becoming more difficult to get out. His color was pasty and his chest labored harder with each harsh breath. Skye could feel panic beginning to creep upward from deep within herself. They could not seem to conquer the disease, only to slow it down.
Suddenly Geoffrey Southwood opened his lime-green eyes. “Skye!” His voice was hoarse, and he coughed that terrible barking cough.
“I am here, my darling.” She bent anxiously over him. His marvelous eyes roamed slowly and lovingly over her face as if committing it to memory. ‘Take care of the children, Skye.” “Geoffrey, my love, you must not say things like that!” Her voice was edged in hysteria.
He smiled a gentle smile at her and, reaching up, touched her cheek with his elegant hand, as though bestowing a benediction. “What a joy you’ve been to me, my darling,” he whispered, and then he gave a deep sigh and died.
The room was silent. Neither Daisy nor the manservant dared to move.
“Geoffrey! Please don’t frighten me so,” Skye begged. “You’re going to get well, my love! You will! And we’ll go to Ireland this summer as we planned, to see my family and so that Ewan may formally pledge his fealty to the MacWilliam.” She went on talking to him of family things and plans they had made. Finally Daisy gently put an arm about Skye. “He is dead, my lady.” She began to sob. “The Earl is dead, and you must face it now. The children must be told and the funerals for wee Johnny and his father must be planned.”
To Daisy’s immediate relief, Skye burst into wild sobbing and flung herself across her husband’s body. “Not gone!” she wailed. “No! No! No! Not dead! Not dead!”
Her cries could be heard throughout Lynmouth Castle, and the cry was quickly taken up by others. Daisy and Will pulled Skye from her husband’s form. She fought them like a madwoman, but finally their combined strengths prevailed and they were able to get her to her own bed. She collapsed there, sobbing. “Get the children,” Daisy whispered to the manservant, and when he had brought them, Daisy brutally roused her mistress from her grief. “My lady! The children are all here with you now. They need you, my lady! They need you now.”
Skye raised her ravaged, tear-swollen face to stare at the frightened group of youngsters clustered together in the bedroom doorway. Geoffrey’s three daughters from his second marriage-Susan, nine, with her father’s haunting green eyes, and the eight-year-old twins, Gwyn and Joan-these three were now orphaned. Her own three-
Ewan, ten, Murrough, nine, and Willow, six and a half-looked confused and tried to hide their fright. And Robin, three,
Gathering herself, she stood up and smoothed her rumpled gown. “Your father is dead, my children,” she said quietly. Then she lifted little Robin to a table, where he sat, wide-eyed, staring at her. “Robin, you are now the Earl of Lynmouth. To you, my lord Earl, I pledge my fealty.” And she curtseyed to him.
Then the other children were standing before Robin, and pledging their fealty. Robin was confused. “Where is Papa?” he lisped. “Gone to Heaven, my son,” said Skye softly.
“Like Johnny?” His little brow was furrowed.
“Yes, Robin, like Johnny.”
“Can’t we go too, Mama?”
Susan sobbed, but was quelled by a fierce look from her stepmother. “No, Robin, we can’t go yet. One may only go when God calls, and God has not called us yet.” Skye could feel strength flowing back into her limbs. Geoffrey had been right. The children needed her. She lifted her son from the table and gathered the other children about her. “We must all be brave, my dears,” she told them, and kissed each in turn. “Now go back to your rooms, and pray for your father and for Johnny.”
The children dutifully filed out. “Fetch the priest,” she said to Daisy. “Will,” she turned to the manservant, “I want you to ride to London with a message for Her Majesty. Wait in the anteroom while I write it.”
The note informed the Queen of Geoffrey’s death, and requested royal confirmation of Robin’s inheritance. Will left immediately. The priest was told to schedule the funerals for the following day. The sixteen-month-old John, Lord Lynton, would be buried in the same grave as his father. Then Skye called for a bottle of cherry brandy and drank herself to sleep, an act she had cause to regret when the morning dawned clear and far too sunny for her throbbing head. It was tragically ironic. The April weather had turned mild overnight and there were no new cases of white throat in the castle or in the village. Having taken the Earl, the epidemic seemed to have satisfied its lust for lives.
Chapter 22
Robert Dudley, the foppish Earl of Leicester, hummed a merry tune as he traveled the road down to Devon. About him, his escort echoed this mood. The Earl was on a mission for Her Majesty, which lent great importance to this trip. Added to this was the fact that it was June and England was enjoying beautiful, sunny weather. Roses of every possible hue peeped from dooryard gardens and tumbled extravagantly over rock walls. In the green meadows fat young lambs gamboled amid the sweet clover. Every millpond had at least one family of swans, elegant snow-white parents with their gray cygnets, sailing as proudly across the barely ruffled waters as treasure- laden Spanish galleons. Lord Dudley was in an excellent mood. Unwittingly, the Queen had given him something he wanted very much. Bess could not possibly have known when she sent him off to see to the welfare of their godson, the little Earl of Lynmouth, that the child’s mother concerned him far more than Robin did.
Geoffrey Southwood’s death had been a terrible shock to the Queen and the entire Court, for the Angel Earl had been very well liked. True, he and his lovely Irish wife had not been to Court for two years, but they always came up to London to give their Twelfth Night masque, always the best party of the year. Only a few short months ago they had astounded everyone once more by the marvelous originality of their costumes, coming to their last masque as “The New World.” The beauteous young Countess had been gowned in cloth of gold trimmed lavishly in rich dark beaver and set off by Colombian emeralds, while Lord Southwood had been equally resplendent in his cloth-of-silver suit trimmed in fox, and sewn all over with Mexican turquoise.
So much for earthly glories, thought Robert Dudley wryly. Southwood, so lively and virile in January, was quite dead and buried on this glorious June day. Now perhaps his wife would be more amenable. And if she was not, there were means through which he could persuade her to be more cooperative. So pleased with himself was the Earl of Leicester as he came in sight of Lynmouth Castle in early evening that he burst into a currently popular and very bawdy song, much to the grinning delight of his soldiers.
Watching his approach from the open ramparts of the castle, the widowed Countess of Lynmouth was filled with trepidation. It had taken the Queen several weeks to answer Skye’s letter announcing Geoffrey’s death. When she did, Elizabeth had confirmed little Robin’s inheritance. But she had also appointed Robert Dudley the child’s guardian. Skye had protested, pointing out as diplomatically as possible that Geoffrey’s will had made her the sole guardian of all their children. But the Queen was adamant. Skye had full control over the others, but the little Earl of Lynmouth was to be under royal protection from that time on.
Skye was most unhappy. She did not trust Dudley. To be sure, his behavior had been most circumspect since the incident of the Twelfth Night masque two years before. But she knew he would not give up easily. And in her widowed state she was unprotected and easy prey. He would not hesitate to use the young ones to force her hand, and so Skye had quickly done what she could to protect herself and the children.
Ewan and Murrough O’Flaherty had been sent home to Ireland, along with the twins, Gwyneth and Joan Southwood. Over a year previously, Skye and Geoffrey had betrothed these children to each. The twins had expressed the desire to remain together, and the boys were quite fond of them. The four would all be safe in Anne O’Malley’s care and would marry in a few more years. The twins’ nine-year-old sister, Susan Southwood, was sent to the household of Lord Trevenyan in Cornwall to learn the housewifely arts from his wife. She would be wed to the Trevenyan heir, an excellent match for both young people.
Only Willow and Robin remained with their mother. Skye had plans for the little Earl, but she would need the Queen’s permission to carry them out. She had therefore waited to approach Elizabeth until she knew Lord Dudley was away from Court. Willow could easily be removed from Lynmouth. In case of danger the Smalls at Wren Court would protect her. If Skye had to fight Robert Dudley, it would be on her terms, not ins: the children would not
