Hawke blanched.
Juliet wheeled around and, lifting her skirts, raced back to his house.
His mouth downturned, Hawke received his horse from a groom and mounted. “Send for the child and wet nurse,” he told one of the soldiers. “We are ready to depart.”
Katherine refused to speak to anyone, not even Juliet. She lay in bed for two full days, regaining her strength. Not completely. But she could not wait until she was in fine form to do what had to be done.
She took no one into her confidence, not Juliet, not Ginny—both of whom were almost as aggrieved as she. On the third day after her babe had been born, Katherine dressed in a servant’s clothing, clothing she had ordered a slow-witted kitchen girl to bring to her in the middle of the night. Underneath her gown, she strapped an Irish dagger to her thigh, careful to make certain that it could not be discerned by any observer.
That night, when the manor was asleep, including Juliet, who had refused to return home to Thurlstone, Katherine slipped from her bed and left the house, wearing a plain gray mantle over her borrowed dress. She stole into the stables, which were deserted, all the grooms and horseboys asleep in their adjacent quarters. She chose the mount she had ridden on her last journey, when she had left London for Cornwall, that spring. Savage determination gave her strength, and within moments she had saddled the docilemare herself. It was not until she was in the saddle, and through Hawkehurst’s front gates, that weakness assailed her. She felt so faint that she clung to the saddle, telling herself she must not swoon, not now, not when she had a long journey to make.
She was going to London, to confront the queen. She was going to London, to recover her babe. And nothing and no one was going to stop her.
Whitehall
“I must see the queen!”
It was early morning, and the queen was still closeted in her Privy Chamber with her maids. Numerous noblemen, including the Gentlemen Pensioners, several Guardsmen, and other retainers milled about her antechamber, awaiting her. Katherine faced the two uniformed soldiers in front of her closed doors. “I must see the queen!” she repeated.
The desperation in her hoarse voice caused many heads to turn her way. “How did you get in here, wench?” one of the soldiers asked. “Get on with you. Commoners don’t petition Her Majesty.”
Katherine squared her shoulders. Her cloak was torn and caked with dust; her hair had come loose long ago, and it was tangled and snarled, her coif lost; her hands were dirty, her nails torn, and her face was pale, sweat-streaked, and ravaged. She had not eaten in days, and she was terribly weak. But she had made it to court, and she would not be deterred. Not by these louts, nor by anyone else. “I am no common wench,” she spit. “I am Katherine FitzGerald, daughter of Gerald FitzGerald, the earl of Desmond!”
The courtiers who had overheard her cried out, shocked, staring. Katherine knew she had become the object of everyone’s attention, but did not care. “I demand to see the queen,” she gritted, her fists clenched.
“You cannot be an earl’s daughter,” the soldier said. “What crockery is this? Leave! Leave now before I have to heave you out of here myself.”
Katherine’s face contorted in rage and she began to push between the two soldiers, reaching for the door they barred. The soldiers instantly closed rank, forcing her back quite roughly. Katherine stumbled and almost fell, but someone caught her from behind and steadied her. She did not look at the man standing behind her, who even now gripped her shoulders. “I am Katherine FitzGerald,” she cried, her voice high, cracking.
“Katherine.” Leicester turned her away from the closed doors of the queen’s bedchamber so that she was facing him. His eyes were wide and shocked. But his voice when he spoke was low and concerned. “Dear God! What has happened to you?”
“Dudley!” Katherine shouted, clawing his arms. “I must see the queen, I must! She has stolen my child! I want my child!”
Leicester stared at her. Then, his jaw ticking, he nodded imperiously at the guards. Instantly the first soldier turned and knocked. The doors opened ever so slightly. The soldier spoke in a hushed tone to one of the queen’s ladies, who remained out of sight. And a moment later Elizabeth herself stepped into the doorway, her face lined with curious concern. The earl of Ormond appeared behind her. “Robin? What is so urgent that you cannot wait another moment to—” Abruptly she broke off her words. Her eyes fixed on Katherine. Comprehension dawned in them. She gasped. And Ormond had paled.
“I want my son,” Katherine cried, her breasts heaving. “You have no right, none! I demand my son—this instant!”
They were surrounded now by onlookers, every single person in the room a witness to this bizarre confrontation, everyone paling in shock at hearing Katherine’s bold tone and even bolder words. His legs brushing her skirts, Dudley murmured a warning in her ear, which Katherine ignored.
Elizabeth stepped forward. “Robin, remove your hands from her.”
Dudley dropped his hands, reluctantly.
The queen faced Katherine. “You will not make demands of Us.”
“She is distraught over the child, she knows not what she does,” Ormond said quickly.
“Quiet,” Elizabeth snapped. And the entire chamber became deathly still, as if the royal command were directed at everyone.
Katherine touched her dagger through her skirts, for Leicester had loosened it from its binding. The seething, murderous rage she had been nursing ever since the queen had abducted her child roiled in her veins. She pressed the dagger against her thigh. “You have stolen my child, like any ordinary thief,” Katherine cried accusingly. “Does not your court know?” She laughed hysterically. “Why not, Your Majesty? Do you not want your people to know what you really are? A stealer of children—a thief of innocence?”
The crowd gasped. Fury mottled Elizabeth’s countenance. Ormond was deathly white now. “You are impudent beyond belief,” Elizabeth cried. “Take her away, now. Throw her in Bridewell Prison—where all strumpets belong!”
Instantly a group of soldiers moved forward toward Katherine. But Katherine had not come to court to be locked away with whores and vagabonds. She fumbled with her skirts, lifting them.
And Leicester gripped Katherine’s right wrist from behind, preventing her from finding—and wielding—her knife. “Do not do it!” he cried sharply.
Katherine shrugged free of him, managing to grip the dagger and pull it from beneath her skirts. Even as she did so she saw the five approaching soldiers, Ormond at their forefront, and in her dazed mind, she understood that they would stop her from doing what she must do, that they would force her to leave Whitehall, send her to Bridewell Prison.
