Elizabeth shot him an annoyed look, then pulled Katherine across the room and indicated for her to sit in a small caqueteuse. Katherine did so gingerly, and so as not to appear a country lass, she put her arms on the wooden slabs, feeling very foolish as she did. The queen sat on a bobbin chair beside her and patted her hand. “You need not worry any more about Liam O’Neill.”
Katherine jerked. “He—he is not dead?”
The queen laughed. “No, Katherine, no, he lives. ’Twould take more than a paltry musket ball to down the Master of the Seas.”
Katherine couldn’t help feeling relieved. She was aware of the queen watching her, closely, so she said, “O’Neill is a pirate—is he not?”
“Of course he is a pirate—how could you ask?”
Katherine hesitated, afraid to plunge into dangerous waters. “You…you seem to know him—Your Highness.”
The queen laughed. “Indeed I do. When my father married Catherine Parr, I went to live with her and my brother,Prince Edward. Liam’s mother was Mary Stanley—the niece of Catherine’s first husband, Edward Borough. She was pregnant, in disgrace, but Catherine took pity upon her and installed her as one of her privy ladies. I saw Liam O’Neill soon after he was born, when he was but a wet, red, squalling newborn babe.”
Katherine gaped.
The queen shrugged. “Even after my father died, I stayed in Catherine’s household. She was like a mother to me. Three years later she married Tom Seymour, and still I stayed. So did Mary Stanley and her son. In fact, when Catherine died, Mary came into my household. Liam was four at the time. I recall it well, because ’twas his birthday soon after. She and Liam stayed with me until my sister Mary ascended to the throne.” Elizabeth’s tone was light. Too light as she spoke of Bloody Mary. “Then she requested leave to go to her parents’ home in Essex, and because of her firm religious beliefs, I agreed, thinking it far better.”
Katherine’s mind was spinning. Liam was hardly a savage pirate—he had been born at court and he had been raised with a prince and princess, by a Dowager Queen. And although half-Irish, he must be Protestant, as his mother had been. She could hardly credit what she had heard. Seeing her expression, Elizabeth smiled. “You appear stupefied.”
“I am. Is O’Neill English or Irish—noble or knave?”
“He is both,” the queen said flatly, unsmiling now. “Never forget that his father was Shane O’Neill, a savage murderer, the man who raped his mother violently. And Shane claimed him when he was a young boy of ten, wrenching him from his mother’s arms—raising him in savagery.”
Katherine stared.
“You are very interested in Liam O’Neill,” the queen said casually. “He is handsome, is he not?”
Katherine told herself she would not blush, but she recalled his every expression, his slight, amused smile, his seductive tone and his hard, powerful body, aroused, pressing against hers. She flamed.
“You are free now, you know,” the queen said when she did not answer.
Katherine cried out and impulsively gripped the Queen’s hands. “Your Majesty—thank you!” Abruptly she dropped the pale, cold hands, but the queen took her palms up again, enfolding them in hers.
“We are friends now, Katherine. Remember that. What would you do now?”
Katherine thought of the green rolling meadows near Askeaton, of the forests and hills, of Hugh, and she leaned forward eagerly. “I would go home!”
“To your father in Southwark?”
Too late, Katherine realized her blunder—she no longer had a home in southern Ireland—it had been forfeited to the Crown. “Your Majesty—please forgive me. These past years I was so secluded I did not know of all that had happened to my father. I…still think of Munster as home.”
Elizabeth murmured a soothing reply, but her glance met Cecil’s, then Ormond’s.
Katherine saw it, but did not decipher it. She cleared her throat. “I would return to Ireland,” she said boldly.
“And what would you do there? Where would you go?”
“To my betrothed.”
The Queen stared. “You are betrothed?”
“To Hugh Barry, Lord Barry’s heir. I was betrothed to him from the cradle, but after Affane I was sent away. I have waited many years to wed, Your Majesty. I am no girl now, but a woman of eighteen. I wish to wed him, Your Majesty. Immediately.”
The queen stared, brows raised. Her gaze darted to Cecil, to Ormond. To Tom she said, “What know you of this?”
He shrugged. “I recall the betrothal. I do not recall the ending of it. I suppose you must send her to Barry—to Ireland.” His dark gaze was hooded.
Elizabeth stared at Katherine, making her think that she had done something wrong. Then the queen smiled.“Well, then, you must be on your way to Ireland, my dear, to your wedding—to Hugh Barry.”
