it all. But now he would give a king's ransom for five minutes there alone in Gabriel's company.

Tonight, he promised himself. Tonight they would meet.

There was a short silence in the council chamber after Lord Nielson's departure. Then the queen spoke with a certain intensity in her voice, her eyes unusually bright.

“My lords, I am assured by my physicians that I am carrying a child.”

Renard was the first to respond. “You are to be congratulated, madam. That is indeed wonderful news.” He turned to Philip. “Sire, the people will rally to you now, their disaffection will vanish under this news. An heir to the throne, a child for their beloved queen. There will be no more mutterings, no more popular rebellions.”

“My people . . .
our
people . . . will indeed be glad of the news, my dear sir,” Mary said, smiling at her husband. “It has been so long since they have had a healthy infant heir to the throne.” She touched her stomacher fleetingly. “A healthy boy child.”

Philip rose from his chair and bowed low before his wife. He took her hand and carried it to his lips. “Most honored lady, you fill my heart with such joy, and with undying gratitude. But I would talk with your physicians. We must be certain that all the signs are favorable and that they know how to take care of you.”

Basking in her husband's anxious attention, the queen rose and left the council chamber with stately if complacent tread.

“Nevertheless we must not lose our insurance,” Ruy Gomez said softly. “Sufficient care must be taken there also.”

“Don Ashton will see to it,” Renard said with quiet confidence. “We can safely leave Lady Nielson's welfare in his hands.”

“Indeed.” Gomez nodded. “Shall you discuss it with him, or shall I?”

Seven

“The king must be feeling very satisfied” Lionel observed from the deep stone windowsill where he was perched to catch any stray breeze wafting up from the river.

His tone was pleasant enough, dispassionate almost, and yet Simon Renard wondered if he heard a slightly sardonic edge to it, as if Ashton was amused, and not in a kindly fashion. He remembered that once or twice in the past he had fancied hearing such a note in his voice. Of course, the idea of a man's impregnating two women in the same month could be cause for a raised eyebrow in ordinary circles, but this was a matter of state, a matter of the highest importance. It was not something to be treated as a prurient jest.

He examined Ashton with a frown but could tell nothing from the man's customarily impassive expression. Perhaps he had been mistaken. Lionel Ashton had never been anything but a committed supporter of Philip's affairs since he had accompanied the king from the Netherlands on his wedding journey. Renard had developed a great respect for his shrewd intelligence, his calm, detached manner, and the efficient ease with which he manipulated people and affairs around him. He was a man who got things done. He was also a man who kept himself to himself and minded his own business; however, that personal reticence had no impact on the enterprise they shared, and, indeed, was a quality that Renard cultivated himself and much admired.

“We are all satisfied with the outcome,” he said a little stiffly. “The king has—”

“Been most diligent,” Lionel interrupted with a soft laugh. “And achieved his just reward. Let us hope the queen's pregnancy is uneventful and brings forth a healthy prince.”

“That is in God's hands,” Renard stated. “You seem amused, Ashton.”

“No . . . not in the least. Merely delighted,” Lionel declared. “'Tis a matter for felicitations not gloom, Renard.”

“Well, yes, indeed,” the ambassador agreed with a degree of hesitation. He still felt that there was something not quite correct about Ashton's response to his news. “But 'tis also a matter of grave importance to the state.”

“That is understood,” Lionel said, still smiling. “When does the queen intend to make a formal announcement?”

“Within the week. It will be cried in every town square and the following Sunday thanks will be given from every pulpit in the land. It will be an occasion for celebration from coast to coast.” Renard's usually dour and solemn expression lightened considerably and Lionel thought he almost looked joyful.

Lionel contented himself with the quiet statement that such news would certainly please the people.

“And 'tis to be hoped they will finally be reconciled to the marriage.”

“Yes,” Lionel agreed. “And what of Lady Nielson? Is the world to know of her happy condition at once?”

“That is not an issue that concerns us,” Renard said. “That is for her and her husband to decide. What does concern us, however, is the lady's health and welfare. Of course we all hope and pray that the queen will be safely delivered, but . . .” He shrugged. “Lady Nielson must be watched over with the greatest attention. No danger must come to her and she must be prevented from doing anything that might endanger the child.”

Lionel nodded. “That had occurred to me.” He regarded Renard with apparent indifference while he waited to see if the other man would play into his hand.

“It is the king's wish that you take on this charge,” Renard continued, carefully examining his long, soft white hands. “Ensure that the lady and her child remain well.”

“I would have thought that to be a task more suited to her husband,” Lionel said, casually turning his head aside to look down onto the bowling green below. A spirited game was taking place and the subject of their discussion was at that moment lifting her bowl to take her turn. She looked better than the other day, Lionel thought, wondering if hefting bowling balls, even the lighter lady's variety, was an activity to be discouraged in a pregnant woman.

“Maybe, but the husband's cooperation cannot be relied upon. He is acting under duress and his wife's pregnancy is not one to bring him joy,” Renard pointed out dryly. “We would prefer to have one of our own taking charge of the lady.”

Oh, how sweetly they had swum into his net, Lionel thought with a hidden smile.

“I will be happy to do so,” he said easily, getting up from the windowsill. “Would you consider bowling to be a dangerous activity, Renard? Because if so, I should go and distract the lady from her present game.”

“I am no physician, but I would think lifting anything heavy is unwise, particularly in these early weeks,” Renard declared with an air of distaste. He was not comfortable discussing such intimately female topics, although he thought nothing of writing about them in the baldest terms in his dispatches to the emperor.

“Then I will go to my charge.” Lionel bowed and left the ambassador to his own thoughts.

Renard riffled through the papers on his desk but his mind was not on them. He was thinking of how little he knew of Lionel Ashton. He had detailed knowledge of most of the members of Philip's entourage but they were for the most part Spanish and their lives and family histories were an open book easily read by Renard's spies. But Lionel Ashton was an Englishman, although it appeared that he had not lived in England for many years. He had close ties to the Mendozas; it was said he had once saved Don Antonio's life when the Spaniard had been attacked by bandits on the road to Seville. But despite that connection he had not been a regular habitue of the Spanish court until he had joined Philip in Flanders, where the king had been spending a few last weeks of freedom before setting sail for his wedding to Mary.

A few weeks of debauchery, knowing Philip, Renard reflected with a twitch of his aristocratic nose. Ashton did not strike him as a companion in such games, though. There was something of the ascetic about the man. It would explain his friendship with the Mendozas, who were renowned for their Castilian arrogance, their strict piety and rigorous decorum.

One had to assume Ashton was a good and practicing Catholic. He attended mass, of course, but then so did everyone else, including the deceitful, tricky Lady Elizabeth, who, despite her protestations to the contrary, was no loyal follower of the one true religion.

Renard pushed aside his papers and rose to his feet. Elizabeth. That was another pressing problem. Somehow she was getting information from the outside. She was supposed to receive no visitors, but they were getting through. She was corresponding with France; Renard's spies had intercepted a messenger only last week carrying a letter from Elizabeth to the French ambassador. For the life of him, he couldn't think how to stop the gap, plug the leak.

For as long as Elizabeth was alive she presented a very real threat to Mary's throne. Her death would solve all his problems, but he could not persuade Mary to agree to it. Despite all the evidence she had of her sister's plottings, she refused to order her execution. She had had every opportunity when Elizabeth had been imprisoned, every opportunity and every excuse, and she had refused out of some misplaced sense of sisterly obligation.

An assassination would only bring down the wrath of the already disgruntled populace onto the royal heads. And Renard could think of no other way to deal with the menace.

He went to the window, shaking his head gloomily. He looked down at the bowling green and saw Lionel Ashton approach Lady Pippa where she stood in the shade of a poplar awaiting her turn.

There, and only there, lay the Spanish hope for the kingdom. Renard loved Mary with much more than ordinary friendship but he was not blind to reality. Maybe she would carry this child to a successful delivery, but the chances were slight. The healthy young woman on the bowling green had a much better chance of ensuring England fell under Spanish dominion.

Pippa was aware of Lionel Ashton's presence on the bowling green many minutes before he approached her. She watched him covertly. What was so different about him? What made him stand out from everyone around him? He was unprepossessing by any conventional standards, he dressed without ostentation, he seemed to make no particular attempt to make himself agreeable. And he appeared to have no special talents; he was inclined neither to sports nor to music, and she had never seen him dance.

Yet he made her shiver when she was in his vicinity. A strange shiver of apprehension and pleasure. She knew that somehow she knew him, that his touch was familiar on her skin. And she knew that she yearned for that touch. Sometimes she could almost feel his lips upon hers.

Pippa shook her head briskly, trying to dispel the images, the sensations she was conjuring. The extraordinary thought occurred that perhaps she was in love. She had never been in love. She had had many flirtations in her giddy youth when she had put off marriage way beyond the usual age, thanks to her indulgent parents. She felt deep affection for Stuart, appreciation of his many talents; she enjoyed his company . . . or had done until recently. But she was not in love with him.

This was no surprising revelation. She had always known it. But she had not hankered after romantic passion. It had always struck her as slightly foolish in a grown and experienced woman.

Her mother and sister loved their husbands with a single-minded devotion, but Pippa could not imagine either of them throwing caution to the winds just for love, in the way so many of her acquaintances sighed, whimpered, and swooned their way through romantic devastations. And Pippa felt not the slightest inclination to follow suit whenever Lionel Ashton appeared in her sights.

No, of course she was not in love with the man. She was simply puzzled, intrigued, confused by this strange sense of foreknowledge. Perhaps she'd met him in a previous existence. It was such a nonsensical, not to mention heretical, thought that she couldn't help chuckling.

“Something amuses you?”

Lionel was smiling too as he came up to her. “What could possibly make you laugh all alone under a tree watching the most boring, staid game ever invented?”

“My own thoughts,” Pippa replied.

“Care to share them?”

“No.”

“Then I shall have to speculate. I warn you I have a very free and lively imagination.” He leaned against the tree, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his short gray cloak.

She laughed up at him. “Give your imagination free rein, sir. I doubt you'll come anywhere close.” At this moment they were so easy together, it was like joking with Robin . . . except that it wasn't in the least like it.

She changed the subject, sharpening her tone a little. “I don't think bowls is boring and staid. I quite enjoy the competition. But I have noticed, sir, that you hold yourself above our little amusements. Your mind is presumably occupied with higher matters.”

“Probably,” he agreed equably. “I have never been amused by trivialities.”

Pippa drew a swift breath. “Would you match wits and tongues, sir? I'll wager mine are as sharp as yours.”

He smiled down at her. “One day you shall prove it,” he said.

The gray eyes seemed to be laughing at her but the promise they held was as tangible as a tangle of limbs on a feather bed. And then the cold gray threads of that confused dread began to wreathe around her, banishing the promise, and Pippa trembled deep in her belly.
Who was he?

Lionel read the question in the forest depths of her eyes. And he read her fear. He moved swiftly to dispel the moment. “So, how are you feeling today? You look rather less like a half-drowned kitten.”

“A half-drowned kitten!” Pippa exclaimed, shaken out of her intensity by such an unflattering description. “I did
not
look like that. It's most ungallant of you to remind me of my mortification . . . of what you saw.”

“Yes, it is, I ask your pardon. But actually you did look rather pathetic. . . .” He held up a hand to forestall her irritated protest. “Only to be expected, of course, in the circumstances.”

“Maybe that was so, but 'tis still unchivalrous of you to bring it up.”

“An apt phrase.” He grinned at her and she couldn't help her own reluctant response.

“That's better.” Casually he brushed her cheek with a fingertip. “You haven't answered my question. How do you feel today?”

Her cheek seemed to come alive beneath the brushing touch. And yet it was nothing out of the ordinary, no more than a punctuation mark. She flicked at her cheek with the back of her hand as if a fly had settled there, and answered calmly, “I have good days and bad ones. Today, thank God, is a good one.”

“The nausea will pass around the twelfth week,” he informed her.

Pippa decided she'd had enough prevarication. Lionel Ashton had had the upper hand for too long. “You have neither wife nor child, and yet you know such things. Are you a physician under that cloak, Mr. Ashton?” Her steady gaze challenged him to answer her as he had refused to do in the grove.

This time he showed no signs of snubbing her with a coldly distant negative. “No, but I was my mother's last born, and the only boy,” he replied cheerfully. “For some reason the women in my family showed no discretion when discussing such things.”