He hesitated, but thought it best to be honest. ‘Doctor Viera told me that she is delicate. We may lose her, Kathryn. But you will live and so will our son.’
‘She shall live too,’ Kathryn said. ‘And we shall call her Beth.’
‘I pray that you are right, my darling.’ Lorenzo kissed her again. ‘You should sleep now, Kathryn. I love you and our babies and I shall come to you again soon.’
He watched as she lay back against the pillows, dark shadows beneath her eyes, worn out by the fight to give birth, and whispered a silent prayer. He gave thanks for her life and that of his son.
‘If you are merciful, God,’ he murmured aloud, ‘watch over our Beth this night, I pray you.’
Elizabeta beckoned to him and he crossed the room to gaze at the face of the tiny girl she held for him to see.
‘Is she not beautiful?’
‘Very. She is like her mother.’
‘And as such, she is a fighter. I think the doctor is wrong,’ Elizabeta said. ‘She was sucking my thumb strongly just now. I shall summon the wet nurse to attend her and then we shall see.’
Lorenzo felt a wave of tenderness as he bent to kiss the tiny scrap of humanity that was his daughter. ‘Live, my little one,’ he said. ‘Live for yourself, for your mother and for me.’
It seemed to him then that the child smiled at him, and he felt her little fingers curl about his heart, binding him as surely as he was bound to the woman who had given this tiny scrap life.
It was a beautiful day and the first time that Kathryn had come down in more than two weeks. Lorenzo had insisted on carrying her to her chair in the garden, placing cushions at her back and a rug over her knees. She looked about her, catching the scent of a full-blown dark red rose, and lifting her face to the sun as a feeling of content surrounded her.
‘I am quite well now,’ she told him with a smile.
‘You are still a little tired,’ he replied. ‘You must rest for three weeks as the doctor told you.’
‘He makes such a fuss,’ Kathryn said and pulled a face at him. ‘Did he not tell you that Beth would not live through the night? And does she not thrive?’
‘Thanks to our good friend Elizabeta and the wet nurse.’
‘I should have liked to nurse her myself,’ Kathryn said wistfully, ‘but Dickon is so greedy there would not be enough milk left for her.’
‘She thrives as she is,’ Lorenzo said. ‘And you make much fuss of her when you hold her. She will learn to know that she is loved, Kathryn.’
‘She likes you to hold her,’ Kathryn replied with a tender smile. ‘She stops crying instantly when you pick her up. I think she knows you are her devoted slave, Lorenzo.’
‘She is so like you,’ Lorenzo said and laughed ruefully, knowing that the babe had him curled about her little finger. ‘ cannot resist spoiling her, because she is so beautiful.’
Kathryn sighed with content as she looked up at him. He was so different now to the man she had married, always laughing and teasing her, making up stories to entertain her, just as he had when they were children. She knew that Dickon had come back to her at last. He was Dickon and he was Lorenzo, the two now blended into one whole, a man she could love, respect and lean on in the years to come.
‘We are so lucky,’ she said, ‘to have each other and our children.’
‘God has blessed us,’ Lorenzo said. ‘Once I thought he did not listen to our prayers, but now I know that I was wrong.’
Kathryn reached out for his hand. Her fingers moved to the hard welt of scarred flesh, tracing it gently. Lorenzo no longer wore his wristbands. He had no secrets to hide. The past was gone, if not entirely forgotten.
‘I love you,’ Kathryn said.
‘As I love you,’ he replied. He looked up and smiled as his father came out to join them in the courtyard. ‘I have everything that any man could want.’
I thank all my readers for their continued support.
Prologue
Spring 1557
The man walked away from the hostelry on the waterfront deep in thought. He had booked passage on a ship bound for France and it might be many years before he returned home. He was filled with regret and anger for he had parted from his father with bitter words.
‘You take the word of others above mine, Father—you would believe a stranger above your own son.’
Justin Devere’s blue eyes had flashed with pride, making Sir John snort impatiently. ‘You were a damned fool, Justin. By God, sir! There is no excuse for what you have done. You are the great-grandson of Robert Melford and a more devoted supporter of the Crown could not be found. Your grandfather was much favoured by King Henry VIII—and my own family has always been loyal. By becoming involved in this conspiracy to murder Queen Mary and replace her with the Princess Elizabeth you have let your whole family down. I am ashamed of you!’
‘No, sir. You wrong me…’
Justin raised his head defiantly. He was a handsome devil, with pale blond hair and deep blue eyes; reckless, arrogant and dismissive of rules, he stood head and shoulders above most men, including his father. His grandfather said he was a throwback to Robert Melford in temperament and build, though not in colouring. He was also fiercely proud and it pricked his pride to hear his father call him a fool.
‘You have spoken treason against the Queen and that cannot be tolerated.’
‘It was no such thing, sir!’ Justin declared passionately. ‘I will grant that some hotheads have talked of such a plot in my hearing, but I am innocent of any conspiracy—as is the princess herself. She was gracious enough to grant me an audience; many of us wished her to know that we support her and if any attempt were made to disbar her from inheriting the throne when the Queen dies we should rise to her—’
‘Be quiet!’ John Devere thundered. ‘Do you not realise that that in itself is sufficient to have you arrested for treason?’
‘I shall not be silent, sir. I am as loyal an Englishman as any, but I cannot love a Catholic queen who puts good Englishmen to the fire in the name of religion.’
‘It is not so many years since we were all Catholic and proud of it,’ Justin’s father reminded him. ‘King Hal saw fit to break with Rome and we were all forced to follow or lose our favour at court, but that does not mean—’ He broke off, for the anger was writ plain on Justin’s face. ‘While the Queen lives ’tis treason to speak of her death and well you know it.’
‘We did not plot to murder her, merely to protect our own Elizabeth.’
‘Surely it is enough that talk of your conspiracy has reached her Majesty? The Princess has herself faced questions from the Queen regarding treason and was lucky
