“Curious,” said Cecil. “It is not the Earl’s custom to take women
seriously. Then perhaps he really is in love with her?”

Far away, at that very moment, the gentleman in question was
raging violently at his pale and cowering wife. Geoffrey Southwood
had rarely felt such overpowering fury. “Bitch! Bitch!” he shouted
at her. “You’ve killed my only legitimate son! Christ’s body, how
could you be so stupid? You knew there was smallpox about, and
yet you wrote to the Countess of Shrewsbury and asked to have
Henry sent home for Twelfth Night. Without my permission. As
God is my witness, Mary, I could kill you!”

“Then why don’t you, Geoffrey?” she baited him. “You hate me,
and our daughters! Why not kill us all?”

Her hysterical outburst calmed him somewhat. He eyed her
coldly. “I am going to divorce you, Mary. I should have done so
years ago.”

“You have no grounds to do such a thing.”

“I have all the grounds I need, Mary. You produce nothing but
daughters. The one son you bore me you wantonly killed. You
refused to hostess my friends, yet you hoard the household monies
I send you to dower your daughters despite the fact I have forbidden
them to wed. I have grounds, Mary, but if needs be I’ll produce
half a dozen men who’ll claim intimate knowledge of you.”

She went white with shock. “You truly are a bastard, Geoffrey,”
she whispered, horrified.

He hit her a blow that sent her to her knees.

“A bastard!” she repeated. He turned and left. They were the last
words she ever spoke to her husband. By nightfall Mary Southwood
lay ill of smallpox herself, as did every one of her daughters. She
died several days later. Mary, Elizabeth, Catherine, and Phillipa
joined her. Only the three youngest girls, Susan and twins Gwyneth
and Joan, survived. The Earl was saved because he had had a light
case of smallpox as a child.

The Countess and her daughters were buried with a bare minimum
of ceremony, the bell in Lynmouth Church dutifully tolling their
passing as the carts carried their coffins to the family cemetery.
Geoffrey told his three daughters of their mother’s and sisters’ deaths.
They were so young, only four and five, that he was not sure they
really understood him. Looking at them closely for the first time,
he decided that they were really somewhat comely. Leaving detailed
instructions as to their convalescence, he departed Devon for Court.

He had been in Devon for over two months, and spring had come
to England. The Court had left Greenwich and was now at Nonesuch.
The Earl of Lynmouth was welcomed back warmly, particularly by the ladies, for news of his loss had preceded him. Anxious to see
Skye, he fretted until he could get to London. He could not go until
the Queen gave her permission. He waited for the right moment to
beg that permission.

In London Robbie prepared to take his leave of Skye. The Mer-
maid and her fellow ships waited now, fully provisioned, in the
Pool. He had put off his departure until the last possible moment,
for Skye was quite easily upset of late, the least little thing sending
her into tears. He had sent to Devon for his sister, Marie, and the
two children. The sight of Willow, now almost two, had cheered
her somewhat.

He knew what distressed her. It was Southwood’s apparent de-
sertion. Since the Earl had returned with her from their tryst in
January there had been no word from him other than the cryptic
message that he was needed in Devon. Robert Small told himself
once more that the man was a bastard, plain and simple. Seeing
Skye grow so pale and listless, he silently cursed the Earl and be-
moaned the fact that there was nothing he could do to cheer her.

Finally Robert Small could delay no longer. On the night before
he sailed Skye arranged a small dinner party for him at her house.
De Grenville was their guest, dining with Skye, Robbie, Dame
Cecily, Jean, and Marie. De Grenville intended to sail with Robbie
as far as the Channel. The meal was delicious, but Skye only picked
at the food. Her merriment was forced. At least, she thought sourly,
Southwood had done her one good turn by arranging an introduction
to the Queen, thereby helping them obtain a royal charter. As to
love… it was all either passion or pain.

De Grenville was soon in his cups, and he leered at Skye in a
friendly fashion. “For a learned and modest woman you cost me
dearly, Mistress Skye. Now that the Earl of Lynmouth is back at
Court I suppose he’ll be taking my barge.”

He was back! And he’d never even sent her word! “Why should
he take your barge, Dickon?” she asked absently.

Robert Small suddenly came to life. “That’s no story for Skye’s
ears, Dickon!” he protested, kicking his friend beneath the table.

But de Grenville paid him no heed. His hostess’s rich wine had
fuzzed his wits. “Why shouldn’t she know, Robbie? When I turn
my barge over to Geoff it will be all over Court. Don’t know why
I bet him anyway, but I did want that stallion.”

Skye felt a premonition of disaster run through her. “What bet
is this, Dickon?”

“Enough, de Grenville!” cried Robert Small desperately, glancing
toward his sister and Marie.

“No, Robbie,” snapped Skye. “I believe I should hear what Dickon has to say. Pray, sir. enlighten me as to what you and my
lord Earl wagered.”

“I bet my barge against his prize stud stallion that he couldn’t
make you his mistress within a six-month period. Looked like such
a sure thing. You certainly cut him dead at the inn in Dartmour.
Didn’t think he was your type at all. But then, my father always
said women were a fickle lot and not to be trusted.”

Cecily and Marie both gasped. The Gallic Jean shrugged philo-
sophically. But Robbie, who knew her best of all, held his breath
in anticipation of the explosion that immediately followed.

“The bastard!” she raged. “The damned bastard! I could kill him!
I will kill him! No, I won’t-I shall do to him what Marie did to
Captain Jamil!” Bursting into tears, she picked up her skirts and fled
the room.

Marie and Cecily rose to follow her-, but Robbie stayed them with
a gesture and went after her himself. He saw her running across the
terrace, down into the garden. His short legs pumping hard, he ran
after her calling, “Skye, lass! Wait for me, Skye!” She stopped, but
her back remained toward him. As he reached her he could see her
shoulders shaking. He walked around her and gathered her into his
arms. She wept wildly. “Oh, lass, I am so sorry. But don’t waste
your tears on him. He’s not worth it, Skye. He’s not worth any
grief.”

“I l-l-love him, Robbie.” she sobbed, “I l-l-love the bastard!”

He sighed. He was going to have to hurt her further, but there
was no help for it. Best she know the worst from him than have
some ass like de Grenville tell her. He drew her over to a carved
stone bench and they sat down.

“I want you to hear this from me, Skye. Southwood’s only son
and his wife and four of his daughters are dead of the smallpox.
That’s what sent him down into Devon in January. De Grenville
tells me the rumors at Court are that the Queen has already picked
out an heiress for him, and Geoffrey Southwood would never say
no to a wealthy match. And now that he no longer has a son, it is
imperative that he remarry. The sooner the better, I would say, for
with a new wife he’ll have little time for you, lass.”

She raised her face to him and he thought as he had thought a
hundred times or more, that she was the most beautiful woman he
had ever known. Tonight when he left her he would visit a sweet
young whore of his acquaintance, but on the long nights at sea it
would be Skye he thought of, not little Sally. It would be Skye’s
face that he would easily recall to mind, the young prostitute’s fading
from memory within an hour of their parting.

“You understand what I’m saying to you, Skye?” He looked anxiously into her wet sapphire eyes. “You understand that in all
likelihood it’s finished with Southwood.”

She sighed. “I am carrying his child, Robbie. In six months’
time, more or less, I shall present the seventh Earl of Lynmouth
with a child, and I pray God it’s a son! And I also pray that his rich,
new wife does precisely what his last rich wife did-deliver girls!”

“Marry me, Skye.”

“You are prejudiced, Robbie,” she smiled wanly. “Take me back
inside and I’ll bid de Grenville goodnight. What time do you sail
tomorrow?”

“We catch the midday tide. I’ll come in the morning to bid you
farewell.”

They walked back through the garden and into the house. De
Grenville had fallen asleep in his chair.

“il est un cochon,” muttered Marie.

“No,” said Skye.

“He hurt you, mignon.”

Skye shrugged. “Better I heard it from him than from a stranger,
Marie. Alas, our good wine does not agree with him.”

Suddenly the small dining-room door was flung open and Skye’s
bargeman stumbled into the room beside her majordomo, Walters,
who gasped, “Madam, the Queen comes!”

“What!?”

The bargeman spoke up. “The Queen, mistress! She’s almost
here! She sent a messenger ahead of her on the river.”

“My God, I’m not dressed properly to receive her! Quick, Marie!”
And she raced upstairs to her own apartment, calling to Daisy as
she ran. “Fetch the burgundy-colored silk with the gold-and-cream-
stripped underskirt. The rubies! My gold ribbons! Marie, go back
downstairs and have Walters clear the dining room. I’ll want ham,
cheeses, fruits, thin sugar wafers, and wines. Have them set on the
sideboards in the banquet room. Wake de Grenville and have Robbie
sober him!”

Marie turned and ran from the room while the maids fluttered
about Skye. She quickly changed her clothes. “Hawise, watch the
window! Sing out the second you see the Queen’s barge!”

A few minutes later, as Skye smoothed the wrinkles from the
elegant silk gown, Hawise called, ‘The Queen’s barge is rounding
the bend, ma’am!” Skye flew from the room and down the stairs.
Catching Robbie and de Grenville by the hands, the trio sped across
the terrace, down another garden, and reached the barge landing
moments before the Queen’s boat bumped it. The two men stepped
forward to aid Elizabeth as she disembarked, while Skye swept the monarch a magnificent curtsey, her wine-colored skirts billowing
gracefully, her dark head lowered in perfect submission.

The young Queen eyed her hostess approvingly. “Rise, Mistress
Goya del Fuentes. Ton my soul, you make the most elegant and
graceful curtsey I’ve ever seen!”

Standing, Skye thanked the Queen with a smile and Elizabeth
said, “We hope you’ll forgive us this unorthodox visit, but it was
brought to our attention that Sir Robert sails tomorrow. We could
not allow him to leave on such a lengthy voyage without giving him
our good wishes.”

Robbie flushed with obvious pleasure. “Majesty, I am over-
whelmed by your kindness.”

“Madam,” said Skye, “will you take refreshment?”

“Thank you, mistress. Sir Robert, de Grenville, you may escort
me. Southwood, take Mistress Goya del Fuentes and Mistress Knol-
lys.”

The Queen moved off, leaving Skye stricken. Here was Geoffrey
stepping up from the Queen’s barge, handing out a ravishing lovely
red-headed girl.

“Skye, may I present the Queen’s cousin Lettice, this is Mistress
Goya del Fuentes.”

Lettice Knollys smiled in a friendly fashion, her pale skin glowing
and youthful. “We’re of an age,” she said. “May I call you Skye,
and you call me Lettice?”

“But of course,” Skye answered. God in Heaven, was this girl
the rich match the Queen proposed for Geoffrey?

“It’s good to see you, Skye,” the Earl of Lynmouth murmured
softly as he escorted both women up the garden to the house. Behind
them the other half-dozen barges that had escorted the Queen were
unloading their passengers.

“What a charming house you have,” remarked Lettice. “I have
always wanted a small house on the Strand. You do not come to
Court, do you?”

“There is no need. And besides, I am not of the nobility. If the
Queen invited me, however, I would, of course, obey.”

They had reached the house now, and as they entered, Southwood
said quietly, “Lettice, I must speak with Skye. Keep the Queen
occupied for me.” Before Skye had time to protest he had whisked
her into the library and shut the door firmly.

“I cannot leave my guests! The Queen will notice!” she protested.

“Madam, I have been parted from you for three months now.
Have you no warmer welcome for me?”

“Sir, you presume a great deal! I do, however offer you my deepest sympathy on the loss of your wife and children.”

“You knew? How?”

“De Grenville told me earlier this evening.” She turned and
walked a little ways from him. “I understand I am also to wish you
felicitations on an upcoming marriage. Is it Mistress Knollys? And
will you honeymoon on your barge?”