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She sat on a small bench at her writing table, her head bent as she scribbled away. Back in the corner sat one of her ladies. When the door swung open, the queen looked up, startled, then got to her feet, pen in hand.
“God have mercy,” she whispered, then her lean, painted face flushed with color under the white paint. Her gaze swept over his bruised face and her hand reached out, as if to touch him, then retreated again, like a butterfly folding its wings. She rested her open hand over her heart and gave a soft laugh.
“But why am I surprised? Ever have you been my charming rogue. But I cannot be charmed, Aodh. Not anymore.”
He sat down at once in the nearest chair, to present as little threat as possible, and also, to a smaller degree, to ensure he did not topple over; perhaps he was the smallest bit weak.
The queen’s gaze drifted to the door. “How…where…”
“I vow I pose you no danger, my lady,” he assured her. “I wish only to talk.”
“Talk?” She laughed. “Oh, yes, the Irish are very good at talking. At lying. We had years to talk, and you never, ever told me you planned treachery.”
“I did not plan it, my lady. It sprang itself on me quite suddenly, when you refused what you had long promised.”
Her gaze hardened. “You were informed, quite clearly,
of the reason for my decision.”
“Bertrand is able; the proceeds from the ironmongers are quite lucrative; you needed me close to hand.” His casual recitation of the reasons made her hand tighten. “Aye, I heard them all most clearly.”
“And none were good enough for you.”
“None were.”
Her gaze slid to his head as he pushed back his hood and she gave a little gasp. “Your hair. What have you done?”
He said nothing. It was clear what he’d done, in half shaving it; he’d claimed Ireland.
She made a sound of impatience, then glanced at the lady-in-waiting who stood, shocked, in the background. “Leave us, Catherine.”
Catherine bent her head and hurried to the door. She cast Aodh a glance under lowered lids as she passed. Either in support, or because she was going to get the guards, he had no idea which.
Nothing for it now; it was all in Bess’s hands.
“And not a word,” the queen ordered sharply as Catherine opened the door.
She nodded, and as she passed out, she smiled at Aodh.
For a moment, the queen and he sat in silence. “How did you get away?” she finally asked.
“Friends.”
“Your Englishman?” said the queen. “And your Scotsman?”
He ducked his head. No need to mention Katarina.
Bess looked down at the pen still clutched in her hand. She turned it over in her fingers. “And the lady?” she said, her voice pitched to an idle tone.
“Katarina? What of her?”
“You are cleaved to her?”
“Entirely.”
“So swiftly.”
“From the moment I saw her. As it was the moment I saw you, my lady.”
