Authors: Brenda Joyce
The Game
The Game
This one is dedicated to everyone at Avon Books, but especially to:
Bob Mecoy and Mike Greenstein, for being my biggest champions.
Tom Egner and Darlene DeLillo, for those wonderful, fantastic, fabulous, extraordinary covers.
Denis Farina, for his incredible support.
Bruce Brill, who made me the promise every author longs to hear.
Debby Tobias, a go-getter who’s gone to bat for me with great enthusiasm—thanks!
Susan Hecht, for her wonderful support and for being so nice.
Mary Kate Maco, my publicist, for being so wonderfully receptive.
Michelle Hinkson, for her enthusiasm and support of my sometimes wild publicity schemes.
Brian McSharry, for handling my end-of-deadline hysteria with utter kindness, without blinking an eye.
Marie Emmich, for tying up so many loose ends with complete enthusiasm!
And also, to my agent, Aaron Priest, without question the best agent in town.
And finally this one is dedicated to Maggie Lichota. Thank you. For pushing me beyond any and all limits, for challenging me and for being the most thorough editor I have ever worked with.
She had been forgotten.
Before Katherine could react, the golden pirate was bending over…
Katherine’s mind screamed, It cannot be true!
Katherine knew that she must not antagonize him.
He had stopped caring about most things long ago, when…
With the exception of her recent visit to her father…
The earl of Ormond finally smiled, grimly. “You would enjoy…
Katherine took her dinner just before noon the following day…
Liam deposited Katherine in the center of the bed, coming…
Liam prowled the night-dark deck of his ship. The wind…
Katherine was so surprised that she clung tightly to Hugh,…
Liam stared after Katherine. Despite the fact that he had…
Katherine quickly realized that she had one other choice.
Liam was summoned to the queen, not at midnight, as…
“Katherine,” Lady Hastings whispered. “Have you heard? Is it true?”…
The queen loved masques. The current masque told the story…
“Mistress? Please, you must awaken.”
“Katherine!”
Gerald sat in the dark hall of St. Leger House…
Katherine had no choice but to hang on to the…
Queen Elizabeth had turned white.
Katherine dug her nails into his shoulders, trying to push…
Katherine trudged up the steep, stony path toward the castle,…
Liam tossed the priceless necklace to the seaman. “Keep it,…
The letter came a month later, in August. Liam brought…
The queen’s barge moved through the waters of the Thames,…
The Sea Dagger bobbed at anchor while supplies far more…
Richmond was the warmest of Elizabeth’s many palaces. It was…
Cecil brought the queen the news. “Sir John Hawke has…
Katherine’s gaze riveted upon Hawke. His expression was rigid with…
Hawke stared at her, frozen.
It was exactly one year since Katherine had first visited…
Liam knew that his fate drew near.
Many hours had passed since the FitzGerald girl had tried…
Juliet had insisted that she accompany her uncle when he…
Liam stood upon the forecastle, holding the spyglass to one…
Liam had also obtained an official pardon from the queen…
Whitehall, 1562
T
he queen was nervous. With two dozen of her most favored courtiers, all clad in silk and brocade, she waited for the O’Neill.
She was very young, just about to turn thirty, and had been ruling for a scant four years. Intuitively she understood that her advisors were right and that Ireland must be brought to heel—but it seemed a huge and hopeless task. The Irish lords were barbaric, immersed in petty rivalry and bloody warfare, and still steeped in their ancient Gaelic culture. O’Neill was the worst of them, she knew. Yet it seemed as if the savage Irish chieftain—one of her most intractable enemies—was finally about to submit to her royal will, coming before her on bended knee.
The queen was splendid, and it was commonly held that she was quite attractive. Her brocade gown had a low, square neckline, but a huge ruff framed her ivory-hued face. Her full skirts were held up and out by a farthingale, which was now in vogue, and sewn into the pattern were thousands of tiny white pearls. A chain of gold encrusted with pearls and rubies was worn as a belt around her narrow waist. About her neck she wore a huge gold necklace with a ruby pendant, and rubies dangled from her ears. Her heart-shaped coif was of black silk, embroidered with gold thread and pearls. Elizabeth might have been only thirty, and she might have been nervous about receiv
ing Shane O’Neill, but her expression was implacable, her presence outstanding, and she looked every bit a monarch.
All her courtiers were almost as fabulously garbed as she. Clad in colorful doublets with puffed shoulders and slashed sleeves, in tight hose and exaggerated codpieces, dripping gem-set rings and long gold necklaces, they comprised a brilliant and gaudy sea of spectators. And standing right beside her were her three favorite advisors: her cousin, Tom Butler, the earl of Ormond; Sir William Cecil, her secretary of state; and Robert Dudley, the Master of the Horse.
Just as the courtiers began to whisper amongst themselves, she heard him coming and thought to herself, marry, I can not believe this happens—the O’Neill yields at long last!
Not the O’Neill, she corrected herself. The earl of Tyrone. He was coming to submit, to take on an English title, to become a part of the fabric of the English kingdom. Sir Henry Sidney, the leader of her troops in Ireland, had convinced her that O’Neill’s surrender and the regrant policy was the only way to civilize the savage Irish—force them to bended knee, then regrant them their lands with English titles, privileges, and duties.
The crowd gasped.
Elizabeth gasped.
The O’Neill had appeared. A man close to six feet six inches tall, and hugely built, he wore a saffron cape lined in ermine and it swirled about his shoulders. Some Celtic kind of brooch pinned it in place. Beneath the cape he wore only a coarse, dark, knee-length tunic. His calves, ankles, and feet were bare. His heavy belt was studded with gold, an immense sword was sheathed there, and a long, dangerous-looking Irish dagger winked amongst the folds of his clothing. Over his left shoulder he carried an Irish battle-ax that appeared to be six feet long.
Behind him marched twelve barefoot men with shaved heads, who were almost as tall and as broad as the O’Neill. They, too, carried battle-axes but wore wolfskins over old-fashioned leaf mail.
The crowd moved back, toward the walls of the royal
chamber, as if afraid. Elizabeth began to sweat. If the O’Neill lived up to his bloody reputation and ran amok, undoubtedly everyone within the hall would die this day.
And then a deafening howl split the chamber and the O’Neill threw himself down upon the ground at Elizabeth’s feet.
The queen jumped in shock. Both Ormond and Dudley stepped in front of her protectively while reaching for their ceremonial swords. Then she began to relax when she realized that, undoubtedly, she was witnessing some kind of ancient and barbaric form of submission to her authority. But the O’Neill was now spewing gibberish. Was he mad? She exchanged a questioning look with Robin Dudley.
“He speaks Gaelic, savage that he is,” Dudley murmured, the color returning to his aquiline face. “Mayhap he seeks to trick us with this show. I know well that his tongue can form the English word with cunning ease.” Dudley grimaced. “The Grand Disturber could do no less than make this display, but what does he wish to gain?”
Elizabeth had no idea what O’Neill’s bizarre behavior foretold, and did not answer, unsure of what to do. She did not understand a word of what this huge, savage man was saying, and she looked helplessly at Ormond and Cecil. Yet they were as flustered as she, because O’Neill was defying all protocol. But then a movement brought her attention back to the high drama unfolding at her feet. Another dozen or so of O’Neill’s followers had entered the hall behind the wolflike soldiers, but had hung back by its entrance. Except for one young man, who had detached himself from the group and was now moving toward Elizabeth.
He paused before her, beside the prostrate O’Neill. He was almost as tall as the Irish chieftain, but he was young, perhaps seventeen, and his broad-shouldered frame, while sinewed and hard, had yet to flesh out. While Elizabeth noted all of that, she was stricken by his face. Thick streaked gold hair framed the most handsome countenance she had ever seen, and her pulse raced. Somehow he
seemed familiar. But then she met his cold gray eyes, and she shivered. What manner of man was this?
He bent one knee. “Your Majesty, if it pleases you, I shall translate what the O’Neill speaks.”
Elizabeth recovered. She straightened her shoulders, giving the youth an imperious look. “We do believe you mean the earl of Tyrone, sirrah,” she said.
His cool gaze fastened upon her. He did not speak.
And so it begins
, she thought, a flicker of excitement sparking in her veins. The O’Neill was appearing to submit, but the youth’s failure to respond told her that a war of wit and will was about to follow. And the delight that tingled down her spine had little to do with the O’Neill, but with this extraordinary youth instead. “You may introduce yourself to Us.”
He rose from bent knee and bowed. “Liam O’Neill.”
Elizabeth’s mind moved with startling speed. “Not—not Mary Stanley’s son—not the O’Neill’s son?” In her shock the forbidden Gaelic title had slipped out.
His smile was sardonic. “The very same.”
She inhaled sharply. She had known Liam almost since the very day of his birth. Mary Stanley had been en route to Ireland with her husband, an official of the Crown, when her ship had been set upon by pirates. Raped and impregnated by O’Neill, she had been promptly rejected by Sir Stanley, who had sent her back to her own family in London. Queen Catherine, Henry VIII’s last wife, had pitied her, been kind to her, and Mary had become one of her ladies-in-waiting. Images flashed through Elizabeth’s mind of a beautiful yet solemn baby, then of a grim, withdrawn young boy. Elizabeth forced herself out of the past. “What year was it that your father claimed you and took you from London?”
That mocking smile again. “It was seven years ago.” His tone dropped, and the frost left his eyes. “How fare you, Bess?”
She felt Dudley stiffen, saw, out of the corner of her eye, his hand clench his sword. She touched his arm lightly; “The little boy has become a man,” she said, not
softly, pushing a note of asperity into her tone. But her heart fluttered, just a bit. “An impertinent one.”
He bowed again, his expression closed, all warmth gone.
“Translate,” she snapped, furious now, with him, with his murdering father, with herself.
“Shane O’Neill begs your pardon,” Liam said briskly, without emotion. “He is the lawful and legitimate son of Bachach, while Matthew was born of a locksmith married to a woman named Alison, and great deceit was made upon all. Matthew is not and has not ever had the right to claim succession, but justice has been done, making it clear that there is but one lawful heir to the lands in question, that legitimate and rightful heir being the O’Neill.”
There was a moment of silence. Elizabeth looked down at Shane O’Neill, still lying upon the wooden floor, wondering how to address him, then at his fearless son. “Is not Matthew dead?” she asked, although she already knew the answer. He had been murdered by Shane O’Neill. Rumors also abounded that many of O’Neill’s cousins had died strangely accidental deaths. And gossip also held he had imprisoned poor Bachach, his own father, in order to usurp the O’Neill chieftaincy and lands, and that Bachach was dead now, too.
“Yes,” the son said. He offered no explanation, and no sign of guilt flickered in his eyes.
Shane suddenly rose to his feet. Elizabeth did not move, but the three men standing beside her all flinched. Elizabeth focused on O’Neill. She must grant his pardon, as she and her Council had planned. But she was at a loss. How in God’s name should she address him? It was clear he would resist the English title of earl, and she was not certain now that she should grant him the earldom anyway. He was clearly defiant—clearly dangerous. Yet a truce must be reached.
Dudley leaned close to her. “You must not address him as the O’Neill. Nor must you insult him.”
Elizabeth’s jaw tightened.
Cecil whispered, “As he will not accept our title—we must think of another appellation of distinction, something he will think grand.”
Elizabeth shot a glance at the pair standing before her, the shaggy-haired bearlike father, a notorious murderer, a rapist, a savage, and the lean, golden Adonis-like son. Shane was grinning, his eyes gleaming. Liam was expressionless. She now noticed that Liam was dressed exactly like his father, in a coarse cloak and tunic, his feet bare. She recalled the small boy in doublet and hose and leather shoes, a red plume waving from his hat. A wave of pity washed over her. But then their gazes met, his mocking, and she chased away any sympathy she might wish to feel. He was unquestionably a savage now, like his father, undoubtedly dangerous and not to be pitied at all.
Cecil said in a low tone, “O’Neill the Great. I wager he will love that.”
“That’s hardly enough,” snapped Ormond. “’Tis no different from the O’Neill.”
“It matters not,” Dudley countered. “He is here—he has obeyed the queen, more than obeyed, in making himself prostrate.”
Elizabeth smiled at the O’Neill. “O’Neill the Great,” she said in a loud, carrying voice, aware of the surprise of the crowd and of Shane’s open pleasure, “cousin to St. Patrick and friend to the queen of England, we hereby grant you pardon and welcome you warmly to Londontown, wishing you God bless.”
Shane’s smile faded. His succession to the O’Neill lands had not been recognized—and he as well as everyone else knew it.
The tavern consisted of a single, malodorous smoke-filled room. Too many unwashed bodies had been crammed into the establishment night after night, year after year, and too often those drunken patrons had relieved one need or another without adjourning upstairs or outside.
Now the room was as crowded as always, but no Englishman had remained once Shane’s frightening and savage horde had arrived. The Irishmen quaffed mug after mug of ale, singing tunes either lewd or victorious while mauling the buxom serving girls as they passed.
Liam sat alone in a corner, watching the celebrations
from afar. He was still on his first mug of ale, and rarely did he sip. He did not sing, did not smile. His gaze moved over the familiar faces crowding the room, as always, coming to settle upon his father as if purposefully seeking him out.
Shane was standing, toasting the yellow-livered, spineless queen, his words treasonous and should any of the maids or the proprietor care to inform upon the events of the evening, Shane might very well find himself in the Tower. His father was courting disaster with his actions now, and his son did not care. He was only Shane’s son by the fact of his mother’s violent rape, by the coincidence of the blood running in their veins. And although, seven years ago, Liam had thought Shane to be invincible, he now knew that no man was immortal and a man like Shane, who lived so dangerously, invited death. Liam knew he would shed no tears on the day his father met his Maker, knew there would only be relief.
Shane was all wolfish smiles, downing his tenth mug of the night. Ale did not affect him—nothing affected him. Shane finished his toast, his men cheering. He reached out and seized one of the passing maids. The girl was attacked so unexpectedly that, crying out, she dropped her tray and all the mugs it contained. Shane promptly placed her on his lap, one arm a manacle around her waist, his other hand inside her bodice, scooping up her breast. His men laughed at the sight of the woman’s naked flesh.
Liam stiffened. In his mind he saw his mother, pale, blond, bitter, and stunningly beautiful as she had been when he had last seen her, when he was ten years old and being taken away by the father he had never known. He shook her image free and faced his father and the serving girl, wishing she would receive Shane the way the Irish girls did, with lusty eagerness. In Ireland Shane was a hero.
But the maid looked terrified, twisting ineffectually while Shane laughed and squeezed her nipple. The girl began to cry.
Liam was on his feet. He wasn’t afraid of his father, although he had every right to be. He had stopped being
afraid many years ago—the fear had been beaten out of him. He shoved through the crowded tables, and Shane finally saw him coming. He ceased stroking the girl, anticipation lighting his eyes. She also saw Liam, and she grew utterly still, her eyes wide.
“Release her,” Liam said.
Shane barked with laughter, shoving the girl off of his lap so abruptly that she tumbled to the floor. He rose to his full height; the girl scurried away. Liam tensed, prepared for the inevitable. No man, not even his son, could challenge the O’Neill without paying the bloody consequences. Shane’s meaty fist swung out. Liam blocked the blow but staggered backward under the incredible impact. His father weighed 240 pounds and there was no fat on his massive frame. They both knew that Shane was far stronger than Liam, but what only Liam knew was that one day the scales would tip in his favor. He would make certain of that.