The Hooded Hawke Read Free

and was surprised to find she gripped its bone handle so hard her knuckles had turned white. She flexed her fingers, then cradled the curved blade in her arms as if she could cuddle it to her, however sharp, just like her memories.
    Laughter and shouts floated to her. Meg began to hack at the long green necks of tall yarrow.

    T he queen had liked Francis Drake from the moment she met him. Though he was a bit blustery and rough-hewn among her clever courtiers, his bluff speech and lack of politician’s skill meant to her he cared not for prevarication or pride. Like her, he was red-haired as well as ambitious and driven by duty and discipline. Besides, it was obvious he hated the Spanish, perhaps almost as much as she did.
    “Later I shall have you tell me privily all that happened on that dreadful day our ships were bested on your fateful voyage,” she told him, “and I shall ask that you share your opinions of our future seafaring and navy.”
    She sensed how deflated Robin and Norfolk were that she would not request that recital before them all. Both had edged closer to Drake with ears flapping to hear of his tales and exploits. But enough of business—public business—for she intended to fly all four of her hawks Fenton Layne had brought along on this progress.
    “I’ll send word back to my ship, then,” Drake said, “that I shall remain at your disposal at least until you reach your southernmost staying point.” He’d explained how he had sailed the tattered Judith from Plymouth westward through the Channel and had come up the River Meon to lease a horse to ride to her. The fact he’d been newly wed but a month had given her a moment’s pause, but a seaman’s wife, even a new bride, must become accustomed to having her helpmeet away.
    “That will be fine,” she told him, as Fenton placed Swift on her gauntlet. When she nodded toward her guest, Fenton placed a gauntlet, then another hawk, a fine sacret, fit for a knight, on Drake’s arm. “Indeed, I would like to see that ship,” she went on. “We will need many privately owned ones like yours and mine to bolster our defenses against the Spanish should they be foolish enough to defy England’s might in any way, isn’t that true, Norfolk?”
    “Of course, Your Grace,” he clipped out. He wiped his damp brow, then swept his red velvet cap off in a circle at a fly or gnat she didn’t see.
    “Fenton,” the queen said, “a hawk for the duke, too. Bring
Autumn, I think, so he doesn’t have time to wish he were elsewhere.”
    She forced a laugh as Norfolk frowned at her and moved back toward the crowd. He could have come up on this little elevation with them, but she was just as glad he had not. With her courtiers milling about in the shade, she stood next to Drake, ready to launch Swift. As commanded, Fenton put Autumn, a bastard hawk, fit for a baron two ranks below the breed a duke should fly, on Norfolk’s arm.
    To be ready to take the hawks’ hoods from her and Drake when they plucked them off, Fenton hied himself to stand between them, perhaps before Norfolk could cuff him. With a flourish, the queen unhooded Swift and cast the bird aloft. She laughed at the sheer joy of the bird’s strength as she soared skyward. Fenton, she thought, shouted a laugh, too, as she turned to hand the hood to him.
    But the delight in her falconer’s eyes turned to shock, then fright. Drake was ready to cast his bird, but he, too, saw her falconer’s plight and didn’t release the jesses.
    Drake reached for Fenton as he toppled but couldn’t hold him one-handed as the man crumpled to the ground. The wings of Drake’s bird beat the air above the queen’s head as she fell to her knees beside the stricken falconer.
    Someone screamed. Was it she?
    Fenton Layne, his face contorted in pain, lay writhing at her feet. Bright blood bloomed from the arrow piercing his chest.
    Drake cast his hawk and cradled Fenton’s shoulders. First the queen’s guard Jenks,