"That'll do. You may leave me." The queen waved her closed fan at her ladies, who curtsied and stepped away from the canopied chair, back behind the tapestry hanging that separated the council chamber from its antechamber.
The queen took a greedy sip from the goblet of fortified wine at her elbow. Her color was high, her bloodshot eyes almost buried in folds of mottled flesh. Her hair was untidily dressed, her gown loose over her uncorseted body, her eyes filled with pain. She looked along the table, frowning as she examined each of the gentlemen in turn.
Her gaze finally fell upon a man at the far end. A man in his mid-thirties, with dark hair cropped close to his head, his powerful frame clad in a somber coat and britches of gray velvet. His large ringless hands rested on the table, the knuckles prominent, the nails filed short. They were a swordsman's hands and bore the calluses of many a battle on the fields of Europe.
"Lord Hawkesmoor, we bid you welcome. You have a report for us from the duke of Marlborough."
Simon Hawkesmoor bowed as he remained in his chair. "And it please Your Majesty. His Grace has entrusted me with a full report of the battle of Malplaquet." His voice was low and deep, strangely melodious issuing from a rugged countenance marred by a livid scar down one cheek.
"I trust your wounds have healed, sir."
Lord Hawkesmoor bowed again. "Tolerably well, ma'am." He handed a sealed paper to a footman, who took it to the queen.
She broke the seal and read in silence for a few minutes, then she put it to one side. "Our general talks most highly of your exploits in the field, Lord Hawkesmoor. He deeply regrets that your wounds will prevent your return to his side." The duke of Marlborough had also begged his sovereign to reward the earl's skill and devotion, but Queen Anne was not known for her generosity.
She took another sip from her goblet. Fresh pain creased her brow. Her gloomy gaze wandered again along the two sides of the table and came to rest upon a dark-visaged man with angular features and charcoal gray eyes. He wore a full-bottomed wig and a suit of emerald brocade, in startling contrast to Lord Hawkesmoor, sitting opposite. But then the Ravenspeares, unlike the Hawkesmoors, had never been tainted by the cold sobriety of the Puritan.
In 1649, Simon Hawkesmoor's grandfather had sentenced the king to death. His family had been prominent in Oliver Cromwell's protectorate, and, with the Restoration, their punishment had been as severe as that which the Cromwellians had previously inflicted on the royalists. But now such times of conflict were over. In public. In private the queen knew they persisted. And among no two families did they run more deeply than between the Hawkesmoors and the Ravenspeares,
She smiled, although it was more a grimace than an expression of pleasure. Her Lady of the Bedchamber, Sarah, duchess of Marlborough, had had a most happy notion. It was a sovereign's task to promote peace and happiness among her subjects, and not least among those who held high place at her court. It was also a sovereign's task to reward those who had served her well, without depleting the privy purse. The duchess had hit upon a neat plan to gratify the duke of Marlborough by rewarding the earl of Hawkesmoor without it costing the queen more than an elegant gown, and perhaps a trinket, for a bride. And, by the same stroke, creating an alliance between two warring families.
"Lord Ravenspeare, you have a young sister, I believe."
Ranulf, earl of Ravenspeare, looked startled. "Aye, Your Majesty. Lady Ariel."
"How old is she?"
"Approaching twenty, ma'am." Ranulf's dark eyes narrowed.
"And she is not wed… nor betrothed as yet?"
"Not as yet," he agreed carefully. He and his brothers had yet to find the perfect husband for Ariel. The husband who would bring the greatest benefit to the house of Ravenspeare.
"She has no stated preference?"
"No, Your Majesty." She might well have, but Ranulf didn't add that whether she did or no, Ariel's wishes would be of little account in such a vital family matter.
"How very fortunate." Queen Anne smiled again. "I have it in mind to bestow the hand of your sister, the Lady Ariel, upon the earl of Hawkesmoor."
The silence in the council chamber was profound. The two men concerned didn't move, but their eyes met across the massive mahogany table. Met and held. And spoke of the deep and deadly enmity that each, as the head of their respective families, carried for the other.
"There is some land that is in dispute between your families, I believe," the queen continued. She was known as much for her phenomenal memory as for its selective quality. Matters of vital importance would disappear, never to be acknowledged by her, whereas strange trifles heard long ago would be dredged up and treated as enormously significant, frequently to the great inconvenience of others.
She looked inquiringly between the two men. Ravenspeares and Hawkesmoors were the great lords of the Fens and had held sway over that damp, flat, foggy land since William the Conqueror. Cromwell had given a large proportion of Ravenspeare land to the Hawkesmoors as a reward for their loyalty, but on Charles II's return as king, the land had been confiscated from the regicide's family and given, together with a large chunk of Hawkesmoor territory, in perpetuity to the royalist Ravenspeares. The Hawkesmoors had spent enormous sums on draining the fenland, reclaiming it for agricultural use, and with one stroke of the king's pen had seen their efforts and its rich rewards handed over to the rival dynasty.
Since the death of Charles II in 1685, the Hawkesmoors had been petitioning for the return of their land, a petition violently disputed by its present owners.
"If the land forms part of Lady Ariel Ravenspeare's dowry, then it will be jointly owned by both families," the queen continued into the silence. "Should she die before her husband, the dowry reverts to her birth family. Should she die in the fullness of time, it will be inherited by her children, who will carry the blood of both families. A happy solution, I believe. And one that will bring to an end a feud that has gone on for too many generations. We cannot have around us men whose service and advice we rely upon divided by such personal conflicts."
She seemed serenely unaware of the lack of reaction to her proposal and was completely ignorant of the surging speculation in the minds of the two men. She had set her heart upon her little scheme, convinced now that it had come from her own fertile brain, and would not be persuaded out of it.
Simon Hawkesmoor's half smile was ironic as he read Ravenspeare's mind. Either one of them could reject the queen's proposal, but to do so would mean immediate loss of favor and exile from the court. The queen never forgot a slight, and however irrational her dislikes, they were irreversible. The earl of Ravenspeare lived for his power at court. He had a hand in every intrigue and was as blatantly corrupt as any man serving the queen. He feathered his nest with bribery and extortion, influenced every court appointment, and could bring a man down as easily as he could raise him up. He thrived on the fear he induced in all who came into his orbit, and he would not willingly give up such power.
But could he tolerate such a price? To join his family with their blood enemies. The land quarrel was public knowledge, a common enough bone of contention between the country's great families in the wake of revolution, but the dark river of spilled blood that flowed between Ravenspeare and Hawkesmoor was known only to the chosen few-and to no one who was not born to either name.
"So, my lords, how do you answer my scheme to bring harmony to your families and to my council chamber?" The queen's voice was suddenly petulant. She was tired of the silence.
"I do not believe, madam, that either Lord Hawkesmoor or myself would presume to bring our private quarrels into Your Majesty's presence," Ranulf said with a stiff bow.