The Hawk and the Dove

by Virginia Henley

  “Oh, holy Saint Jude, apostle and martyr, great in virtue and rich in miracles, near kinsman of Jesus Christ, the faithful intercessor of all who invoke your special patronage in time of need, to you I have recourse from the depths of my heart and humbly beg you, to whom God has given such great power, to come to my assistance. Help me in my present and urgent petition. In return I propose to make your name known and cause your name to be invoked.”

  Suddenly Sabre realized the Tower guards were much more nervous than she to be so suddenly confronted by the sovereign of the realm, and she sought to put them at their ease.

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen, no ceremony, please. I am here on a whim. Rumor that you have the Black Shadow safely behind bars has piqued my curiosity. So I have prevailed upon my beloved Sea God to escort me to see for myself.” She swept along the passageways of the lower Tower, raising with imperative gestures each guard who bowed and scraped before her. She had to take a deep, steadying breath when the queen’s chief dungeon master was called for to escort her to the prisoner.

  He came with alacrity, but was loath to let her see the prisoner, who had been racked in the night. Instead, he invited her to his comfortable office to take refreshment while the governor of the Tower was summoned.

  “Sirrah, if I had wanted to take tea I would have gone to a tea party! I forbid you to disturb the governor of the Tower—he is out of favor with me at the moment and I don’t wish to be burdened with his postulating!” She lowered her mask and looked directly into the eyes of the aging dungeon master. Then very sharply she demanded, “Were you a guard when I was imprisoned here, sirrah?”

  “No, no, Your Majesty.” He rushed to assure her that he had had nothing whatsoever to do with that miscarriage of justice.

  “And a good thing too!” she rapped out sharply. “Lead on!” she ordered.

  The party had to pause outside the cell while keys were produced and the door unlocked.

  “I think just Lord Devonport and I will see the infamous prisoner. My attendants don’t have the stomach for such.” Inside the cell Sabre glanced at Shane and wished she had not. His mouth was set in grim lines and she feared his control would snap at sight of the baron. “This prisoner has been racked!” he ground out.

  “Aye, my lord, and still not a word out of him.”

  Sabre forced herself to look at the baron. He was conscious and she knew he recognized them. “Not a word, you say?” she demanded sharply, to cover her distress.

  The dungeon master hauled the prisoner up viciously. “On your knees before your sovereign, you dog!”

  She stepped close and touched his neck, then slipped the vial into his shackled hands. “You fools!” she accused. “This man cannot speak … he has had his vocal cords cut! See you these two small knots upon his neck?”

  Though there were no real knots, the man nodded as he felt the prisoner’s neck.

  “Lord Devonport, what do you think?” she demanded.

  “You are right, Your Majesty. Torturing this man is a waste of time and energy. He will never speak.”

  She turned upon her heel and made a rapid retreat and the men followed her instantly. “Do you know what I think, sirrah?” she demanded. “You have been gulled! This is not the Black Shadow. This is some poor scapegoat they sent in here to fall into your clever trap.”

  “We’ll all be a laughingstock,” said Devonport with disgust.

  Sabre knew a hint when she heard one. “Ah, no, my friend, for my loyal dungeon master and his guards will not breathe a word of our visit. He was chosen for this job because of his discretion.” She waved an all-powerful hand. “Discretion deserves reward.”

  Lord Devonport slipped a heavy pouch into the man’s eager hand and they made a rapid exit.

  When Shane saw that Sabre would be all right after the ordeal he had put her through, he sent her home and was off to further his mission. Though her part in this was over, his was most certainly not. He was off to bribe the coffin maker who picked up the dead from the Tower of London.

  Back at Thames View, Sabre tried to rest, but she was too keyed up to keep still for long. She didn’t expect to see Shane again until dawn of the next day, when he would bring the baron home in his coffin. In the afternoon the carriage drove in, bringing back Mason and her young maid Meg. She felt guilty for having dragged them off to the wilds of Devon only to have them turn around and come all the way back again.

  “It was a nice change, Lady Devonport, but I must confess I’m glad to be back in London.” His use of her title startled her, but then she realized that at times she and Shane did tend to live at the top of their voices, and she flushed at all the other things this man must have heard.

  “Charles, for the next few days we don’t want any visitors intruding at Thames View. The baron is gravely ill and Shane will be bringing him home tomorrow. Now that you are here to take care of everything, I will leave all in your capable hands. I’m going for a ride. Perhaps if I get some fresh air, I’ll be able to sleep tonight.”

  She did manage to get some rest when she fell into bed exhausted from the day’s ordeal, but by three in the morning she was wide awake and filled with apprehensive dread for the baron and for Shane’s safety.

  When Shane finally arrived driving a rough wagon, she hardly recognized the shabby, nondescript figure. He looked unwashed, unshaven, with lank hair falling into his eyes. He was a frightening sight, but when she saw the width of the shoulders and saw him haul the wooden coffin from the wagon single-handed, she knew it was he. Between them they were becoming masters of disguise.

  He carried his friend upstairs and laid him on his bed. Sabre took one look and her heart sank. It was too late; the baron was dead.

  Silently, grimly, Shane began to strip him, and Sabre, realizing he intended to cleanse the body, ran for soap, hot water, and towels. The baron’s body was badly bruised and the arms and legs were dislocated from their sockets.

  Shane glanced up at Sabre. “My love, if this is too much for you, get Mason to come and help me.”

  “No, the worst is over,” she said sadly.

  With a quick wrench Shane jerked one of the dislocated arms back into its socket.

  “Oh, please, can’t you leave him in peace?” she begged.

  “Nay, the joints will stiffen and he’ll be crippled the rest of his life if we don’t act quickly.”

  “He lives?” she asked incredulously.

  “By the bones of Christ he had better live or all our efforts will have been in vain!”

  The legs proved more difficult to straighten, and it took all the strength of both to accomplish anything. Finally, with Sabre sitting on the baron’s chest to hold him immobile, Shane was able to pull down on each leg hard enough to hear it snap back into its socket. Then they bathed him and rubbed his joints with oil of camphor. Then Shane built up the fire; they covered him warmly and left him to sleep off the effects of the drug and wake from his comalike state.

  Through the long night she voiced all her fears to him. “Shane, you realize it would be you they would have taken in the Tower if you had been in London that night? They would have recognized you immediately and found you guilty of treason. You would be dead by now—hanged, drawn, and quartered!” She shuddered and the tears spilled down her cheeks. “One day it will happen—it is inevitable, unless you sever the ties with O’Neill completely.”

  He looked at her for long minutes. “I have finished with him. He has my message by now.”

  She wanted to believe him, but she had the measure of O’Neill and hoped to God he had too. The Irish prisoners from Dublin were still in the Tower and she knew O’Neill would never rest until he’d exacted Shane’s promise to get them released.

  They nursed the baron for two days and nights, and when he awoke the first word he murmured was “Georgiana.”

  Shane looked across at Sabre and grinned. “I have an excellent idea. I’ll take him to my mother at Hawkhurst for a long convalescence away from London. W
hen I come back we will talk about this divorce you have your heart set upon.”

  She opened her mouth to protest, but all she managed was a faint “You would really divorce me?”

  “Sabre, I couldn’t have done this without you. You were magnificent. I will not go back on my word. You deserve anything you desire.”

  Chapter 23

  Mason, with a swollen black eye, faced his master with shame in his heart. “My lord, she’s been abducted. I tried to prevent it, but failed miserably. I’ve been in a frenzy to have you return.”

  “Matthew!” thundered Shane. “I’ll cut out his bloody liver … I’ll have his balls! By Christ, I’ve warned the young fool over and over again.”

  Mason looked doubtful. “My lord, I have grave doubts that it was Matthew’s doing. The men who took her were rough … Irish….”

  “Irish!” echoed Shane, cold fingers of fear gripping his heart. “O’Neill,” he whispered, “only he would dare!” O’Neill had clearly seen that Sabre was his one vulnerability. He clenched impotent fists and cursed heaven and hell in that moment. He vowed that if grave harm came to Sabre, he would murder his father and there would be an end to it.

  Without wasting further time he went upstairs and packed for a journey. He hoped against hope that it had been Matthew’s men who had taken her. He found him at court and knew with his first glance that he was not involved, for Matt was as open and easy to read as a book. When Matt saw the dark anger in his brother’s face he feared the worst. “Is the baron dead?” he groaned through bloodless lips.

  Shane shook his head in the negative. “Sabre was abducted from Thames View,” he said curtly.

  “Who? Where?” demanded Matthew.

  Shane shrugged to show his ignorance but ground out, “I’m sailing for Ireland on the flood tide.”

  “O’Neill?” Matt whispered. “I’m sailing with you!”

  Shane shook his head, but Matthew insisted. “Both his sons will confront him with this!”

  At the Pool of London, Shane chose the first Hawkhurst vessel with a full crew. It was the Winged Dragon, set for a voyage to the Canary Islands. Shane spoke with his captain. “We must leave on the next tide, but I won’t ask you to go one league out of your way. Take us home to Devonport and from there I’ll captain my own ship, the Defiant” The Defiant’s crew had been sent home on leave following the victory at Cadiz, and though all the sailors on all their merchant vessels were Hawkhurst men, Shane would feel more secure with his own personal crew aboard the Defiant in case it came down to a battle. He would be prepared and ready for any eventuality.

  The two men who grabbed Sabre spoke with such thick brogues that she could hardly understand them, yet she knew instantly whose men they were and where they were taking her. They had soon felled poor Mason and carried her to the bottom of the garden and put her aboard a small Irish bark. She grew alarmed as the small fishing vessel left the Thames Estuary and it dawned upon her that this wretched little boat would put out to sea. Her nausea began immediately and she knew that her pregnancy combined with seasickness would soon render her helpless. She had no time to waste, but must bargain now for safe conduct.

  “I am Lady Devonport and demand that you show me every respect.”

  The master of the bark looked sharply at the two men who had captured her. “He said t’grab his whore, not his wife, boyo!”

  “That’s the one, no mistakin’ the hair. Lass, are ye whore or wife?” he demanded.

  “I’m both,” she said bluntly. “I’m also daughter-in-law to the earl of Tyrone, who sent you for me, and in about two minutes I’m going to need the help of you gallant gentlemen,” she said with irony.

  The men looked at each other uncertainly. They hadn’t spoken to the O’Neill personally, but had been hired by one of his men to seize the wench and carry her to Dungannon Castle. They dared not take the chance of mistreating her and raising the ire of the O’Neill, so as one man sought a blanket to wrap her against the brisk chill, the other, with gentle but strong hands, held her firmly as she retched over the side of the boat, making sure she did not face windward.

  In spite of her present situation and what might lie ahead of her, Sabre felt an inner calm, for she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Shane would come for her. No matter the risk to life and limb, Shane would rescue her. She was his woman, and the deep knowledge of it gave her the security of a rock.

  What a fool she would be to divorce him just to feed her silly pride. He was everything she had ever wanted and then more; he was everything any woman could want. She shivered as a frightening thought struck her. If she divorced him, some other woman might snatch him for a husband!

  The little bark had been fortunate, for the English Channel was unusually calm, and once it had rounded Land’s End and entered the Celtic Sea, the small vessel, with the strong winds at its arse, had fairly scooted up the Irish coast, heading toward the Mountains of Mourne.

  The sailors had hung a blanket across a small space to allow Sabre a small amount of privacy while attending to her personal needs and they had brought her warm soup three times a day. She accepted it gratefully, knowing it was the same food the men were fed, and marveled at the wiry strength they displayed on the meager fare of cabbage and potato soup. By the time they reached the Mourne Mountains in the Irish Sea, Sabre’s seasickness had abated. The magnificent sight took her breath away and as the small bark maneuvered its way into the dark waters of the long, narrow Carlingford Lough she realized that she owned this land she gazed upon. This beautiful passage from the sea up to Newry was why Shane Hawkhurst had married her.

  She spoke her thoughts aloud to the men behind her. Her arm swept the vista. “All this is mine! ’Twas why the son of O’Neill married me.” They silently thanked the saints that they had not mistreated her, for the simple statements she made rang with the power of truth. She drew strength from the land and somehow felt Shane’s presence drawing closer and closer.

  The Hawkhurst vessel, as a matter of fact, had made the voyage so swiftly that it was only hours behind the small bark. Sabre was amazed when she neared Dungannon Castle. It was a formidable fortress with a great circular keep, an upper and lower ward enclosed by a vast curtain wall, and a pair of two-story towers of furnished rooms. It was well fortified by what seemed like a whole army, bristling with weapons including cannon.

  When O’Neill first glimpsed her he was angered that she had not been bound, but she came forward with such pride blazing from her eyes, he knew instantly that he dealt with no ordinary woman.

  “If I am a guest here, perhaps all is not lost, but if I am a prisoner, I fear for you and may God help you!”

  The red-haired giant tried to stare her down with an arrogant male pride that matched her own. “Silence, woman!” he commanded when she failed to even blink before his stare.

  “Shane never said no to you, but what he gave, he gave freely. He did it for love. Try to coerce him and he will kill you.”

  O’Neill’s mouth set in grim lines and his chin went higher.

  Sabre flung her magnificent hair back and stepped one defiant step closer. “I am Lady Devonport! I am your daughter-in-law! I carry your grandchild in my belly! A royal prince of Ireland by blood!”

  There was not a murmur in the vast hall as every man strained forward, holding his breath for the next pronouncement.

  She lowered her voice and said simply, “You hold me at your peril.”

  O’Neill raised his voice to the servants of the hall. “Well, don’t stand there like bloody stones, prepare a bath … food … build up the fire. Cannot you see my daughter is exhausted? Plenish the best chamber for my guest!”

  He could see that only burning pride kept her on her feet.

  A few hours later, after she had been bathed and fed, she lay upon a featherbed beside a blazing fire and drowsily drifted off to slumber. She was aroused by raised voices below in the hall. One voice gladdened her heart, yet she could hardly credit that miraculo
usly he had arrived for her almost upon her heels. A secret smile tugged at the corners of her mouth as she realized the speed at which he must have traveled for her.

  The O’Neill and his two natural sons stood face-to-face hurling insults and threats back and forth until the air was blue with Irish curses. They slanged each other with every foul name they had learned from the age of three.

  “I wish to Christ I’d never laid eyes on you. If you’ve harmed one hair on her head, you’re dead meat; pickings for the vultures!” threatened Shane.

  Sabre realized she had better stop it if she could before there was murder done, or before stiff unbending pride made the men such bitter enemies that only death would put an end to their hatred. She pulled on her warm gown, took up a branch of candles, and descended the tower steps. She paused at the entrance to the great hall and called, “My husband, please believe that I have received much hospitality and every honor from the earl of Tyrone.”

  “Sabre!” cried Shane with relief, sheathing his weapons. He was at her side with his strong, supporting arm about her in less than a moment, while Matthew stood challenging his father with his weapons still drawn.

  “Not one more thing will I ever give you!” vowed Shane. “I could forgive anything but this. Only evil could prompt you to take the one thing I love and hold dearest to use as hostage. Take, take, you only know how to take. Well, you’ve taken the last thing from me, O’Neill!”

  Perversely, the great O’Neill was not shamed to have his sons stand before him and curse his existence. He was bursting with pride that he had bred two such wolves whose ferocity could put the fear of the devil into men. He had not been unafraid himself when they drew their weapons upon him, even though he was surrounded by an army.

  Suddenly he began to laugh, and the sound of it rolled around the great hall. He looked over at Sabre with fiery admiration in his eyes. “By God’s cock, I know why you chose her—she’s a match for you, but that’s only because she’s Irish! Take your woman, she’s worth an O’Hara and an O’Donnell any day!”