The Highwayman (2 page)

The
Silver Swan
was still being loaded for the journey, and as she’d expected, there was a guard at the plank, watching everyone who came and went. Essex had been dispatched for his trip that very day by cheering London crowds, but he might not yet be on board. Alex couldn’t tell if the guard was a sailor or someone from the earl’s retinue, but either way she had to take her chances.

She marched up to him and said, lowering her voice several octaves to a shaky tenor, “Message from Her Majesty the Queen for my lord of Essex.”

The guard, looking bored with the proceedings, extended his hand for the letter.

Alex slapped it into his palm with all the authority she could muster.

He examined the seal by the light of a torch fixed to the ship’s hull and then tucked it under his arm.

“I’ll see His Lordship gets it,” he said.

Alex’s heart sank. For a moment her mind went blank, and then she added hastily, “My sovereign lady requests the favor of a reply immediately. I am instructed to return with it.”

The guard sighed, handed the letter back to her, and waved her past him. Alex almost ran up onto the deck, past sailors carting bales and boxes. Then she darted down the companionway and into a cabin.

She had no idea where she was; she only knew that she was alone.

She leaned her head against the rough planks of the hull and forced her breathing to return to normal. Below her in the hold she could hear the thud and thump of the supplies being stored. When she felt calmer, she took stock of her situation.

It was almost time for the shifts to change. It was likely that the guard would stumble off the ship and into the Mermaid Tavern in Bread Street or some other hole, leaving his successor to deal with the messenger he’d permitted on board.

In the meantime, she had to find a place to hide.

The cabin was bare of convenient cubbyholes. When she was sure the coast was clear she tried another, in which she found an empty arrow chest. She was small enough to fit inside along with her pack. She made herself as tiny as possible and lowered the lid, putting her nose and mouth to the chinks between the slats for air.

Alex was sure she wouldn’t be able to sleep, but the trip and her anxiety had exhausted her. The muffled cries of the seamen calling to one another and the gentle rocking of the boat at anchor soon lulled her to into slumber.

When she awoke again, the swaying of the floor and the roiling of her stomach told her she was at sea.

* * * *
 

Kevin Burke shifted his position in the elm tree and peered more intently down at Inverary Castle in the distance. Something was up with the English. Carberry’s men had been bustling about for the last ten days; the bustle suggested that some new reinforcements from London were expected.

Burke climbed to a higher branch and twisted impatiently, wishing that he could take action. He had sent an urgent message to Tyrone, his chieftain, but was still awaiting a response. Communication among the rebels was poor because of the difficulty of the Irish terrain and the necessity for secrecy. He was loath to act without instructions, but inactivity was making him restless. If he didn’t hear from Tyrone soon, he would be strongly tempted to take his men and try to rescue his brother Aidan on his own.

Aidan Burke had been in English hands at the castle for a week now, and every time Kevin thought of his younger sibling languishing in the Inverary dungeon, he wanted to kick the walls down single-handedly. Years of fighting the British had taught him the virtues of caution, however. The English weren’t stupid, but they were regimented, and the rebels’ strongest weapon had always been surprise. They would be expecting him now, so he must wait.

He swung to the lower branches of the tree and then to the ground, moving with the peculiar grace common to big men. He was a prime target for the enemy because he was easy to spot, standing a head taller than most of his band and with shoulders so wide that his hips seemed nonexistent. His glossy, sandy hair fell over his deep-set blue eyes. He was clean-shaven, defying current fashion, and had a long jaw and high cheekbones, which gave his face a fierce, almost primitive aspect. When he frowned, as he did now, he was truly a frightening prospect. The smile, which displayed splendid teeth and an alluring light in his pale eyes, came far less often. For an Irish patriot in the waning years of Queen Elizabeth’s reign there was little enough to smile about.

Burke walked to his horse and leapt onto it bareback, checking the knife sheathed at his waist. Brigands were known to fall out of trees onto the backs of hapless riders, and being ready for anything was a matter of habit. His woolen tunic was spattered with raindrops from the overhanging leaves as he rode back toward his camp, and even at midday the forest was dense enough to shelter pockets of mist, which rose to envelop him. He kicked the horse gently with his skin boots, picking up speed as he went along trails he could have followed blindfolded. He had learned to ride almost before he could walk, and these woods were as familiar to him as his brother’s voice—which he might never hear again if he didn’t take some action soon.

Aidan Burke had been captured on a scouting mission, when he’d ventured too close to the castle. Now it looked as if Lord Carberry was preparing to lay in more English troops, which made the prospect of rescuing Aidan even dimmer than when he had been taken. Kevin scowled and prodded the horse for more speed.

His mood was grim as he entered the camp and headed for his tent. The men standing about the cookfires, all young and fit and restless, turned their heads to follow his progress. Burke ignored them, sliding from his horse while it was still moving. He handed the reins to a boy who led the horse away as he motioned for Rory Dunne, his lieutenant, to join him inside.

Rory waited for Burke to speak, watching his leader with the eager attention of a recently elevated second in command.

“They’re expecting new arrivals at the castle,” Burke said in Gaelic. Rory nodded.

“Set up a watch, eight-hour shifts. I want somebody overlooking the castle every minute of the day,” Burke ordered. “Any change that takes place might help us, and we have to know what’s going on in order to take advantage of it.”

“Right.” Rory turned to go.

“And Rory?”

Dunne turned back to him.

“Take the first shift yourself.”

“I will,” Rory said. He disappeared through the flap.

Burke followed him out with his eyes. Rory was a good lad, but Kevin missed his brother.

* * * *
 

Alex lay perfectly still in the trunk, afraid to move. Her fear was her undoing, because while she was still trying to work up her nerve, one of the seamen entered the cabin and attempted to shift the chest. She froze as he grunted with the effort and then, muttering to himself at the unexpected weight, hauled up the lid of her hiding place.

Alex cringed as he stared in shock at the stowaway. He remained speechless as she unfolded herself from the trunk, standing unsteadily before him.

“Cor, blimey!” he finally exclaimed, staring at her clothes, her hair. “Wot’s this?”

Alex was trying to think of something intelligent to say when her uncle strode through the door. Right behind him was Robert Devereaux, second earl of Essex.

Alex closed her eyes. She was in for it now, and no mistake.

The sailor jumped back in the presence of his superiors, unsure of what he should do and fearful that he would be blamed for this unexpected development.

Philip’s eyes widened as he took in the sight of his niece, hair shorn and dressed as a boy, standing before him on the deck of the ship when she was supposed to be devoting herself to prayer in a cloister. His face turned purple and seemed to swell as Alex contemplated throwing herself into the waves at the earliest opportunity.

“Well, well,” Essex said, stepping around Cummings and examining Alex from head to toe. He waved the sailor toward the door, and the boy fled gratefully.

“A most imaginative costume, I daresay,” Essex said. “I take it you know this young person, Stockton?”

Alex’s uncle found his voice and said in a hideously controlled tone, “My niece, Alexandra, my lord.”

“Your niece indeed!” Essex said, highly amused.

He moved closer and tipped up Alex’s chin with his hand. “Look at me, girl.”

Alex complied, forcing her eyes to meet his.

She could see immediately why Queen Elizabeth had forgiven Devereaux his parentage in light of his charms. He was the son of the queen’s cousin and former romantic rival, Lettice Knollys, the lady who had married Elizabeth’s one true love. But the old woman had overlooked the youthful transgressions of the mother and made the son her chosen cavalier, giving him command of this Irish expedition over others more experienced and qualified for it. Alex met his penetrating gaze, feeling his power entrance her as it had entranced their sovereign.

He was imperially tall, with gleaming russet hair and fine dark eyes. His whole being bespoke swagger and arrogance; it was said that he alone in the kingdom could refute the queen and live to tell the tale. His black velvet doublet was slashed with purple silk, his hose shot through with silver thread, and on his head he wore a hat trimmed with a jeweled band and topped with an ostrich feather. Like the queen’s pirate, Francis Drake, he wore a small gold hoop in his ear.

“Where have you been hiding this choice cub, Stockton?” he asked. With light fingers on her chin, he turned Alex’s head slightly and examined her face. “Why, even with her hair butchered, ‘tis plain she’ll soon be a beauty.”

Philip, furious but stymied by Devereaux’s admiration of his niece, said nothing.

“How old are you, lass?” Essex asked.

Alex looked at a point beyond his shoulder. “Seventeen,” she said.

“And what are you doing here, pray tell?” Essex inquired, obviously entertained.

Alex glanced at Philip, who glared back at her stonily.

“My uncle was going to leave me with the nuns at St. Mary’s whilst he was gone, and I . . .” She stopped.

“Could not bear the thought of it?” Essex suggested.

She nodded. “Yes, m’lord.”

“Quite right, too. To smother such a flower in a convent, even for a short time, ‘twould be a pity. How did you get on board?”

Alex swallowed.

“Speak up, lass.”

She might as well tell the truth. Nothing could make her position much worse at this point.

“I rode to London dressed as a boy and went down to the quay with a letter of mine uncle’s from the queen,” she said rapidly. “I had resealed it and I used it to get past the guard.”

“As clever as you are bonnie, I’ll warrant,” Essex said. “Proceed.”

“Then I hid in this empty arrow chest until I was discovered this morning.”

Essex burst out laughing. “God’s teeth, you have spirit! I like to see a woman with mettle. Your cub is to be admired, Stockton.”

Cummings’ expression conveyed that he disagreed heartily. “I will deal with her, my lord, in my own way,” he said. “You have my word on it.”

“Oh, no,” Essex said. “No punishment for this pretty child, I forbid it. We can ill afford to quell such courage when we find it.” He raised Alex’s hand to his lips and kissed the back of it, then turned it over and kissed the palm. Alex jumped as she felt the hot tip of his tongue sear her flesh.

“I am your servant, lass. Be mindful of it,” he said, and favored her with the devastating smile that had turned the most powerful woman in the world into a jealous harridan. He turned and walked to the low cabin door, then wheeled and faced her uncle.

“Heed me, Stockton. No hard duties for this filly. If I hear of it, I will be most displeased.” He strode out into the companionway, and the sound of his footsteps faded away.

Alex glanced at her uncle and, for the first time in her life, felt almost sorry for him. He was so clearly torn between his desire to retaliate for what she had done and his powerful need to ingratiate himself with the queen’s favorite. The latter impulse won, as she had known it would.

“I do not wish to see your face again for the rest of the voyage,” Philip said in a tense, modulated tone, careful to keep his voice down. “Stay in this cabin and out of the way of the sailors on the vessel. Meals will be brought to you, and I will see that you are supplied with tasks to be done. Everyone else on board has to work, and so shall you. Obey me in this or I will not be responsible for the consequences.”

He turned on his heel and stalked from the cabin. Alex waited until she was sure he was gone before sagging against the hull, grateful that she had survived the encounter.

Cummings was as good as his word. For the remainder of the journey, Alex did not encounter him. Mounds of needlework, sailors’ clothing and stockings, and even a rent sail, were deposited outside her door in the morning and picked up again at night. She sewed relentlessly in between bouts of seasickness that left her spent and shaken. By the time they docked, at dawn on the sixth day, no one was happier to make landfall than she was.

She sat in the cabin and listened to everyone else disembark, wondering if she was to be left on board while the rest of the travelers went to the castle. Then her uncle finally appeared, gesturing wordlessly for her to follow him. She picked up her small bundle and followed him up to the deck and then off the ship.