“Sit down, sit down, Captain Small. Our own investigations have borne out your words. I would, however, like your personal thoughts about her relationship with Lord Southwood. You need divulge no confidence, of course, but the Earl is a valuable man to the Queen.”
“He claims to be in love with her,” answered Robbie, “and God help her, for she’s in love with him.”
“Curious,” said Cecil. “It is not the Earl’s custom to take women seriously. Then perhaps he really is in love with her?”
Far away, at that very moment, the gentleman in question was raging violently at his pale and cowering wife. Geoffrey Southwood had rarely felt such overpowering fury. “Bitch! Bitch!” he shouted at her. “You’ve killed my only legitimate son! Christ’s body, how could you be so stupid? You knew there was smallpox about, and yet you wrote to the Countess of Shrewsbury and asked to have Henry sent home for Twelfth Night. Without my permission. As God is my witness, Mary, I could kill you!”
“Then why don’t you, Geoffrey?” she baited him. “You hate me, and our daughters! Why not kill us all?”
Her hysterical outburst calmed him somewhat. He eyed her coldly. “I am going to divorce you, Mary. I should have done so years ago.”
“You have no grounds to do such a thing.”
“I have all the grounds I need, Mary. You produce nothing but daughters. The one son you bore me you wantonly killed. You refused to hostess my friends, yet you hoard the household monies I send you to dower your daughters despite the fact I have forbidden them to wed. I have grounds, Mary, but if needs be I’ll produce half a dozen men who’ll claim intimate knowledge of you.”
She went white with shock. “You truly are a bastard, Geoffrey,” she whispered, horrified.
He hit her a blow that sent her to her knees.
“A bastard!” she repeated. He turned and left. They were the last words she ever spoke to her husband. By nightfall Mary Southwood lay ill of smallpox herself, as did every one of her daughters. She died several days later. Mary, Elizabeth, Catherine, and Phillipa joined her. Only the three youngest girls, Susan and twins Gwyneth and Joan, survived. The Earl was saved because he had had a light case of smallpox as a child.
The Countess and her daughters were buried with a bare minimum of ceremony, the bell in Lynmouth Church dutifully tolling their passing as the carts carried their coffins to the family cemetery. Geoffrey told his three daughters of their mother’s and sisters’ deaths. They were so young, only four and five, that he was not sure they really understood him. Looking at them closely for the first time, he decided that they were really somewhat comely. Leaving detailed instructions as to their convalescence, he departed Devon for Court.
He had been in Devon for over two months, and spring had come to England. The Court had left Greenwich and was now at Nonesuch. The Earl of Lynmouth was welcomed back warmly, particularly by the ladies, for news of his loss had preceded him. Anxious to see Skye, he fretted until he could get to London. He could not go until the Queen gave her permission. He waited for the right moment to beg that permission.
In London Robbie prepared to take his leave of Skye. TheMermaidand her fellow ships waited now, fully provisioned, in the Pool. He had put off his departure until the last possible moment, for Skye was quite easily upset of late, the least little thing sending her into tears. He had sent to Devon for his sister, Marie, and the two children. The sight of Willow, now almost two, had cheered her somewhat.
He knew what distressed her. It was Southwood’s apparent desertion. Since the Earl had returned with her from their tryst in Januarythere had been no word from him other than the cryptic message that he was needed in Devon. Robert Small told himself once more that the man was a bastard, plain and simple. Seeing Skye grow so pale and listless, he silently cursed the Earl and bemoaned the fact that there was nothing he could do to cheer her.
Finally Robert Small could delay no longer. On the night before he sailed Skye arranged a small dinner party for him at her house. De Grenville was their guest, dining with Skye, Robbie, Dame Cecily, Jean, and Marie. De Grenville intended to sail with Robbie as far as the Channel. The meal was delicious, but Skye only picked at the food. Her merriment was forced. At least, she thought sourly, Southwood had done her one good turn by arranging an introduction to the Queen, thereby helping them obtain a royal charter. As to love … it was all either passion or pain.
De Grenville was soon in his cups, and he leered at Skye in a friendly fashion. “For a learned and modest woman you cost me dearly, Mistress Skye. Now that the Earl of Lynmouth is back at Court I suppose he’ll be taking my barge.”
He was back! And he’d never even sent her word! “Why should he take your barge, Dickon?” she asked absently.
Robert Small suddenly came to life. “That’s no story for Skye’s ears, Dickon!” he protested, kicking his friend beneath the table.
But de Grenville paid him no heed. His hostess’s rich wine had fuzzed his wits. “Why shouldn’t she know, Robbie? When I turn my barge over to Geoff it will be all over Court. Don’t know why I bet him anyway, but I did want that stallion.”
Skye felt a premonition of disaster run through her. “What bet is this, Dickon?”
“Enough, de Grenville!” cried Robert Small desperately, glancing toward his sister and Marie.
“No, Robbie,” snapped Skye. “I believe I should hear what Dickon has to say. Pray, sir, enlighten me as to what you and my lord Earl wagered.”
“I bet my barge against his prize stud stallion that he couldn’t make you his mistress within a six-month period. Looked like such a sure thing. You certainly cut him dead at the inn in Dartmour. Didn’t think he was your type at all. But then, my father always said women were a fickle lot and not to be trusted.”
Cecily and Marie both gasped. The Gallic Jean shrugged philosophically. But Robbie, who knew her best of all, held his breath in anticipation of the explosion that immediately followed.
“The bastard!” she raged. “The damned bastard! I could killhim! Iwillkill him! No, I won’t—I shall do to him what Marie did to Captain Jamil!” Bursting into tears, she picked up her skirts and fled the room.
Marie and Cecily rose to follow her, but Robbie stayed them with a gesture and went after her himself. He saw her running across the terrace, down into the garden. His short legs pumping hard, he ran after her calling, “Skye, lass! Wait for me, Skye!” She stopped, but her back remained toward him. As he reached her he could see her shoulders shaking. He walked around her and gathered her into his arms. She wept wildly. “Oh, lass, I am so sorry. But don’t waste your tears on him. He’s not worth it, Skye. He’s not worth any grief.”
“I l-l-love him, Robbie,” she sobbed, “I l-l-love the bastard!”
He sighed. He was going to have to hurt her further, but there was no help for it. Best she know the worst from him than have some ass like de Grenville tell her. He drew her over to a carved stone bench and they sat down.
“I want you to hear this from me, Skye. Southwood’s only son and his wife and four of his daughters are dead of the smallpox. That’s what sent him down into Devon in January. De Grenville tells me the rumors at Court are that the Queen has already picked out an heiress for him, and Geoffrey Southwood would never say no to a wealthy match. And now that he no longer has a son, it is imperative that he remarry. The sooner the better, I would say, for with a new wife he’ll have little time for you, lass.”
