Elizabeth was sick inside, a sickness born of fear. No one understood how difficult it was to be a queen. How difficult, how demanding, and how dangerous.
Richmond was the largest of the royal palaces, and at first glance the numerous buildings, courts, and gardens, the many towers and onionlike domes, gave one the impression of supreme disarray and confusion. Yet Elizabeth did not waver from her course. She went directly to the middle court and then into the hall on its western end.
Elizabeth swept through the hall. Courtiers dropped to their knees as she passed. Upstairs, in her private apartments, she found the lord president of Munster awaiting her impatiently. She ignored Cecil, now Lord Burghley, and her cousin Tom, her gaze riveted upon Perrot’s huge form. The redheaded man dropped to his knees with surprising grace. “Your Majesty,” he said. “As always, I am your ever-loyal servant.”
He was also her half brother, although it was never openly acknowledged. “Sir John.” Elizabeth waved him up. “You bring Us good news, We hope.”
John looked directly at her, unblinking. “Aye, for is it not always good to learn who England’s traitors are?”
Elizabeth was uneasy. She glanced at Cecil and Ormond. She noticed now that Cecil was as calmand composed as ever, but her cousin was flushed with anger. “We know who the traitors in Ireland are, and We know their leader, that damnable lunatic, FitzMaurice. Are you going to capture him before the winter sets in and starves one and all?” It was exceedingly difficult to supply the British troops in the winter, and every year their numbers were decimated more by starvation and illness brought on by the wet and cold than by actual warfare.
“Oh, I shall capture him, I promise you that,” Perrot said baldly. But he had made this promise many times before.
“We grow tired of this rebellion,” Elizabeth snapped, losing her temper. “If you cannot catch this single man, perhaps We must put someone else after him.”
Sir John turned red.
Cecil coughed and approached the queen. “I think you should hear Sir John’s news. There is a good reason why we have not been able to touch him these many past months.”
“Aye,” John growled, still flushed. “He is being supported by a far more determined enemy than Philip.”
“Anyone would be more determined than the Spanish king,” Elizabeth snapped again. “He is beset with troubles everywhere, and his only interest in aiding the Irish is to wound me!”
“Prepare yourself, Elizabeth,” Cecil murmured in her ear.
Elizabeth stiffened. “Who aids the papist traitor now? Who dares?”
Perrot smiled, as if relishing the moment. “The infamous half-Irish pirate, the Master of the Seas.”
Elizabeth stared. And she did not understand.
She could not understand. She refused to understand. She forced a smile. “All that Liam has done, as annoying as it is, was to steal the FitzGerald girl and hie himself off to his island to indulge in debauchery and perversions with her. Perhaps that lends credence to the case Tom wishes to make, that Liam is allied with FitzGerald, that he seeks to marry Katherine, that he seeks to restore FitzGerald. But that is the worst of it.”
“Your Majesty,” Perrot said coldly, “I have chased FitzMaurice up and down all of southern Ireland for almost an entire year. I know of what I speak. I care not that O’Neill has taken the FitzGerald girl as his mistress. I care not if she is even his wife. I know of what I speak. The bastard pirate supplies FitzMaurice with victuals and arms and everything else that he needs.”
Elizabeth felt quite faint. She shot a glance at Tom, and saw that he believed Perrot. She turned to Cecil, who also was complacent. “No!” she cried, suddenly stabbed in her breast with a terrible, burning pain. “No, you are wrong! My golden pirate might support FitzGerald, but never,neverwould he support the man who has openly declared that he will dethrone me!” She was close to tears. For she knew Liam could not betray her in such a grievous manner, for he loved her a little—he did.
“I am not mistaken,” Perrot almost shouted, red of countenance now. “I have a spy amongst the rebels, Your Majesty. He has seen them meet face-to-face, more than once. He has seen them shake hands. My God, he has seen theSea Daggerbeing unloaded three times since last spring.I know of what I speak.”
Elizabeth turned away. Cecil guided her to a chair. Elizabeth was close to weeping. She reached out, but it was Ormond who knelt beside her, gripping her hand. “How can this be?” she whispered to her cousin. “How could he do this to me?”
Tom lifted her hand and kissed it firmly. “He has no soul,” he told her. “He serves no master but himself, and you have erred, Bess, ever to think otherwise.”
“But…” She covered her eyes with her hands, choked on a sob, then looked at Tom. “But he was fond of me. I am sure of it.”
“No,” Tom said forcefully, kissing her hand again. “I am fond of you, Bess, I have always been your greatest ally, and we are cousins. O’Neill is the spawn of Shane, and you must think on that, for it explains everything.”
Elizabeth gripped Tom’s hands, growing angry now. How could she have forgotten that the pirate was but the son of a savage barbarian and murderer? How could shehave ever forgotten that first time she had met the father, when she was but a young girl and newly crowned? God! She had been betrayed, and soundly. As a woman and as a queen. She was a fool! She turned to Cecil.
“Why did you not know of this?” she cried, flushed. “Did I not give you all those thousands of pounds so that you might put your spies everywhere? Why did you not learn of this immediately, Lord Burghley?”
Cecil did not blink. “There were signs pointing to this alliance, Your Majesty, but I did not wish to alarm you unless it were true. And as it hardly makes sense, that O’Neill, Mary Stanley’s son, would support a papist lunatic, I deemed it the first order to gain proof, and not present you with mere rumors instead.”
Elizabeth stared. Cecil was right, as always. O’Neill might be a proven traitor now, but it made no sense. He was hardly godly, but he was staunchly Protestant. And if religion did not move him to support FitzMaurice, what else could?
“The man obviously was bought with gold,” Ormond said. “We must bring FitzMaurice down, and we cannot do it unless we capture O’Neill first.”
Elizabeth forced herself to think, no easy task when she was at once heartbroken and furiously angry. But she was queen. These fits could not be entertained. And Ormond was right. She reached for his hand again and squeezed it.
