Skye breathed slowly, concentrating hard on the simple act of drawing air into her lungs and expelling it. Each beat of the oars brought her closer to imprisonment and God only knew what else. But, she swore silently to herself, she would admit nothing! She would beat the Queen at this cat-and-mouse game if it was her last act on this earth.
A soft rain began to fall. The twilight was a mauve-gray about them. It was quiet on the river, and there seemed to be no other boats upon the water. Then Skye’s heartbeat accelerated. For ahead of them the Tower of London loomed tall, dark, and menacing in the early evening. The barge turned shoreward, and the child in her womb kicked as the craft bumped the stone quay. She placed a protective hand over her belly thinking as she did so,Fear not, my child, I will protect you. Yes, said a nagging voice in her head, but who will protectyou?She shivered.
De Grenville leaped from the boat to help Skye out. She stood for a minute savoring her last moments of freedom, then turned to mount the stairs to the Tower. The steps were smooth with age, and slick with the rain, and to her annoyance she slipped once, but de Grenville caught her beneath the elbow and steadied her.
She stopped to regain her balance, then pulled away from him. “I am not afraid, my lord.”
“It was only the steps, Skye, I know,” he answered, all the while thinking how brave the lady really was.
The Tower governor met her at the entry, looking extremely distressed as he noted her condition. To be sure, she wouldn’t be the first woman to give birth here, but how he hated imprisoning pregnant women! Anything could happen under these conditions. The governor greeted his prisoner as warmly as was appropriate.
“Please take supper with my wife and me, Lady Burke. It will give your servant time to ready your rooms. I’ll send my own people up with your baggage, and see that the fires are laid.”
“Thank you, Sir John,” answered Skye. Turning, she said, “Farewell, Dickon. Please tell Her Majesty that if I had really wanted to come to London, I should have done so long before this. I wish a list of the charges against me, and if there are none then tell the Queen she holds me illegally.” She turned again. “Sir John, your arm please. I am so ungainly these days.”
Richard de Grenville left the Tower and made his way to Whitehall where the Queen was currently in residence. He went directly to Cecil, Lord Burghley’s apartment and asked to see him immediately. The secretary, by now inured to the usual request for haste, was surprised when Cecil told him to send in Sir Richard at once. When the door had shut behind Dickon, Cecil motioned him to a chair and asked, “What took you so long, sir? Was there difficulty at Lynmouth?”
“No, my lord, none at all, although Lord Burke is very angry and Lady Burke is confused about why the Queen would arrest her. There is one complication, and that was what delayed us.” Cecil looked inquiringly at him and de Grenville explained, “Lady Burke will be delivered of a child within a few months. It was necessary, therefore, to travel slowly.”
“Damn!” swore Cecil. “I warned the Queen, and now—” He stopped himself.
“My lord,” Dickon plunged in, “why has the Countess been arrested? What has she done?”
“Done? Why she has done nothing that we know of, Sir Richard. She is merely under suspicion.”
“Oh.” He desperately wanted to ask under suspicion of what, but he dared not.
“You may go now, Sir Richard. You’ll remember, of course, not to discuss this mission with anyone.”
“Yes, my lord.” He turned to go, hesitated, then turned back and asked, “May I visit Skye occasionally, my lord? She’s apt to be lonely.”
“No, Sir Richard, you may not. Her presence in London is to remain strictly a secret. If anyone saw you there, you could not possibly explain your visits to the Tower.” When de Grenville looked crestfallen, Cecil added in a more kindly tone, “Perhaps you may see her before Christmas, Sir Richard, and carry her greetings home to her family.”
Alone, Cecil sat back, satisfied that he had effectively isolated Lady Burke. They would leave her alone for a few weeks to stew over why she was there. If she was really guilty, she would be quite thoroughly frightened by the time they got around to her interrogation. He smiled.
Some days later, however, Cecil was not smiling with regard to the matter of Lady Burke. Standing before him was an irritatingly implacable Irish nun who identified herself as Sister Eibhlin née O’Malley, of St. Bride’s Convent, Inishturk Island.
“I have come,” she said in a soft but firm voice, “to attend my sister in her travail.”
At first Cecil pretended ignorance. “Madam,” he answered coldly, “I have no idea to what you refer.”
Eibhlin flashed him a hauntingly familiar mocking smile. “My lord, let us not waste time. Your signature was on my sister’s arrest warrant. I have spent the last several days traveling here at breakneck speed from the west coast of Ireland. I mean to be with Skye, and unless you give me leave to join her, I shall find some means of getting to the Queen and making this whole affair public. The O’Malleys have held their peace thus far, for Lord Burke assures us this is but a misunderstanding.”
“Why?” demanded Cecil, now becoming irritated, “why should I allow you to be with your sister, madam? I will not allow her husband. Why her sister?”
“My brother-in-law is a fine fellow to be sure, sir, but I am a midwife by profession. Skye needs me.”
“She has her woman with her.”
“Daisy? An excellent lass for doing hair or caring for my sister’s clothing and jewels—but as a midwife? I fear not. The mere sight of blood sets the poor girl to swooning and there is much blood connected with a birthing. Did you know that? Perhaps though, you would prefer that my sister suffer.”
“Good God, woman!” snapped Cecil. “We wish no harm to Lady Burke. We would have sent someone to help her when her time came.”
“I can well imagine,” rejoined Eibhlin scornfully. “Some ancient crone with dirty fingernails who would undoubtedly infect both Skye and the babe. What do you know, my lord Cecil, of midwifery?”
The Queen’s closest advisor felt his temper rising higher. The woman was insufferable. “Madam,” he thundered, “getting into the Tower is easy. It is the getting out that will be hard.”
Again she smiled that mocking smile, and this time he recognized it. It was the Countess of Lynmouth’s smile.Strange, thought Cecil,the nun doesn’t look like Lady Burke at all but for the mouth. I would never believe them even related but for that smile … and that annoyingly superior attitude. “I am not afraid, my lord.” She answered him, and he acknowledged that she wasn’t. Ah, these over-proud Irish, he again thought. “Go then, madam. My secretary will issue the necessary papers,” he said.
