“Drop the rapier, pirate,” Hawke commanded. “You have won the battle—but I have won the war. Drop your weapon, now—if you wish to live.”
Liam slowly withdrew his rapier, then let the long, fine blade fall to the ground.
Hawke, ignoring the blossoming of blood on his chest from the light flesh wound, bent and picked up the blade. He handed it to another soldier and moved forward swiftly, removing Liam’s dagger from its sheath as well. Liam stood as still as any statue. Two soldiers quickly pulled his hands behind his back as Hawke watched with savage satisfaction. A moment later steel manacles were snapped on his wrists.
“In the name of Her Majesty, Elizabeth, the queen of England,” Hawke said, “I pronounce you my prisoner.”
Another week had passed. Katherine found herself counting the days, but she told herself it was because she was eager to see the end of winter, the coming of the spring—and then the birth of her baby. The midwife had confirmed her suspicions. The babe would come sometime in July.
Katherine caressed her swollen belly, a habit she had taken to. Without her mantle, it was clear that she waswith child, but her stomach was still a small mound, and hardly a protrusion. She hoped to comfort the unborn babe. Although she hated its father, Katherine loved the child. Once, she had hoped to have many children, but now it seemed as if she would bear this one single babe. It did not matter. She would love it all the more. And she was determined to do everything she could for it. But what could she really do?
She was forced now to think of the future. Her love for Liam was dead, murdered by his betrayal, and she could not stay on his island much longer. Yet she did not want to go to her father, and share or even compound his disgrace and live in exile. Obviously she would not return to John, nor could she go to the court. Only one thing was clear. Somehow she must get off this island. Somehow she must return to Ireland.
For Ireland beckoned her as a beacon light would a ship at sea. How she wished to go home. Surely her uncles would find some small place for her and her child in their homes, their hearts, and their lives.
But Katherine did not know how she was going to manage to leave, because Macgregor watched her like a hawk. The Scot was protecting what he believed to be Liam’s interests. Katherine stubbornly, no, viciously, clung to her belief that the babe was hers and hers alone. Liam had no rights. He had forfeited all of his rights when he had betrayed her love for him by consorting with FitzMaurice.
Yet even though she knew she must leave, before the baby was born, before Liam returned, she did not seem to have the will or the strength to plan an escape from the island.
A sharp banging sounded upon her chamber door.
Katherine jerked, moving across the small guest room, the same chamber Hugh Barry had used when he had convalesced there. After having learned of Liam’s betrayal, the very first thing she had done was remove herself from the chamber they had shared.
Katherine opened the door. Macgregor stood there, unnaturally pale. Instantly Katherine knew that something terrible had happened—to Liam. “What is it?”
“Prepare yourself,” he said, but it was the big Scot who went to her room’s single chair and sat down heavily there. Katherine saw that he was shocked.
“What is it!” she cried, rushing to him. “Is Liam dead?”
Macgregor looked at her. “No, but soon he will be.” He paused for effect, staring straight at her. “He has been taken prisoner by your first husband, Katherine. Sir John Hawke engaged him and his men south of Galway last week. TheSea Daggerescaped. Liam did not.”
Katherine stared. How light-headed she was—and how funny the floor had become, rolling beneath her feet like the deck of a ship.
“He is the queen’s prisoner,” Macgregor continued, beginning to sound strange and far away, “and even now, he is bound for the Tower—where he will be tried for treason, and, like all pirates, hanged at Hangman’s Gate.”
Katherine cried out. And as she fainted, she could see him, his neck broken, his face pale and lifeless, dangling from a noose.
29
Richmond
Cecil brought the queen the news. “Sir John Hawke has captured Liam O’Neill, Your Majesty. One of your vessels bearing them put into London this morning.”
Elizabeth gasped. “You are sure, William?”
Cecil waved a small scroll of parchment. “This missive came from Sir John himself. After depositing O’Neill in the Tower, he comes to you posthaste. He gives no details of how or where he caught the pirate.”
Elizabeth was reeling. For, deep within herself, she had never really thought it possible for any man, not even Sir John, to capture the wily Irish scoundrel. But it had been done. O’Neill had been captured. He was in the Tower, where all traitors belonged. She should be thrilled, wildly so. Shewaspleased. Yet…she could not identify another emotion, one which was causing the rapid beating of her heart. “These are good tidings, indeed,” she finally said.
Cecil approached. “I advise that we think very long and carefully on what we do next,” he said in a low tone of voice.
Elizabeth gazed at him, grateful for his words. Already she could see O’Neill hanging from a gibbet. Somehow she did not like the image—yet the man was the worst scoundrel possible, a traitor to the Crown—and hemustmeet his fate. An example must be made. If only the mere notion did not upset her so. “What do you think, Cecil?”
“I think O’Neillisthe Master of the Seas. Over the years, he has been invaluable to us. I think we must unravel all the complications of the Irish issue, and decide if hanging the pirate serves us best.”
Elizabeth nodded, relieved in spite of what she knew she should do with her golden pirate. “FitzMaurice has gone so far underground Perrot does not even know where he is,” she commented.
“Yes, and he has been so well supplied by the pirate that he will not come out of his winter den until the weather turns again.”
