“Is it a summons from the queen?” she asked jealously.
“My darling, I swear to you I will never leave our bed to go to that bitch. Try to get some sleep.” He pulled the covers up and tucked her in safely. “I may be gone for days.”
“I have to return to court tomorrow, but I would like to bring some of my things here, if it’s all right.”
“Sabre, darling, this is our house now. Come and go as you please.” He bent to kiss her one last time. “I’m a swine to leave you like this, but I swear I’ll make it up to you,” he promised.
She watched him dress all in black. She watched in silence as he armed himself with sword, daggers, and pistols, then covered all with a long black cloak. Already he was totally withdrawn from her. He had a secret life that absorbed and occupied most of his thoughts, and she knew instinctively that when she learned about it, it would give her all the ammunition she would ever need to destroy him. She gave no thought to the danger that lay in wait for him; rather she envied the adventure that he and the baron would ride through the night to enjoy.
Chapter 10
Shane Hawkhurst had received a message that the O’Neill was about to be arrested and taken to Dublin Castle for questioning. Both Shane and the baron knew the conditions in Dublin’s Bermingham Tower and they knew of the unauthorized, hideous tortures that went on in its dungeons. Walsingham’s rack and rope were insignificant when compared to the Spanish chair, the scavenger’s daughter, and the iron boots made to hold boiling oil.
Bagenol, the queen’s Irish marshal, would be quite capable of assassinating the O’Neill once he had him behind bars, for he believed if every Irish lord lost his head, Ireland would be tame as a lamb.
Shane believed his father’s only chance was to get to England. If he answered any charges laid against him directly to the queen, he would be able to vindicate himself. O’Neill had such charisma and powers of persuasion, he could charm the ducks off the water. Women were like putty in his hands and the queen was all woman.
Making sure they were not followed this night, they rode north to Liverpool, stopping only at Birmingham to change their horses for fresh ones that Hawk kept posted there for such emergencies. The Liverpool Lady took them across the Irish Sea and dropped anchor in the secluded Carlingford Lough near Newry. Shane planted his feet firmly and faced the baron. “I want you to remain aboard. It is too dangerous for you to set foot on Irish soil. The murder warrant on you is still in effect and we both know none of the clans can be trusted. Some would betray you for the sheer pleasure of the act; most would betray you for profit.”
The baron’s eyes were filled with pain, but after a few minutes he nodded his agreement. He had been steeling himself for the ordeal of returning to the land where the massacre of his whole family had taken place. He had been a chieftain and a rebel, and when they laid down their arms in unconditional surrender to the English, they had been butchered down to the last man, woman, and child, and every building and crop of the villages he ruled had been burned black. He was the only survivor and a murder warrant had been issued because in retaliation he had gutted the English officer who had killed his wife and children.
Accompanied by two stalwart crewmen of the Liverpool Lady, Shane rode like the wind for Dungannon Castle. Because he had acted immediately, Shane had arrived in Ireland before Bagenol had received his signed warrant from the crown. The O’Neill needed no prodding to come to London. He was all for storming the queen’s private apartments the moment he arrived there, but Shane’s cooler head finally prevailed on the voyage back across the Irish Sea. It would be prudent for O’Neill to lie low with none knowing of his whereabouts until Shane could sound out the queen to see which way the wind blew.
When Sabre returned to court at dawn the next morning, Kate told her it was official that one week hence they would all be removing to Windsor for the queen’s birthday so she could enjoy some good hunting.
Kate sighed. “There our work shall begin all over again.”
“How many dresses do you suppose the queen owns?” asked Sabre.
“Oh, they number over a thousand. Let’s see, there must be close to three hundred here and three hundred at Windsor. Whitehall, I’d say, houses about two hundred very formal state costumes for the parliaments and such, and then there’s over two hundred at Hampton Court.”
On the spot Sabre decided to double the number of gowns she had ordered from the dressmaker’s. She went into London and bought everything from fans to shoe buckles, from lace neck whisks to wired farthingales. She purchased an abundance of fancy soaps and bath oils, each scented with almonds, or cloves, or attar of roses. She bought cosmetics such as rice powder, rouge, and purpurice to redden her lips.
Sabre, Anne Vasavour, Philadelphia Carey, and Essex’s two sisters, Dorothy Devereux and Penelope Rich, began to go about together. All five were vividly lovely; their different colorings complemented one another. Sabre, Anne, and Philadelphia stole more and more time away from court and enjoyed the “fast” company of Essex’s sisters.
They went shopping, had their tea leaves and cards read, attended all the plays, watched a bear-baiting at the pit behind the Rose Theater, and finally, after much giggling, hesitating, and vacillating, they agreed to Penelope’s suggestion that they spend the evening at a brothel where they could watch one or two acts of sex. Penelope had been there before with Essex and she assured them it was a hilarious experience they would not soon forget. Sabre had no hesitation. She had a great curiosity for the mystery of sex and knew she needed educating in the things that went on between a man and a woman. Her intimate experience with Shane the other night had been like drawing a veil from her eyes. She was awakening to the demands of the body and he had done things that thrilled her, drove her wild, but she wanted to know more, so much more. If she hoped to become the consummate mistress, she would have to learn what pleased a man, what thrilled him and drove him to madness. She wanted to learn all the tricks that would bind him to her, body and soul.
At the last minute Philadelphia Carey and Anne Vasavour backed out of the evening’s adventure, but Sabre decided she would go along with the other two women, whose reputations were so notorious, the queen would not have them at court despite her favorite’s pleas on his sisters’ behalf.
In the afternoon Sabre went into the stables at Greenwich, slipped a stable boy a few pence to saddle ner beloved Sabbath, and rode her to Thames View. She decided that from now on Thames View would be Black Sabbath’s new home as well as her own. She was delighted when Mason told her there were four great boxes awaiting her, delivered only this morning from the most expensive dressmaker in London. He had discreetly put the bills that were delivered with the boxes in Lord Devonport’s library on his desk, for in his wisdom he knew that Sabre would not wish to be bothered with trifles.
“Would you assemble the female staff for me, Charles —and,” she added with a plea in her voice, “stand staunchly beside me while I make myself known to them?”
He coughed politely and with only a slight twinkle in his eye said, “I’ve already had a word with them, Mistress Wilde, and I don’t think you need concern yourself with any problems from that quarter.”
“Oh, you are a marvel, Charles. I am most ignorant about the mores of London society—and many other things, for that matter,” she added candidly, “so please don’t hesitate in setting me straight when I am about to make a faux pas.”
Mason introduced her to the ample-bodied cook and the efficient, no-nonsense housekeeper. Three young housemaids goggled almost openmouthed at her. She spoke to the prettiest. “What is your name?”
“Meg, ma’am.” The girl curtsied and blushed.
“Meg, would you like to be my maid?”
“Oh, yes, please, ma’am,” breathed the girl, bending her knee again.
“Good. Stop that bowing and scraping. Go and run me a bath; you’ll find lots of bath soaps and things in my saddlebags here. Then we’ll hang up some of my new d
resses and you can help me to dress for the evening.”
Meg cast glances at the other two housemaids, clearly flashing them the message that the new mistress liked her best. Then, clutching the saddlebags, she hurried upstairs to prepare the bath.
Sabre had taken over the master bedroom completely. Her new clothes lay everywhere, on the bed, the window seat, and on the chairs and the desk. The gowns were magnificent and took up a lot of space with their wide sleeves and balloon skirts. She couldn’t decide which she liked best, but it was a deliciously decadent feeling being able to have so many that it didn’t matter which she liked best.
One of her very favorites was the new riding dress, probably because it was so impractical. It was white velvet edged with black braid. The low-cut doublet met in a deep V at the waist, showing the tiniest black silk waistcoat. The matching hat was a tiny white velvet tricorn with an immense black ostrich feather that curved deliciously beneath her chin. Then there was a copper brocade gown heavily embroidered with gold thread and edged in sable fur. It had cost the earth. Another outfit was coordinated green velvet-and-gold brocade. The fitted jacket was green velvet banded at the low bosom with gold, its sleeves slashed with the same gold. The skirt was just the reverse. It was gold brocade banded with green velvet. There were green velvet shoes with golden rosettes and a gold-filigree fan threaded with green velvet ribbons.
She decided on a dark color for the night’s adventure. After all, she wished to see, but not be seen, while at the same time she wished to appear sophisticated enough for the racy atmosphere of a brothel. She wore a black lace gown embroidered with silver beads. She shivered with excitement as she smoothed the black silk stockings up her long, slender legs and put on the black, rustling petticoats. Decidedly she had never felt so wicked in her life. She wore a fitted black velvet jacket over the lace gown rather than a cloak, and a black lace face mask completed the outfit.
She took a sedan chair to meet Penelope at Essex House. To Sabre’s surprise Essex had decided to join them, but he had Frances Howard in tow, fast becoming known as the biggest little whore at court. Penelope was using an unmarked coach, which blazoned no coat-of-arms this night, and for that Sabre breathed a sigh of relief. They were off down the cobbled stones of the Strand, through Ludgate Circus, and up the hill toward Cheapside and Threadneedle Street.
The occupants of the crowded coach spilled out onto the dark street amid ribald offerings from the Earl of Essex, who was in a particularly witty mood tonight.
“You are in a clever mood, brother,” said Penelope, laughing. “Do you perhaps know who is visiting the house tonight and hope to spy on him?”
“God’s blood, that would be a lark. What if we uncover Southampton enjoying one of his bum-boys!”
The ladies giggled, but Sabre didn’t understand the slang. There were many entrances and exits to the tall dark building, but Essex led them without hesitation through a doorway into a plush reception room. The large man at the door opened it wide as he apparently recognized the head of the party, although he was masked. It was only moments before a tall, striking woman with hair powdered white welcomed them effusively with what seemed to Sabre a French accent. Madame Va Te Faire Foutre, as she was waggishly called, sized up the situation immediately. Essex had escorted four women, so she knew they were there as voyeurs.
“We’ve come to see a show,” ventured Penelope, handing the procuress a small bag of gold.
“Ah, my two principals were to perform the Dance of Love tonight. We will give you a private performance in the petit théâtre.” She led the way to a small darkened room with comfortable chairs where they were served wine spiced with myrrh. Their chairs faced a small elevated stage. Before their glasses were drained, the curtain was drawn and two dancers appeared. Both were physically beautiful. The man was tall and heavily muscled, while the girl was small and delicately curved. At first glance in the greenish light they were naked, but as the eyes grew accustomed to the colored light of the stage, two tassles could be seen dangling from the tips of the female’s breasts and another tassled fringe covered her mound of Venus. The male’s sex was covered by a sheath that lengthened it unnaturally to ten or twelve inches. Both bodies had been painted all over with a silvery-green substance lending an ethereal, otherworldly atmosphere.
Although the movements of the dance were graceful and controlled, it was obvious that the male wished to mate the female. He began to manhandle her brutally, while she tried frantically to escape him. When she managed to elude him, he caught her and dragged her back across the stage. The first time it was by winding her hair about a strong arm and pulling her kicking body back to him. The second time he gripped her delicate ankles cruelly and dragged her across the stage and up onto his thighs. When her legs were crossed behind his neck he stood and swung her until she was limp.
Then began his domination and mastery over her. He stroked her from head to toe with his long shaft and the female first became submissive, then aroused, then frenzied with desire. She slithered her body over and around his torso with sensual, writhing movements. The dance was designed to arouse its audience, and of course it succeeded.
Sabre was both fascinated and repelled by the exotic performance, but she felt her body respond as if it had a will of its own. She could feel the fabric of her underclothing against her nipples and between her thighs. Suddenly a small platform like a table arose in the center of the stage. The male laid the female upon it, then fell upon her and impaled her over and over with his unnaturally long member until she screamed and fell dead. The triumphant male withdrew his weapon and by some magic trick of fireworks the end flew off and showered the female’s body with a cascade of sparks. The curtain fell and all except Sabre applauded wildly. The curtain opened again and to her great relief she saw the dancers taking a bow. Sabre had thought the girl had actually died of the abuse. She gasped for air and knew she must get out of that room. She regretted having come; she felt soiled.
The madam returned and led them all laughing up a staircase and along a narrow hallway where peepholes were incorporated into the walls of certain bedrooms. The madam bid them be more quiet and they stifled their laughter as they watched the sex acts that were taking place. Sabre felt nauseated and asked to use the jakes. At first she thought she was going to be sick, but once she was alone, she took a few deep breaths and her stomach righted itself.
She mentally scolded herself for being a baby. Men and women could be gross and there would always be places like this that pandered to the prurient, but somehow she felt the men who availed themselves of the flesh offered by Madame Va Te Faire Foutre were not nearly so wicked as they who had paid to watch.
All the way back to Essex House she was regaled with the bawdy goings-on they had seen and heard in the bedrooms.
“By the rood, the Bible says all men are created equal, but a visit to a brothel soon proves otherwise,” said Penelope, laughing.
Sabre blushed furiously, while Frances Howard giggled and moved over onto Essex’s knee. The coach pulled up in the courtyard of Essex House and they descended and headed for the front door. Sabre let them go. She needed a few minutes alone to collect herself, and besides, she had no intention of rejoining the group. She would ask Penelope’s driver to call a chair and linkboys for her. She got out of the coach wondering if she should spend the night at Greenwich or Thames View when she saw the door of another unmarked coach open and Hawkhurst stepped out.
He had taken the O’Neill to the brothel in Threadneedle Street, where the madam was not French at all, but a loyal Irishwoman. She had become extremely wealthy from her English clientele and kept her top floor reserved as a safe haven where Irishmen true to the cause could hold their secret meetings and escaped prisoners could be concealed until it was possible to secure them safe passage out of England.
Shane had looked from the top-floor windows and seen Sabre enter the front door. At first he told himself he had mistaken her identity—after all, the copper-hai
red woman had been masked—but when the gay party had departed, he recognized Essex and instructed his driver to go straight to Essex House.
Sabre gasped. Hawkhurst was dressed from head to foot in black like a devil sprung from a dark underworld. His face was closed and forbidding. “Get in!” he ordered.
She was not certain why he was angry. Had he been waiting at Essex House to see if she had been out with Robin? As she stepped forward to offer an explanation, his hand closed over her wrist as if he would crush the bones there; his other hand came up to grab her about the waist and shove her into the coach. Her shoulder jammed painfully into the velvet squabs. He flung himself in after her and slammed the door. Instantly the coach lurched forward and she again fell against the seat.
“How dare you handle me so?” she flared. The words almost stopped in her throat when she saw the savage fury that contorted his features. He did not trust himself to speak until he had his hatred and fury under iron control. The silence inside the carriage increased until it became a tangible thing. His black anger was so terrifying to behold, she was frightened enough to scream.
The small carriage caged him, imprisoning her with him until she could fully sense his strength, his male recklessness, his cruelty. It was like being trapped with a black panther. His eyes burned into her with loathing. He knew if he touched her in that moment he would kill her. His hands would take her slender throat and snap it. “You trollop!” he told her through set teeth.