For this particular masque, the queen had ordered the entire court to attend in some form of costume. Elizabeth’s courtiers had obeyed, and Katherine was astounded to see all manner of dress, everything from ancient Greek goddesses scandalously draped in gossamer silk to tribal kings sporting garlands of flowers and fruits as their crowns. Katherine herself had no funds with which to buy the materials necessary for a costume, but Helen had procured a splendid red satin mask, one beaded and beribboned. She wore it with her tired brown velvet gown.
The pageant had ended sometime after midnight, the queen flushed with pleasure, standing up to applaud the cast of players. And the court had begun carousing in earnest then—the festive revelers growing progressively more animated and inebriated as dawn crept upon them.
Flutists, harpers, drummers, and viol players were performing a lively Irish jig now. A single bagpiper joined them. Despite her perpetual despair over the never-ending resistance of the Irish lords to her authority, the jig was the queen’s favorite tune for dancing. Katherine clapped her hands in delight when the wild jig began. Her feet would not keep still. How she wished to dance.
Leicester partnered the queen. He was dressed as Julius Caesar, wearing naught but a white toga, which left one broad shoulder and part of his hard chest bare, a big leather belt and a huge, ancient sword. Upon his head he wore a crown that bore a remarkable resemblance to one of real gold. Katherine watched them, smiling, admiring not the queen, who was an excellent dancer, but the earl himself, whose white teeth flashed, whose strong bare legs never missed a beat.
Then, in the press of the crowd, someone gripped her elbow from behind. “Come, Mistress FitzGerald, teach me your native dance.”
Katherine turned to look into the vivid blue eyes of John Hawke. Like herself, he had forgone a costume, but he was resplendent in his crimson uniform and pale hose and a demimask. “How could I refuse,” she cried, “when my blood is singing and my feet are itching to perform this dance?”
He grinned at her and proved himself a bit of a liar, for as he whirled her on the dance floor, it became clear that he had danced a jig at least a few times before. But he was not Irish. No one at court was Irish, with the exception of the earl of Ormond, who had already left the festivities, proving himself as dour as his demeanor so often seemed. Katherine knew she could outjig even the queen, and she set about to do so.
Her knees flew so high that her brown velvet skirts and cream-colored underskirts flew up to twirl about her thighs, revealing her long curved calves and her knees. Katherine was wearing her own pale, plain hose, but earlier that day, for some nonsensical reason, just as she had taken to wearing the ruff which had been amongst the clothing given to her by Liam, she had sorted through his gift again, this time choosing a pair of purple garters. They hardly matched her white stockings, her underskirts, or her gown, much less the red satin mask, but Katherine did not care. Laughing, she jigged harder, and higher. She whirled and whirled and stomped and stomped. Sir John was laughing too, gripping her hands tightly, imitating her every movement, determined to keep up with her and todance as hard as she. They were enjoying themselves immensely, and they exchanged wide grins. She saw, also, how his glance strayed to her smooth, gartered thighs, and how he watched her heaving bosom, the neckline of her dress creeping lower and lower. Katherine did not care. She was having more fun than she had ever had. She felt beautiful, alive. When the jig was over. Katherine collapsed against him, and into his arms.
“God’s blood,” he gasped into her ear, his arms tightening around her. “No one can dance a jig like you!”
She pressed away from him and he let her go. “I hope not! What kind of Irishwoman would I be if a bunch of English lords and ladies could outdance me?”
“That sounds almost treasonous,” a deep voice murmured from behind her.
Katherine twisted to face the earl of Leicester. Sir John dropped his hands from her arms.
“Would you dance with me?” he asked, smiling pleasantly—but his eyes were smoldering.
Instantly Katherine looked about for the queen. Elizabeth danced with another of her favorites. “I do not know this dance,” she said nervously. She did not have to be very wise to know that the queen would not like her dancing with Robert Dudley. She was often very jealous of him. Recently she had set down two of her ladies, both sisters, Francis Howard and Lady Douglas Sheffield, a widow, for being so obviously in love with him.
Leicester took her elbow. “I will teach you.”
Katherine was alarmed, and she looked to John Hawke for support. He was scowling, but then Anne Hastings came up beside him, and a moment later she was coaxing the captain onto the dance floor and clinging far too closely to him while she was about it. Katherine found herself being led in the steps of a far more sedate dance, her hand in the earl’s. Her heart was speeding, but not from exertion. She met his dark regard again.
He smiled at her, then glanced at her bosom. Although low-cut immodest gowns were fashionable, Katherine, having more to display than most, had never followed themode. Her pulse quickened even more as his gaze skimmed her bare flesh.
A memory flashed through her mind: of herself, twisting upon a bed, her hands bound with red-and-gold cords, while Liam O’Neill sucked and then teased her nipples with his tongue.
“That dress does not do you justice, my dear,” Leicester remarked.
“I am well aware of that,” Katherine said somewhat tartly. She recalled Liam’s warning, as well, that Leicester would seek to get beneath her skirts within a sennight. Three weeks had passed since she had come to court, not one, and ofttimes when he came to visit the queen his unwavering regard had settled upon her, however briefly. But they had never conversed or been alone—until now.
“You deserve the finest silks and velvets, the finest emeralds and pearls.”
Katherine missed a step. “And you would give them to me?”
His gaze darkened, moved to her lips, which she had daringly rouged. “Aye, I would. Katherine, these past few weeks, you have run the other way every time you saw me coming. You have no reason to be scared of me, my dear. I do not seek to hurt you.”
“No?” Her tone was dry. “Then what do you seek, my lord?”
His handsome face tightened. “Barring matrimony, I wish to befriend you, and I am certain that you know it.”
She did. Like Hugh Barry, he wished to make her his whore. Katherine tried to pull away from him, but his grip was steel and she could not. She glared at him. He no longer smiled. “Katherine, you misunderstand. God—I am the earl of Leicester now, one of the richest, most powerful men in this realm. I would marry you, my dear, in the blink of an eye, for I need not a dowry, but a warm, willing wife and healthy sons. I sense you would be far more than willing, and ’tis obvious you are made for bearing sons. But I cannot marry.” His tone was not bitter, merely resigned. “I cannot marry any woman. One day, God willing…” he glanced toward the queen, and Katherine knew he thought of becoming England’s king, but he did not speak of it. “Come. We must talk in private. This cannot wait another day.”
Katherine was appalled as he put his arm around her and thrust her into the crowd. She flung a glance over her shoulder and saw Elizabeth staring after them. Her heart flipped in fear. She dug in her heels as a wayward child might do, but Leicester was big and strong and not about to be deterred. He propelled her forward, practically carrying her through the animated, raucous crowd. A moment later they were in an empty hall, and then he had pushed her into an empty alcove. He pushed her mask up atop her coif, and gripped her arms, holding her so closely that her knees bumped his.
“Do not say no,” he said hoarsely, pressing one fingertip to her lips. “Katherine, I am your father’s friend.”
Katherine’s protest died.
“I’m the one who opposed Ormond when he brought your father to the queen as his prisoner after Affane. Butler wanted your father stripped of his lands and titles even then. I’m the one who fought for your father in the ensuing years—and even fought against the very idea of a trial for treason.”
