Authors: Laura Andersen
The Virgin's Spy (13 page)
Stephen's return to Ireland was effected under much different circumstances than his first visit. Rather than landing in Waterford in open daylight, his men marching serious and disciplined through the English-held town, he came ashore alone out of a fishing boat and was met by a rather dubious character whose speech was nearly unintelligible but who led him straightaway to a small farm.
Where, incongruously, awaited Thomas Butler, Earl of Ormond.
The older earl, dressed inconspicuously beneath a cloak of rough homespun, surveyed Stephen critically from head to foot. “Well, you look better than when last I laid eyes on you. Sure you want to do this? Ireland didn't treat you so well the last time.”
“That's precisely why I'm back. To reset the balance.”
“Better you than me,” Ormond grunted. “Don't know why Walsingham's taking such a risk.”
“Because I asked him.”
“You know, son, once you're inâthat's it. You're on your own. No visits, no messages directâ¦we can't risk blowing your cover.”
“I'm quite clear on that, yes. Walsingham went into detail.”
Ormond did not smile at the, admittedly weak, jest. “Does your father know the details as well?”
“It's none of his businessâor yours.”
That did wring a smile from Ormond. “And here I thought you were nothing like your little brother.” He rubbed the back of his neck, arms strong and thick. Ormond was a working earl, as Stephen thought of it. A man of action more comfortable with his men than paying court in softer surroundings. Finally, Ormond nodded. “Fine. You're off at dawn to meet up with Walsingham's contact. Don't ask me who it isâI don't know. Until dawn, keep your head down in here.”
After an uncomfortable night in the straw, the guide roused Stephen at dawn. Their journey served as a physical progression into his new role. With each mile his title and privileges receded further, until Stephen Courtenay began to seem like an entirely different person. The last time he rode across this landscape, he had been in command, living on the edge of his nerves with the responsibility of prisoners and soldiers. He felt those memories reaching for himâthe anxiety and panic threatening to undo his hard-won controlâand kept it all at bay by reciting the Catholic prayers he had labored to learn as cover for his new identity.
The guide left him finally in a crofter's hut a mile up a hill off the rough track that served as a road. Stephen hoped his new contact would make it to him before he finished the last of the breadânothing in the landscape promised easy access to food.
The contact did make it before the end of the bread, but barely. A day and a half after Stephen arrived at the hut, a man strode up the hill leading a shaggy pony.
In educated English with a hint of Irish melody beneath it, the man greeted him by his new name. “Stephen Wyatt, is it?”
Wyatt had been his mother's father, a name less laden with aristocratic Norman overtones than Courtenay. Jonathan Wyatt had been a scholar and gentleman farmer, of no particular account or note, ideal for Stephen's cover.
The man, who was younger than he'd at first looked, said, “I'm Peter Martin.”
“Directly from England?” Stephen asked.
“From France, most recently. I spent two years at the English College in Douai, but stopped short of taking orders.”
The seminary whose primary purpose was training men to go undercover to England to, first, succor English Catholics and, second, topple Queen Elizabeth. Though Stephen knew Walsingham had spies everywhere, just the name of the place made his hands tense. “Right,” he said suspiciously.
Martin read his suspicion rightly and gave a fleeting, grim smile. “I report to Walsingham, same as you. I don't suppose either one of us cares to explain whyâand that's the last time his name will be spoken between us.”
“Right.” Stephen relaxed slightly.
Tethering the pony, which bore light packs, Martin said, “We'll leave in the morning. A quick meal now, while I give you the layout of the household and what to expect and to ensure our stories match. And then I'm going to beat you.”
It was Walsingham's idea: Stephen as an English deserter, a gentleman's bastard with no love for English authority and a liking for an Irish lass who'd been killed (it was easy to slide his memories of Roisin into that)â¦in short, an Englishman who'd opened his mouth once too often and was beaten and flung out to starve in the wastelands of Ireland for trying to help the locals. Peter Martin would bear witness to the story.
But none of it would matter if Stephen's body didn't bear the marks of his supposed insubordination.
“Just try to avoid the arm they broke last time I was in Ireland,” he told Peter resignedly. “And if you have to kick me, there are some areas I'd prefer you avoid.”
After all, there might come a day when the thought of taking a woman to bed filled him with something other than guilt and grief.
B
y mid-May the Kavanaughs had moved from Carlow to Cahir Castle, farther west. Cahir had the distinction of being built on an island in the River Suir. Almost a peninsula, really, for though it was surrounded by water on three sides, the fourth side nearly touched the riverbank. But the causeway was easily defended and walls encircled both the castle and outer courtyards.
As the party clattered across to the island, Ailis thought how odd it was to arrive without Finian. His death had been more of a shock than Ailis had anticipated. He'd been sixty-one, but a big, bluff man who had never been ill and hardly ever injured. Then in February he was struck with fever and flux that gradually turned bloody and left him bedridden and wasting away so rapidly he seemed to grow smaller each day. After three excruciating weeks, he had died with his wife at his bedside.
Although unexpected, he had lingered long enough for Ailis to be prepared. The transition period to her leadership would be the most delicate time, but she had Father Byrne on her side and the support of the rebels in the Wicklow Mountains. She was the one who had determined to get the hundred Spanish soldiers away from the coast. She was the one who had come up with the daring plans for this summer. All she had to do now was keep a cool head, refuse to be cowed by any bluff Irishman who thought his body made him a better leader than a woman, and ensure her schemes were followed. If she succeeded this summer, her leadership would be unassailable.
As they entered the castle, Liadan took charge of Maisie. “I want you to stay by me,” the child announced. “Right next door.”
Ailis interposed. “Maisie will have Uncle Finian's chamber, as she should.”
It was a calculated move. Ailis had watched Maisie closely during her uncle's illness, but the Scots girl managed herself so neatly that perhaps no one would have been able to read her intentions. Maisie had cared for her dying husband with kindness, and conducted herself as a new widow with perfect gravity that gave nothing away. She had come to Ailis three weeks after Finian's death to inform her there was no chance she was with childâAilis was not surprisedâand ever since, all the household had been waiting for Maisie to announce her intentions. Return to Scotland seemed likely, for why would she remain in Ireland now?
But here she still was. Without ever announcing anything, simply a serene part of the household whom Ailis was uncharacteristically hesitant about questioning too closely. The Holy Mother knew how desperately they could use Maisie's fortuneâif she left Ireland, there would be no chance at all of any more forthcoming. Ailis controlled her curiosity. Instead, she began to compile an unwritten list of possible Irish husbands for Maisie. Young, this time, and handsome. Silver-tongued charm would not go amiss. Although come to think of it, Ailis had no idea if Maisie was at all susceptible to charm. Surely she must be. She was a girl just turned sixteen who had been married off to an old man. Find her the right young man now, and they could tie her to Ireland and its interests for the long future.
Maisie accepted the offered courtesy of taking up residence in her dead husband's usual chamber. Ailis didn't mindâshe had never been easily moved by luxury. Far more important to have the power rather than merely its trappings. And the Kavanaugh plans would be run from her own chamber in the rectangular keep, with its narrow windows giving a far distant view of the Rock of Cashel in clear weather. She had settled herself beneath those windows at the long table that served as her desk, reviewing the household accounts for the move from Carlow, when Maisie knocked on her door.
“Come in.” Ailis angled her chair away from the table and waited for Maisie to draw up a low padded stool near her. The Scots girl wore a black Italian-style bodice gown, silver buttons running from waist to high neck, with an underskirt of dark gray that echoed her eyes. Her extraordinarily pale hair was severely parted in the middle and contained in a silk caul at the back of her head. The colours of mourning suited her fairness.
Ailis didn't often smile, but she did now. “How are you settling in?”
“Very easily. I was hoping, now that we have something of a new beginning, that we could talk about my role in the household.”
Interesting. Was Maisie going to make a power play? She'd never get away with it, not without a child of Finian's to her name, but it could prove entertaining. Not that Ailis had time for entertainment this year.
So she said neutrally, “How do you envision your role?” Always let the opposition speak first. The more you knew of their minds, the better you could anticipate and block them.
“I had thought I could take over Liadan's education. That would remove some of the pressure from your clerks. I know you were convent-educated, as was I, and if you are not yet prepared to send Liadan away, I could be useful for the interim. She is a very bright girl. She should not be neglected.”
It was the closest thing to a criticism Maisie had ever made. It narrowed Ailis's eyes as she answered, “No, I am not prepared to send Liadan away.” Certainly not this year or next, for Liadan lay at the very heart of her ultimate plans. “And I do agree, of course, that she is very bright. Do you think I had not noticed?”
Maisie managed to apologize without backtracking, a rare feat. “I think you notice everything and everyone. I only thought I might be useful in this. As far as the rest of your tasks are concerned, I suspect only you could accomplish them half so well. If I could ease your mind about Liadan's educationâand even some of the domestic details of the householdâthen you would be freer to use your talents where they will have the greatest effect.”
“How much do you know of the effects I intend?”
“Finian was my husband. If it was not precisely a marriage of true minds, he did speak to me a little. Mostly of you, and always with admiration. I know something of the Spanish soldiers, and something less of how you intend to use them. As I say, I doubt I could be helpful in those plans. But why not use the talents I do have to make your life easier?”
“Why?” Ailis asked abruptly. “Why do you care to make my life easier? Why do you care to stay in Ireland at all? How do I know I won't turn over Liadan's education to you, only to have you decide on a whim to return to Scotland? My daughter is exceedingly fond of you. I would not encourage that attachment if it will only lead to her disappointment when you leave.”
“It is my intention for the foreseeable future, certainly for the next year, to remain in Ireland. My brother would not welcome my return to Scotland. If I were to return, he would no doubt once more arrange to marry me off to the first convenient suitor. I would prefer to make my own choices for now. I had thought that was a viewpoint you might understand.”
Ailis stared at Maisie, who stared right back without a trace of being flustered. She was such a small thing, and young. Ten years younger than herself. But there was, as Ailis had noted from the beginning, a steadiness in her eyes and a diamond-sharp quality to her mind that belied her appearance. If she were to be completely honest, she would have admitted that part of her wanted Maisie to stay merely for the company. There were so few she had trusted since she was younger than Maisie.
With the smile that she used as one of her finely honed assets, Ailis put out her hands to Maisie and said, “Liadan will be beside herself with joy to have you stay. And indeed, the household would be the poorer without you.”
“Then I shall gladly make myself as useful as I am able. With whatever you care to entrust me.”
“For now, that is Liadan. Sharpen that mind of hers so that she might grow up to do honour to our clan.”
Everything that sharpened Liadan made her more valuableâ¦and more useful. Ailis knew how to deploy every one of her advantages. And finally, after ten long years, her revenge was beginning to be in sight.
Despite his own wariness, Philip discovered that he actually enjoyed having the English visitors at his court. Usually the only English that came to Spain were professionalsâdiplomats and ambassadors and cautious churchmen of the heretical varietyâall of whom came primarily as Elizabeth's messengers and were not interested in anything other than their own points of view.
The Courtenays were a different matter. Philip had known them fairly well during his stays in England and found the Duke of Exeter to be a man of good sense, if little patience. His wife, of course, would have been worth cultivating by any measure, as she was undoubtedly Elizabeth's closest personal friend. The Duchess of Exeter could get away with saying things to the English queen that no one else could, not even Philip when he'd been her husband. But Minuette Courtenay made it a pleasure to cultivate her, for she was warm and witty and effortlessly charming.
Philip's present queen did not like her at all.
But Philip's truest interest among the guests were the children: Christopher and Philippa, whom his daughter, Anne, seemed to consider as siblings. A less intelligent observer might think, as Mary said to him the third night after the party's arrival, that he was “wasting his time and efforts with those too young to be influential.”
Those observers would be missing the longer view. Elizabeth was a remarkable woman, but even she could not live forever. When their daughter inherited England, it was her friends who would wield influence. And that meant paying them attention while they were young.
Besides, whatever his other purposes, Philip was always a father. If he could not have Anne in Spain, then her friends were the next best thing. Philip craved their stories of Anne, and he hoped they would return to her with good impressions of him and his kingdom.
After five days of lavish feasts and receptions in Madrid, the royal party escorted their English guests to Philip's pride and joy, the royal complex at El Escorial. Situated at the foot of Mount Abantos thirty miles from the capital, the monastery and royal residence had been begun twenty years ago as a burial place for his father. Charles V had added a codicil to his will to establish a religious foundation in which he could be buried with his wife and Philip's mother, Isabella of Portugal.
Philip had overseen every step of the design and decoration of the complex himself and, though only the chapel and monastery were completely finished, he felt an almost unholy sense of pride at its appearance. To bring the Courtenays here was a way to highlight his artistic, spiritual side as opposed to merely his formal religious opinions.
They toured the basilica, two stories high at the facade, the interior with its Greek cross originally modeled on St. Peter's Basilica in Rome. To the south of the church were the austerely decorated royal apartments. The Patio de los Mascarones, surrounded on three sides by a gallery, led to the queen's apartments, in which, for this visit, the Courtenay family would be quartered. They seemed appropriately impressed with their surroundings, though none of them were given to lavish praise.
Leaving the family in their suite of high-ceilinged chambers, Philip spent two hours in council with Cardinal Granvelle and others. All were cautiously optimistic about the Irish project, but it was still a relatively minor matter. From the high mountains of the New World to the sultry tropics of Manila, the Spanish empire had both problems and opportunities enough for three monarchs to handle.
When matters of business were concluded and his councilors withdrew, Philip walked silently through El Escorial. The monks were accustomed to him, and he slipped unaccosted into the church for vespers. There, he was surprised to find Philippa Courtenay sitting in the far back of the public chapel, the monks' voices wafting from behind the sail vaults.
“Like angels,” Philip said softly, seating himself near her. “Heard and felt, but never seen.”
She smiled, a shade more warmly than mere politeness dictated, and Philip smiled in return. “How do you like Spain,
dama
?”