Chapter
I

Hatfield House, England, 1558

Nuns no longer went in fear of their lives, as they had in old King Harry’s time, and one had broken her journey to her convent at the royal manor of Hatfield. Her shaking, mittened hand closed the door of the Hatfield chapel. The nun tucked the hand back inside the sleeve of her habit and turned to face the central aisle. Hunched over with age, misshapen by a crooked shoulder, the old woman squinted at the only inhabitant of the chapel.

At the altar rail knelt a young woman dressed in satin with a black French hood set upon a waterfall of red-gold hair. The nun hobbled up the aisle and knelt beside the lady, then folded her mittened hands, enclosing a cross within them, and rested them on the rail. The red-haired woman kept her gaze on the cross before her. The nun bent her head in prayer, and Latin words filled the chapel. The nun sneezed and dropped her cross. Her quivering fingers unfolded as if to search for it.

In a whiplike movement, the young woman brought her white hand down over the hand of the nun. Long, tapered fingers gripped the old woman’s hand; they snatched at the mitten and pulled it off. Stripped of its covering, the nun’s hand lay still beneath the woman’s. It was larger than the one that held it prisoner. Smooth, golden skin stretched tight over long bones, and a signet ring of gold encircled the third finger.

The nun sneezed again, and the young woman laughed under her breath. “Serves you right, Lord Montfort. God punishes you for this disguising by giving you an ague.”

The nun straightened. The crooked shoulder righted itself, and the body seemed to grow and stretch. Christian de Rivers, Lord Montfort, son of the Earl of Vasterne, rubbed his itching nose and peered at the woman around the edge of his black veil.

“Your Highness,” he said. He dipped his head in an approximation of a bow, then sneezed again. “This habit is musty.”

Princess Elizabeth smirked at him before turning her gaze back to the altar. “What tidings of my sister?”

“The Queen is ofttimes mad and all the time dying.”

The princess sucked in a breath, but she said nothing.

Christian studied the altar rail. “She has given up the fantasy that she is with child and believes that the swelling is dropsy. But she swears Your Grace will never be queen, that you are—”

“A bastard. The fool. She can’t set aside our father’s will. If she does, the next heir is the Queen of Scots.”

Christian pulled the mitten back over his right hand. “The council argues constantly. A few favor the Queen of Scots; most uphold Your Grace’s right. All want to be rid of the Queen’s Spanish husband and this stupid war with France.”

The two black-veiled heads inclined toward each other as Christian detailed the latest maneuverings at court to the princess.

“And what of yourself?” Elizabeth asked. “Have you killed Luiz de Ateca yet?”

“Your Highness knows I cannot kill an envoy of the Queen’s royal husband.”

“I know you’re not supposed to,” Elizabeth said. “But you forget we’ve known each other since we were four, and convention never stopped you from doing as you please. Now tell me why you and de Ateca lust for each other’s blood.”

Christian wriggled his nose. “I refused Ateca something he wanted, Your Grace.”

Elizabeth turned to Christian and lifted her brows. Christian sighed when he saw that she wasn’t going to leave the topic.

“I denied him my … company.”

“Your company.”

“My friendship, one might say.”

Elizabeth chuckled. “One might say, if one were a squeamish virgin maid. Oh, don’t close yourself up like a comfit box. I understand. But Christian, no duels with King Philip’s man. Ateca is dangerous, and I forbid you to risk your life any more than is necessary.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Somewhere a door banged closed, and Elizabeth’s head jerked up. She looked over her shoulder, then back at Christian.

“You must go. If you’re discovered, I lose my best intelligencer.”

Christian shrank into himself until he resumed the bent and quivering form of the old nun. “Have no fear, Your Grace. I’ve no wish for the Queen to discover that one of her Catholic lords is a heretic who serves her sister.”

“If she does, you’ll be lucky if you end up in the Tower. If she suspects you question the old religion, she’ll burn you at the stake. How many have died since Mary restored the laws against heresy? Several hundred, I trow.”

Christian grinned at the Princess. “Your Grace hasn’t heard the opinion of Lady Johanna and Lady Jane Dormer. I can’t be burned because my heart and soul are made of ice.”

A pale finger flicked the tip of Christian’s nose. “You will ever be my Lord of Misrule.”

He took her hand and kissed it. “I will ever be Your Highness’s servant. I pray for your safe delivery from your enemies, for England needs you. We are bankrupt, starved, and tortured. And our deliverance is in the hands of old King Harry’s daughter.”

“God make me deserving of the love of the people,” Elizabeth said.

“And may He protect Your Grace.”

Christian hobbled back down the aisle and out of the chapel. The princess turned back to the altar. Neither looked back.

Christian avoided an encounter with the princess’s guardian-gaoler by going directly to the stables for his mule. After giving the stable boy who’d cared for his animal a penny and a pat on the head, he lumbered down the road and off the grounds of the manor. It was a day of rare April sun and biting wind that turned his cheeks crimson. Having to sit in a hunched and skewed position, Christian was soon praying for sight of the fork in the road that would take him to London.

At last it appeared with its old stone marker, whose carving was so faded, it was impossible to read the signs. Christian slid off the mule, and looked around under the guise of inspecting the animal’s hooves. A squirrel grubbed in the dust of the road. It was the sole occupant of the highway, which was no more than a dirt track. To either side of it lay narrow strips of cultivated fields. Beyond them loomed the pale green line of saplings that marked the beginning of the forest.

Christian pulled himself upright, hauled at the reins, and dragged the mule across the fields and into the trees. Deeper and deeper he plunged into the forest until he came to an ancient oak twisted and gnarled with disease. He tied the mule to a half-dead branch, then, sneezing, tore at the nun’s headdress. It slid off to reveal luxuriant hair the color of an eagle’s feathers. He tossed the veil aside. Without looking up from untying the girdle at his waist, he spoke.

“Come out, my angels. Lucifer wants company.”

Rocks grew heads. Trees sprouted arms and legs. A thin stalk of a body dropped from the ancient oak. The owner of the body, one Inigo Culpepper, cutpurse and highwayman, hit the ground, rolled under the belly of the mule, and popped up to bow before Christian. He had staves for legs, hollow shoulders, and the movements of a frantic weasel.

Inigo pulled himself upright and grinned at Christian. “Liege.”

Christian ignored the man as he stepped free of his black skirts. Something was wrong, he knew, or else his band of cutthroats and wastrels—would not all be gathered around like this. Wearing only his hose, Christian turned as Anthony Now-Now, a man with the bulk of a castle drum tower, approached him, carrying his soft riding boots. Behind Anthony was Three-Tooth Poll, swishing over to Christian and holding out his voluminous lawn shirt.

“Oh, deary,” Poll said, licking her lips, “you do grow wide and long.” Her smile revealed the three teeth she’d managed to save during her life as a wandering peddler, thief, and whore.

Inigo swatted her hands from Christian’s bare shoulders. “Away with you, bawdy basket. You’ll not soil our lovely Kit with your poxy hands.”

“Sod you,” Poll said with a leer.

Inigo would have replied if not for the polar stare his liege gave him. He shut his mouth under the contemplation of a pair of eyes that looked as if someone had poured ice shards into purple ink.

“What are the lot of you doing clustered about like a heap of rotting fruit?” Christian asked. He didn’t wait for Inigo’s reply. “I see. Decided to make it easy on the constables and the hangman and let them catch you all at once.”

Inigo paled. Poll skittered away, and the giant Anthony hid behind the dead tree. Several fake beggars busied themselves gathering firewood.

“Now, liege,” Inigo said.

Christian shot his arms through the sleeves of his black doublet and fastened the silver buttons down the front. “If they catch you, I won’t bribe them again. I’ll dance at your execution and throw posies at your dead carcass.”

With the suddenness of a thunder crack Christian whirled around and snatched a belt and sword from the man standing in silence behind him.

“I do so detest,” he said with a snarl, “repeating myself like a schoolboy nattering over his books.”

The victim of this strike of venom only blinked. He was dressed as a gentleman with sword and dagger at his belt.

“My lord,” he said, “they wouldn’t tell me.”

For a moment longer Christian eyed Edward Hext, the man who had been his protector since he was a youth. Hext sighed with relief when Christian swung away from him, freeing him from the younger man’s gaze. Leaping up onto a rock beneath the dead tree, Christian held out one of his hands and softened his voice to a siren’s melody.

“Thomas, my bit of marzipan, come here.”

A toddler in a dirty smock peeped at him from behind Poll’s skirts. Christian opened the black and silver pouch at his belt and withdrew a drawstring bag. He dug in it, then withdrew a sugarplum. Thomas picked up the hem of his smock and trotted over to Christian. A dirt-blackened hand opened for the sugarplum. Christian held out the sweet but didn’t release it.

“What brings your mother here, Thomas?”

Inigo made gasping sounds. Christian silenced him with a cutting motion of his free hand.

Thomas swirled his pink tongue around his lips. “Jack Midnight,” he said, then snatched the sugarplum and ambled away.

A stillness settled over the group ranged about the dead tree, but only for a moment. Christian launched himself at Inigo, and the cutpurse went down with his straw-thin legs tangled around Christian’s torso. In less time than it took to slice a purse from a belt, the blade of Christian’s dagger was against Inigo’s neck.

“I will ask this question once,” Christian whispered. “What of Jack Midnight?”

Inigo swallowed, and the tip of the blade jumped with a convulsion of muscles. “They passed by not an hour since, him and his crew. I heard them speak of a party with a lady riding pillion. We couldn’t go out till we were sure he’d left the area.”

“And you weren’t going to tell me until he did,” Christian said. He slid the dagger behind one of Inigo’s ears. “Shall I play butcher with your face to teach you obedience? The whores at the Cat and Fiddle will still open their thighs for you, but sweet Annie Turnstile might not.”

“If you waste the time, you’ll lose Jack Midnight.”

Inigo was freed as quickly as he’d been taken. Christian sprang for the horses Edward Hext was already leading from their hiding place in a shroud of bushes. Inigo scrambled to his feet and leaped out of the way as Christian spurred his mount past him. Staring after the riders, he wiped the sweat from his upper lip.

Poll strolled over to him with little Thomas on her hip.

“I told you not to hide it from him,” the bawdy said as the sound of pounding hoofbeats faded. “He’s a Gypsy fortune reader about secrets, and he’s wanted Jack Midnight’s head on his lance since he was little bigger than my Thomas.”

“Piss on it,” Inigo said. “Don’t I know that? Don’t I shiver like a naked priest with the sweating sickness over the last time he chased Jack Midnight?” Inigo stuck his thumbs in his belt and shook his head. “There’s few in this world I fear for our Kit with, and Midnight’s the first on my list. But the liege would follow Midnight to the edge of the earth and into hell if he could.”

Inigo shook his head again and cursed. All he could do was hope Kit didn’t find his quarry before he reached London. Deadly as his master was, Jack Midnight might just be deadlier. The highwayman possessed the sword skill of an Italian mercenary and the depravity of a witch’s familiar. And with Midnight, Kit was undercut by his past to the point where Inigo wasn’t sure the younger man could contain his rage.

Christian jumped his horse over a dried mud hole that looked to be as deep as a cistern. Between him and the next village was a stretch of twisted road with no cultivated boundary. The old forest crept to the edge of the path, encroaching on the packed earth. At one point the trees grew so close, their boughs formed a green roof that shrouded the traveler in gloom. It was a favorite spot for highwaymen.

Ignoring the protests of Hext and the pounding of the man’s horse behind him, Christian rode on until he heard a woman’s scream and the ring of swordplay. He drew his own weapon as he slowed his horse, then turned off the road to skirt the area from which the sounds of fighting came. Hext followed.

Christian threaded his way among trees and vines until he saw movement. In the narrow road, five men-at-arms in green and yellow livery stood against nine bandits. All but one man had been unhorsed. This man fought from his mount, and behind him clung a woman riding pillion with a basket slung over her arm. Two maids cowered on the ground, screaming. Christian’s eyes searched the melee for a head of black and silver curls and a sword that moved with the speed of a hart in winter.

There! A man in green and yellow went down, skewered by a sword. The weapon was pulled free and swept up to catch the dappled sunlight. Christian spurred his horse forward. The stallion leaped into the road and barreled through four bandits. The men yelled and flew in all directions to be engaged by men-at-arms. Christian kept his attention on the man with the shining black hair painted with silver. The man turned at the noise of Christian’s entrance. His eyes widened, and his shout of exultation exposed white teeth. He braced to meet Christian.

Leaning sideways in his saddle, Christian made a pass by his quarry and sliced his sword at the man’s head. At the last moment he pulled his body erect to avoid the sword point that darted at his torso. It was a challenge, that first clash, and nothing more. Christian swept by, loosened his right foot from the stirrup, then turned and slid off his horse. His opponent was already running after him. Around them the fighting surged and ebbed. At his back, Edward Hext kept guard.

Christian hit the ground and pointed his sword at the man who faced him. “Jack Midnight.”

His voice held nothing of the maelstrom that had taken the place of his wits. He looked into the black eyes of the man he’d wanted to kill since he was eight. The eyes looked back with gloating pleasure.

“Kit.” Midnight laughed and made a circle with the tip of his sword. “Well met and welcome back. Come be my slave again.”

Christian answered with a jab of his sword. The blades met, slid. Hilts locked, and Christian shoved with both arms. Jack Midnight jumped back, then swung and sliced at Christian’s chest. They circled in a brutal dance with the cries of fighting men for accompaniment.

Dodging a movement he barely saw in time, Christian lunged and felt his sword jab into leather. Midnight cursed and hurled himself backward. He glanced at the cut on his upper arm.

“I’d forgotten the puppy has turned wolf cub,” he said, then dodged another swipe of Christian’s sword.

“I, too, have longed for your company,” Midnight went on. “You are my creation, son of an earl and apprentice of England’s finest highwayman.”

Christian kept silent in spite of Midnight’s taunts. He closed in on the man, backing the thief toward the man and woman on horseback. A yard away from the mounted pair, Midnight abruptly halted and he whistled. Something flew through the air and hit the man on the horse. His body jerked, and he slumped forward over the neck of his mount. The woman behind him sat unmoving and stared at the wounded man.

Unwilling to leave off his pursuit of Midnight, Christian shouted at the woman, “Get off and run, lackwit.”

The woman jerked around to face him, but before she could respond, a human arrow flew from a bough above her and knocked her from the horse. Midnight blocked his way as Christian rushed toward the pair.

“Ah, no, my devil’s urchin. There is someone I want you to meet.” Midnight kept his sword pointed at Christian, but swept an arm in the direction of the thief holding the woman. “Kit, my love, meet Blade, your mate, my consolation, the second verse in my couplet. As you can see, he has earned his name.”

It was the mention of consolation that finally spurred Christian to look. The first thing he noticed was a shining knife pressed against the woman’s throat. He followed the angle of an arm encased in patched leather, faltered at a dark brown curl nearly the color of his own hair, and moved on to a face of innocent savagery. A young face with unlined skin and a jawline that angled high. Gray eyes regarded him with polite disinterest.

“Blade could impale lightning and carve a star,” Midnight said. “Call the men off or I’ll let him practice on the girl.”

Christian looked back at Midnight.

“Let him. All I want to do is slice your gut.”

Midnight nodded at Blade, and the youth grasped the yoke of cambric that covered the woman’s chest above the low neck of her gown. He jerked, and the material ripped and fell from his hand. At the sound, Christian glanced at the white flesh Blade had exposed. The tight, square neck of the gown cupped the woman’s breasts into two mounds, and Blade’s arm pressed them upward so that they almost came free of their covering.

The girl hissed, and for the first time Christian looked at her face. He swore. God’s blood, it was that mouse Eleanora Becket, one of the queen’s women. “The plague take you, Midnight,” he said, “Let her go.”

“So you do care what happens to her.” Midnight edged over near the woman and caressed one of her breasts. “Shall we tup her? Let’s turn her from a dell to a doxy. You and I will share. It will be a new experience between us. Blade won’t mind. He doesn’t get jealous.”

Christian strode over to Midnight. “You made me into an infant Caligula. You’ll have to provide more interesting sport to distract me from my purpose. Let her go so that I can kill you.”

He followed this request with a stab at Midnight’s heart, which the highwayman quickly parried. Christian kept up his attack until a scream from the woman pulled him up sharp.

The youth called Blade had switched his grip on Eleanora. One arm pinned her to his body, and he now held the knife to her breast. The tip sharply dented the pale mound. During the whole encounter he had spoken no word. Christian caught his gaze and held it.

“Leave off. You don’t have to obey him.”

Straight, dark brows came together, and Christian was pleased to see confusion twist the hawklike features of the young thief.

Jack Midnight laughed. “By the devil’s arse, are you trying to corrupt my novice?”

“No,” Christian said. “I was waiting for Hext.”

As Christian said the name, Hext ran the last few feet to Blade, raised the hilt of his sword, and rapped the youth on the back of the head. Blade fell to his knees. As his arms dropped, Eleanora scrambled free. At the same time, Christian sprang at Midnight. The highwayman was already running into the forest. Christian pounded after him, only to be halted by a cry from Hext. He swung around to see his man fall with a dagger embedded in his shoulder. Blade pounced on him, another knife in his hand. Christian was running even as the youth straddled Hext. Leaping the last few feet, he caught the boy with his shoulder, grabbed the wrist poised above his victim’s heart, and crushed Blade under his full, hurtling weight.

Blade let out a muffled gasp composed of most of the air from his crushed lungs. His free hand winnowed between their bodies and came out filled with yet another knife. The tip slashed at Christian’s eyes.

“God’s teeth.”

Christian grasped both wrists. Yanking them up over the youth’s head, he rammed them into a rock. The weapons fell. The boy bucked, nearly throwing him off, then spat in Christian’s face.

“Blue-blooded sod,” he said, “I’ll carve your prick and serve it to Midnight on a silver plate.”

Pinning Blade’s arms to either side of his head, Christian laughed. “By the saints, you sound just like me.”

“Hoary piss-prophet, pig-tupping spawn of a Gypsy whore.”

Christian brought the youth’s wrists together and held them with one hand. “Careful, you tempt me to lesson you in manners.”

“He told me about you, you bloody whoreson.”

“Blade, my lad, your tongue is going to rot off.” Christian kept his balance when Blade heaved up again, trying to throw him off. “Damnation if I’ll leave you to be Midnight’s fruit sucket.”

At this, Blade arched his body and shouted, “No!”

Christian muttered an apology and hit the boy on the chin. Blade went limp, and Christian released a sigh. He shoved himself off the youth and went to Hext. The man was sitting on the ground, holding his arm. Next to him was Eleanora. Two of her men-at-arms were left standing. One hovered over the girl while the other gathered horses and looked to the wounded and to the hysterical maids.

Kneeling in front of Hext, Christian peeled away the man’s torn doublet and shirt, then pried back his fingers to inspect the wound. Blade’s accuracy had saved Hext’s life. The dagger had pierced sinew and muscle, nothing more.

“I’m sorry, my lord,” Hext said. “I didn’t hit the boy hard enough.”

Not trusting himself to speak, Christian wiped his hands on Hext’s doublet, cupped them around his mouth, and emitted a cry that imitated the call of a hawk.

He dropped his hands and transferred a dissecting gaze to Eleanora Becket. “God deliver me from the imbecility of women. Don’t you know how to kick? Next time make use of your feet and your legs instead of ensconcing yourself in the middle of a fight like a maypole with tits.”

Eleanora crouched before him with one hand resting on her breast. He glanced at the translucent flesh of her breasts, glistening with perspiration. The sight of it somehow made him angrier. He stooped to help Hext to his feet, and the man leaned heavily against him.

“Easy, we’re going,” Christian said.

“My lord,” Hext said. “The lady.”

“Leave her to my pretty geese. They’ll be here soon enough.”

“My lord, you can’t leave a woman to that lot.”

“So she has to pay them for their help with a ride or two. Some good vagabond seed up her might turn her from a worm into a tigress.”

Hext pulled his arm from Christian’s shoulders. “Your father would cut off my right hand. I cannot leave a lady to Inigo Culpepper and his brigands.”

The smile Christian gave his bodyguard usually turned a man’s guts to ashes. As it was, Eleanora’s man-at-arms backed away from him. Hext only set his jaw and waited. He had to endure Christian’s frigid gaze for less than a minute, though, for the lady in question stood up and put her small hand on Christian’s forearm.

“I’m sorry I didn’t help,” she said. “You’re right, you know, I’m a coward, and I should have done something.”

Christian turned his glare on her, and his silence made her lips tremble. As he continued to stare, from amid the trees emerged Inigo, Three-Tooth Poll, and their comrades. Hext slipped away to give them orders.

Christian spoke at last. “Is that hand over your breast meant to call attention to it or to make you resemble a madonna?”

“Neither.”

He wasn’t listening. He snatched her hand away. Beneath, like a red silk thread on white damask, a cut slanted across the girl’s chest where it began to rise into the mound of her breast. Glistening trails of blood worked their way over the swell and disappeared into the valley between her breasts. Christian said nothing. Drawing a handkerchief from his sleeve, he wrapped it around his hand and feathered the soft material across Eleanora’s flesh. She jumped, so he grasped her arm to hold her still.

“Poll, bring water,” he shouted over his shoulder. He was soon bathing the wound clean in spite of the girl’s protests. When he finished, he wiped her face and hands, then dropped the cloth into the bowl Poll held for him. “I don’t suppose you have one stitch of clean cloth about you, Poll?”

“Me petticoat.”

“Give us a bit of it.” Christian handed the rag to Eleanora to use as a bandage. While she stuffed it into the neck of her gown, he slipped out of his doublet. “Put this around you.”

He adjusted the heavy garment, but the shoulders were far too wide. She vanished into the folds as if he’d dropped her in a privy, and it was then that he noticed how small she was. Snatching the doublet back, he exchanged it for the cloak on his saddle. She pulled it closed around her neck and stared up at him.

The French hood she wore was askew. Christian dragged it from her head with impatience. Long, dark curls tumbled out and rained down her shoulders.

His lips curled into a mockery of a smile. “Oh, Poll, look. It’s a starling. No, a magpie, all black and white.” He turned away and started toward his horse, snapping orders to Eleanora’s two men-at-arms who were unwounded to follow him. Mounting, he walked his horse back to Eleanora Becket. She had picked up her basket and was cradling it in her arms.

“Don’t gawk at me, woman. Who else will you ride with?” He swept an arm to indicate the dirty and lewdly joking thieves who were helping her men-at-arms while directing covetous glances at her and her maids. “Give me your hand, or I’ll leave you to accommodate my pack of kittens.”

A small hand shot out. He grasped it, disturbed at the feel of her delicate bones. Annoyed with his reaction, he hauled the girl up in front of him. She perched there as if she expected him to push her off at any moment. Fastening both hands about her waist, he pulled her back into his lap. It proved to be an error in judgment. A soft, swelling pressure settled over his loins. She wriggled in her embarrassment and ignorance, and with a voice that held the warmth of a snake’s hiss, he warned her to be still.

A sudden breeze whipped black curls into his face. Christian swatted at them, and Eleanora twisted around to look up at him. Overly large brown eyes questioned him. He lifted his brows and sneered at her full lower lip. She turned back around, flushing.

Christian called out to Hext and Inigo. “I’m going. Settle things here and follow with the other women.”

He kicked his horse into a trot. Eleanora clutched at his arms. Her basket swung out to hit him in the ribs, and he ground his teeth together as something inside it yipped. Two fuzzy heads poked from beneath a cover. Puppies.

He was about to snarl at the two creatures when the wind swirled Eleanora’s hair around his face again. He hauled on the reins until his horse stopped. Prying her hands from his arms, he slipped one arm around her waist. The little hands fastened on it, and he realized she was afraid he would drop her. He pried her grip loose, but offered the concession of holding her firmly against him.

“God deliver me from virginal sweetmeats,” he muttered. He dragged strands of her hair from his shoulders and face, and his fingers burrowed through curls as soft as the fur on an ermine’s belly. He jerked them free as if they had touched a white-hot brand.

Kicking his horse into motion, Christian snapped, “I do so hate black hair.”