Claiming Her (Renegades & Outlaws) (50 page)

The queen’s eyebrows tipped up. “Yes?”

“Aodh,” Katarina said simply, and looked at the queen, pale and penitent. “You have no idea how well it will go for you if he is there, my lady. As for myself…” She bent her head again. “I am sorry for all the trouble I have caused you.”

“You should be.” The queen’s voice was tart, but somehow less sharp for all that.

“And I…I was going to send word this summer, but the flock has been rebuilt such that we can send wool to market. And next year…it will be even better.”

The queen, ever alert to ways to enhance her treasury, and thereby the security of her realm, straightened with interest. “Better?”

Katarina nodded. “The wool, it is beyond compare, I swear to you.”

“I believe you,” the queen said, and smiled.

Katarina smiled too. Giving gifts was something she had learned from Aodh.

For a moment, the queen examined Katarina. “Ireland has ever been a dangerous postern gate into England.”

“Then it must be guarded,” she replied firmly.

“By rebels?”

“By those who have been received back into the fold and know the power of forgiveness.” She transmitted a fierce, quelling look in Aodh’s direction.
 

The queen looked at Aodh too. “I do not think your husband believes he has done anything to be forgiven for, mistress, making it exceptionally difficult to see how such a state would exert any power at all. What say you, sir? Think you ‘a forgiven man’ describes you well?”

Aodh moved his gaze to Elizabeth and slowly shook his head. “Nay. Fortunately for you, my lady, you do not need men who know the value of forgiveness. You need a storm on your Irish horizons. Your very own storm.”

And then,
then
the queen smiled.

Katarina, who’d been holding her breath, revised the plan that had swiftly developed in her mind, to launch herself over the table and knock Aodh into a state of senselessness so he could not push ever harder at things already precariously balanced in the first place.

But as she was learning, perhaps the balance must be upset, to proceed to the next thing. Perhaps the balance was of sickness, or lethargy, or darkness, and while the fall was indeed frightening, it might well be worth the shock of impact.

“And you, Katarina, think you this is true?” The queen’s penetrating eye fell on her. “Oft have I relied upon your counsel in matters of Ireland. What say you to his assessment?”

“I say he is right.”

The queen turned and looked her over thoughtfully. “You would have Aodh, then, and all these doubtful boons of Ireland?”

“I would have him above all else.”

“Above Rardove?

The queen looked between them, and saw how they looked at each other. This one thing she could not have, but could keep them from having.
 

“We are at your mercy,” Katarina said quietly.

“And if my mercy sends you back to Ireland?”

Against the wall, Aodh straightened. Katarina caught her breath. “We will hold it for you, Your Majesty, I swear it.”
 

“And those who joined your rebellion?” the queen demanded.

“Some joined a rebellion, Your Majesty, but most joined Aodh. He might have suggested holding a fête and then that is what they would be doing.”

“A fête,” Aodh mused from the wall. “Why did I not think of that?”

The women ignored him.

“And what do I make of you, Katarina?” the queen asked almost gently, coming forward to cup Katarina’s chin in her hand. “After all your promises and oaths, to see you suchly?’

“Do not ever think it was done lightly, my lady. But if one truly has her sovereign’s interests at heart, my queen, then must she not speak the truth, and change her mind, no matter the consequences, however inconvenient or…perilous they may be to her personally?”

“And that is what you are doing now?” the queen said archly. “Safeguarding
me
, by claiming Mac Con?”

“Indeed I am,” Katarina said. “For nothing, and no one, can serve you better out on the marches than the son of Rardove.”

“Not even you?” the queen asked softly.
 

Katarina shook her head. “Not even I.”

In the back of the room, Aodh stood, hand on his sword hilt, watching the scene between his queen and his love.
 

“And if I send you back, and not Aodh?”

“I will…die.”

The room was silent. From downstairs came the distant sounds of courtiers at their merrymaking. Low and soft, through the room, came Aodh’s rough whisper: “Katy.”

“You will not die,” the queen scoffed, but there was a quaver in her voice.

“I will wish to, Your Majesty. That is something you cannot understand, of course, being so great. But in my heart, I will wish to die.”

The queen stared at the tapestry on the wall, a moment, then said irritably, “Well we cannot have the chatelaines of our baronies dying off.”

Katarina held her breath.

The queen looked over. “Fine, take him. There had better be no problems,” she warned with a sharp look.

Katarina shook her head, too stunned to be glad. “No, Your Majesty. Never again.”

Elizabeth touched her hand, then moved away, toward Aodh. He knelt before her, but then rose and took her hands, kissed their backs, then turned them over and kissed the palms, then, devil that he was, leaned in and kissed her cheek, all the familiarities Bess so craved.

“I will miss you, Irish,” she whispered.

“I am your man, Bess, as ever I was,” he said, his voice low.

Her throat worked as she touched his face.
 

“There is always a place for you in Rardove. You must come visit.”

“Maybe I will one day. Be prepared,” she said in warning.

He laughed, then said, even more softly yet, “The only reason you did not have this”—he gestured to Katy—“was because you chose not. You chose not to have it all, because England needed all of you. All of your greatness.”

“There have been compensations,” she admitted, and leaned forward to kiss his cheek. Then she straightened and became regal and magnificent again. “Now, go, both of you. I have papers to sign and people to see.” She swung the door open.

Servants started up out of their chairs, and Ludthorpe, who’d appeared in the waiting chamber, lurched to his feet.

“Where is Bertrand, the fool?” she snapped.

Ludthorpe bowed swiftly. “He was coming, Your Majesty, he…” He froze as he saw Aodh. His jaw dropped.

She waved to one of her men. “Escort them out the back, and call for Cecil. I have a matter to discuss with him.” The servant flew off.

“Your Majesty,” called a voice from the end of the corridor. Bertrand could be seen hurrying forward. “I was unavoidably delayed, but am—”
 

He stopped short as he saw Aodh and Katarina behind the queen. He made a high-pitched sound of shock and distress. His forehead and brow were green and black and blue from where Aodh had smashed him on the head.

“I—why— Your Majesty! You cannot… Why are they… How did they…” He whirled to her. “You cannot give him my lands!”

The queen turned sharply. “Your lands?”

“I meant Rardove—”

“You, who cannot take a place even when it has been handed to you?”

“But, I could have— I thought—” He licked his bottom lip.

“Yes, I know what you thought.” The queen swept down the corridor, dragging everyone after her. At the end of the corridor, guards aligned themselves along the walls, ready to announce her presence. “But I have thought of a better plan, Bertrand. I have a castle in the Scottish borderlands that needs tending.”

Bertrand’s jaw fell as he hurried at her heels.

“Of course,” she went on, “the Scottish are currently holding it. You would need to take it from them. Think you are up for the task? And what of that English clerk you took from Rardove?” the queen went on. “The untrustworthy one you wished to toss over a cliff, Ludthorpe? What was his name?”

“Walter,” he replied with alacrity.

“That’s the one. Well, he should go with you, Bertrand. He’s experienced in the matter of savages, one would assume. He might come in quite useful.”

Bertrand’s mouth moved, but no sounds came out.
 

The queen made an impatient sound. “Well, you shall need to earn an income somehow, Bridge,” she said briskly, “for I am taking back the income from the playing cards.” He stumbled. “Think it over,” the queen said. “Swiftly. I believe Scotland will serve you well.” Her voice grew dim as they reached the end of the corridor. “It will keep you far, far away from my wrath.”

Bertrand began to protest, and in his agitation, took a step toward the queen. She waved her hand. Guards materialized from the shadows, grabbed him by the elbows, and carted him off. Ludthorpe stared in silence, his jaw dropped, then looked over his shoulder at Aodh and Katarina, who were standing, likewise stunned.

Just before the entourage turned the corner, the queen lifted her hand and held it in the air a moment. Then she swept away.

Katarina and Aodh stood in the ensuing silence.
 

“Are we…?” Katarina looked up at Aodh. “Did she…. Can we now…?” She was too incredulous to finish even the simplest of sentences.

“Aye,” he said, drawing her into his arms. “Aye, to all of it.”

She looked up into those steel-blue eyes that did not seem at all icy now, but filled with love and hope. She touched his face. “So we may go home?”
 

“Let’s go home,” he agreed softly.

He turned for the back stairway, where two Yeomen of the Guard stood, waiting silently, for the queen’s instructions and intentions had been perfectly clear—these two were privileged.

“This way, sir,” said one of them, preceding them down the stairway. The other brought up the rear. Katarina’s head was spinning, so she barely noticed the circuitous route she was being taken on, only barely aware of a murmured conversation between Aodh and the guard behind her.

“…Court not be the same without you, sir…”

“…richer for you…”

“…a temporary break in my luck…”

“…my arse…owe me half a crown…”
 

“…double or naught next time, sir,” the guard urged, and Aodh laughed quietly.

They came out in a garden courtyard. A fat white moon shone brightly through the graceful latticework of bare tree limbs, which were only just beginning to bud in the nascent spring.
 

One of the guards nodded into the darkness of the garden. “You’ll know the way from here, sir.”

“That I do,” Aodh replied, taking her hand and leading her away.
 

Chapter Forty-Seven

“CAN YOU SMELL IT?” Katarina said as they stood at Renegades Cove, ready to board their boat. The sun was rising, and the water was smooth and clear, a perfect day for sailing.
 

“Smell what?” Aodh asked, waiting for Katarina to climb on board. Cormac was already there, tugging on lines. Ré and Bran would be along soon. They’d detoured half a mile to a nearby town to gather foodstuffs.
 

“Ireland,” she replied, excitement in her words. “Can you smell Ireland?” She took a deep, illustrative breath, gesturing for Aodh and Cormac to do the same.

 
“I think that’s fish, my lady,” Cormac said after sniffing obediently, and Aodh laughed.

She threw her leg over the boat, then paused, skirt hem trailing in the water, as she looked back up the high hill above the cove.

Aodh turned too. Even now he could see Ré’s head coming around the high trail that led down the jutting headlands, Bran at his side. They were riding horses swiftly purchased. They cantered through the high, blowing green grasses and down the almost hidden trail, and drew up beside him. Bran began throwing satchels onto the boat at once.
 

Cormac grabbed the bags and began stuffing them into various storage compartments, grumbling, “What were you doin’, braidin’ the rope? We were supposed to be off an hour ago.”