The Virgin's Spy (17 page)

While Liadan pursed her rosebud lips in a mock ferocity of focus, Maisie said to Stephen, “Peter Martin is supposed to be back here in the next few days. I imagine he'll be glad to see you on your feet and out of your locked room.”

“Do you think he'll care? He did his Christian duty when he kept me from starving alone, but he has no other interest in me than that. It's been eight weeks. He mightn't even remember me.”

That was a mistake, he knew it the instant he spoke. For he would need to speak with Martin during his time in Cahir, to pass information both ways. Better to paint a picture of a man who would be very interested in his welfare.

Liadan jogged his arm with her elbow and asked, “Do you think this move is right?”

He looked at her small hand hovering over a rook, then shrugged. “I wasn't lying, I'm useless when it comes to chess.” Shoving himself up from the table, he said as casually as he could manage, “I'm off to bed. Trying to keep up with the conversations of the women of this household is exhausting.”

He was off to bed, but not to sleep. Far into the night he lay awake veering in his mind between Oliver Dane, Peter Martin, and—most disturbingly—Ailis Kavanaugh. When Walsingham had proposed sending him to the Kavanaughs, he'd assumed it was to take advantage of a young woman in a precarious leadership position. He had planned to insinuate himself into her good graces, much as he had with Mary Stuart at Tutbury, but from the first he'd realized Ailis was a different matter. Not because—strangely enough—she was a hundred times warier than the Scots queen, and not because her hatred of Englishmen ran deep.

It was because he cared.

Only because he hadn't cared about Mary Stuart had Stephen been able to flirt with her—to use the charm he'd borrowed liberally from Kit's example to flatter her and twist her impressions so she found him a sympathetic and ready listener. But then, Mary Stuart had been a job to him…right up to the moment he discovered that she'd put her life above that of his sister's. And then she had become a more personal enemy.

But Ailis was not just a job. The most successful covers, Julien had taught him, were those that hewed most closely to the truth of a man's soul. And truth be told, Stephen had serious qualms about English policy in Ireland. He'd been appalled at the poverty and hunger, made many times worse by English soldiers burning crops and destroying livestock solely to deprive the Irish of a means to live. If a man couldn't eat, ran the reasoning, then he sure as hell couldn't fight. But where was the valour and honour in that?

The slaughter at Carrigafoyle might have been masterminded by Oliver Dane, but Pelham had done nothing to stop him, and he had not even been reprimanded by the English authorities. And then, of course, came the slaughter of prisoners outside Kilkenny. Though Stephen knew that act was beyond the pale of what even the most staunchly loyal lords like Ormond could stomach, the fact remained that it had mostly been shrugged off. Buried and forgotten.

The truth was, he sympathized with Ailis. Especially now that he knew it was Oliver Dane who had so abused her when she was not much older than Liadan. How many Irish women had borne children to Englishmen who'd used them carelessly and then moved on? How could he possibly justify his countrymen in that? How could he not look at Ailis and want to help her seek vengeance?

And how could he look Peter Martin in the eye in the next few days and lie? Even if by omission. For Stephen already knew that he would not breathe a word about Oliver Dane that might make its way back to Walsingham. He did not want to be ordered off that scent.

Because if he was, he could not swear he would obey that order.

Despite her reservations, Anabel thoroughly enjoyed herself the first three weeks of the Duc d'Anjou's visit. Whatever his physical drawbacks, Francis was witty and clever and knew how to make her laugh. Not, perhaps, as easily as Kit could, but it was a welcome respite all the same. She and Anjou each took to composing scurrilous verses about various members of the English court, striving to see who could outdo the other. Francis usually won, because he didn't have Anabel's innate respect for men and women she'd known most of her life, but every now and then that very familiarity meant she could go devastatingly to the heart of pomposity or vanity.

Pippa would have scolded her. Kit would have joined her. Lucette, in her siblings' place, merely rolled her eyes like the nominal older sister she was.

Anabel worked hard to keep the rest of the Courtenays out of her thoughts. Whatever they were doing in Spain was beyond her reach and there was little information coming in other than official reports. The personal letters were few and far between. At last, three months after they had sailed from Portsmouth, two insightful letters arrived from Spain.

10 July 1582

Dearest Anabel,

Are you surviving Lucie's attentions? Although, truth be told, since she met Julien she has very little attention for anything else.

No, that is not true. There is no man in the world who could make Lucie stop solving puzzles and immersing herself in mathematics and logic. But Julien has tempered her previous desire to be seen to be perfect. Though perhaps you know that even better than I do, seeing as the two of you were confined at Wynfield together. Stress, I believe, can forge strong bonds.

Seville is my favourite of the Spanish cities we have seen. Perhaps because it is the least insular, its port being the gateway to a world far beyond any we have ever dreamt of. I watch the ships coming and going from the New World and a small part of me longs to wing my way to the ends of our earth. To see the jungles and savage coastlines, to hear languages never before imagined, to meet people who have not the slightest idea who we are—or care!

But that is just fancy. I promise I will not leave you like that. We shall be back in a month or so, Anabel. With enough stories to satisfy even you.

Love,

Pippa

Beneath Pippa's carefully composed letter were two lines scrawled in a familiar hand.

Every sight, every sound, every taste of Spain reminds me of you. I will have lots to tell you when we return.

Kit

The second letter wasn't even for Anabel. Madalena, while helping string pearls through Anabel's hair for an evening reception of London's mayor and guild leaders, said matter-of-factly, “My grandmother writes that Lady Philippa and Lord Christopher came to see her in Seville.”

Anabel flinched against Madalena's hands, then stilled. “Did they? I presume they are well.”

Of course they were well. Illness or difficulty would surely have been reported to her mother.

She could never deceive Madalena. “She thought Lord Christopher more astute than she would have expected from such a pretty younger son.”

Pretty
? Anabel choked back a laugh. She would never have used that word, but had to admit it fit. At least on the surface.

“Lady Philippa, my grandmother wrote, is troubled. And taking care to hide it from those around her.”

“Did she elaborate on the nature of that trouble?”

“She did not.”

They had been speaking English; now Anabel switched to Spanish just in case one of her other women came into the chamber. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you are also troubled, and like Lady Philippa choose to hide it rather than face it. My grandmother thought it strange that two young women so closely knit would choose to keep their secrets from each other.”

Just how canny was Madalena's grandmother? Anabel wondered. Could she read her secret from across the seas? A secret she was keeping from herself almost as much as from Pippa.

How do you know when you're in love?
Anabel had asked that question when she was twelve—not of her mother, whom she could not imagine ever having been in love, but of Minuette. It had seemed a very pressing question then, when she was just old enough to realize that love was possible, while still young enough to believe such a question would matter in her life.

Minuette did not laugh it off, or turn her away with a teasing answer. Perhaps she had sensed the trouble behind the question, from a girl who had watched her parents and knew that, whatever they felt, love was not the motivating factor of their relationship.

Only now, at the age of twenty, did Anabel realize how Minuette must have paused at the question—for surely it had brought a flood of memories about a man who had loved her to violent distraction. Anabel's uncle, the late King of England.

“I can only speak for myself,” Minuette had warned her, “but there were two things that told me I was in love. First, that there was no one else I would rather be with for every moment of my day—not just the romantic moments.”

“And second?” Anabel had prompted, only slightly unsettled by the thought of grown-ups being romantic.

“Second, because he made me want to be better. Not by lecturing me or ordering me—trust me, the few times he tried that ended disastrously!—but simply by being himself. The very fact that Dominic loved me precisely as I was made me want to give him the best person in return.”

That had seemed an esoteric answer to a twelve-year-old, even a precocious princess with an impressive education. At the time, Anabel had been looking more for fireworks and breathless proclamations of an inability to breathe without each other.

But now, as Madalena silently pinned her hair, Anabel knew that Minuette had spoken true.

She had known Kit was in love with her since the crisis at Wynfield Mote. But only now could Anabel admit that she was as wholly in love with him as well.

T
heir final weeks in Spain passed in a whirlwind of official events and semiofficial discussions between Philip's councils and Elizabeth's envoys. Kit watched his father come and go from those discussions with his usual imperturbable expression and wondered what he thought of the current situation in Spain.

Kit was young, but one didn't have to be old to feel the undercurrents of tension and suspicion that had followed them through their travels. Indeed, perhaps he and Pippa had the advantage. People took less notice of the young—everyone, that is, except Philip himself.

The King of Spain might be the most powerful monarch in the Christian world, but he was also a loving father who had spent several afternoons in private consultation with Kit and Pippa, encouraging them to share as many stories of his only daughter as they could. And not just of the last year, but all the many years he had missed of her life. The king was particularly enchanted by stories of her stubbornness, and had laughed when Pippa did an accurate imitation of a ten-year-old Anabel using devastating logic to refute every argument her mother made as to why she had to learn Greek.

But other than by the king, the Courtenays had been received with surface courtesy and sideways glances. Kit had thought Seville might be less wary than Madrid or El Escorial, since the port city had such a constant influx of traders and contact with the New World. But there were undercurrents here as well. He was beginning to grow tired of politely shuttered faces and people who pretended not to understand his most basic questions.

He was also increasingly worried about Pippa. His twin had grown ever more inward since her visit to Madalena's grandmother. She would not talk about it, and only on reflection did Kit realize how much of their life had been defined by Pippa not talking. Or at least, not talking about herself. She was always the one giving advice and counsel and keeping her own interior life securely locked away. It was disconcerting to realize how little he knew about his twin.

All in all, by the time his father asked him to walk down to the harbor, he felt rather like one of the Arabian thoroughbreds the Spanish had in plenty. The day after tomorrow they would set sail on one of Philip's royal ships and hug the coast of Portugal north before returning to Portsmouth.

It was blazingly hot, in a way Kit had never known before. Even his parents had never been this far south, and the entire English party was amazed at just how thick the air could lay beneath the sun's rays. Kit couldn't believe that people managed to labor in this weather. But there were crowds aplenty as they strolled the bright streets.

If Dominic's stated reason for their route was to cast an eye over their ship, Kit quickly realized there was more to it than that. Of course there was. Dominic Courtenay did not lightly seek his children's company—or at least, not Kit's. He'd always had time for his daughters, and Stephen had naturally spent many hours alone with their father, being appropriately raised as heir to one of England's wealthiest estates.

Could it be his father had regrets? As they strolled into sight of the harbor—two of Philip's guards following at a discreet distance to ensure their well-being—his father said, “If I had known that going abroad was the surest way of getting to know you, I would have done it long ago.”

Kit's first instinct, as always, was to tease. “What is there to know? I'm the simple one—no need to fret over the lighthearted younger son as long as I don't too openly smear the family name.”

His father's reply was measured and grave. “The fact that you believe that tells me I have failed you in important ways. I am sorry for it.”

What on earth was he supposed to say to that? Trying furiously to deflect the emotional undertones threatening to swamp him, Kit said, “Why would you apologize? You never do anything wrong.” It didn't come out quite as teasing as he'd intended.

“And that tells me how very young you are.” Dominic pushed his hand through his hair, threaded with silver but still abundantly black. “If you need me to, I can enumerate my many failures. But then we might be here awhile. All I can say in my defense is that I might have been much worse were it not for your mother. Believe it or not, I used to be even more rigid when younger.”

They had stopped at an overlook of Seville's busy harbor, the guards keeping watch to—what? Ensure they didn't jump? Set fire to Philip's ships? Contaminate the population with their Protestant heresies?

Dominic had a naturally low voice, which he used to his advantage now. Kit was sure that he was the only one who heard his father when he said, “We've been in Spain for three months. Tell me what you see.”

It was the kind of quizzing given to Stephen when younger—or even Lucette, with her brilliant, puzzle-solving mind. But this was not a quiz. This was the struggle of kingdoms.

As he had learned to do over the last year, Kit took his time answering. Once, he had rushed to speak, afraid if he did not keep people entertained they would lose interest in him. But his father was an eminently patient man and would prefer thought to impulse.

“I see a court glad enough to have twin boys to secure the inheritance…but uneasy with their new queen. Mary's pride is not meshing well with the Spanish. Perhaps it's her early years spent in France—she can't help but feel superior and distrustful. And vice versa.”

Kit stretched, then leaned on the rock wall above the harbor. He could feel the rough texture of stone and mortar beneath his palms as he looked beyond the surface to what it might mean.

“There aren't enough ships,” he observed finally, keeping his voice as low as his father's. Though it seemed folly to conduct this conversation in public, it was actually more private than in one of Philip's palaces with attendants around every corner. No doubt reporting on them.

His father nodded once, to show he'd heard, and Kit continued his analysis. “Seville is the sole port open to the New World. There should be more ships here. Which leads one to wonder—if the ships are not in Seville, where are they? There are too many missing to simply be accounted for by New World travel.”

“Yes, there are.”

“And we have not visited any other ports since we arrived. The Spanish have gone to some lengths to keep this secret.”

With that rare smile of approval, his father said, “There's always another secret—so Henry VIII used to say. Philip knows we did not come simply—or even primarily—to present gifts to his new sons. He also knows we can count. It is the analysis they are trying to obscure. And fortunately, it is not dependent on you or I to make that analysis. We simply return with our observations to a court with men capable of seeing beneath obscurity.”

“And then what?” Kit asked.

He meant what came next with the Spanish and English opposition, but his father answered a different question. One Kit hadn't been aware of asking. “Then you make up your mind to serve where you are best suited—and where you are needed. I would suggest intensive military training before all else, for I do not think the Spanish threat is neutralized. You have a talent for command, Kit, perhaps more even than Stephen or I. Your mother gave you gifts of warmth and interest and genuine care for other people. Men will follow a commander who cares.”

Never in a hundred years would Kit believe he could ever be half the commander his father was. Dominic's men loved him, reticent as he was, and no man could command greater loyalty. Kit said wryly, once again deflecting, “Too bad I don't have any men to command.”

“You do. When we return, I will settle Blessington and Upham Court on you. They come with a small contingent of experienced soldiers who will be happy to take you on and teach you leadership while giving you plenty of bruises and lessons in humility. And perhaps you might consider going abroad for a time. Renaud LeClerc would work you to a degree of high proficiency.”

Kit didn't know if he could take any more surprises. Manors of his own? Training in France? But his father was not yet finished delivering surprising news. “You should also know that King Philip has offered you a Spanish bride. ‘As a token of his esteem for his daughter's great friend,' he said. I think it is rather a token of His Majesty's concern.”

His head was whirling so much he didn't know which sentence to address first. “Why is the king concerned with me?”

Now his father grew quiet, in a manner much more familiar to Kit. He seemed to be considering a great many things. Finally, he asked a question. The most humiliating question Kit had ever been asked. “How many women have you been with?”

He turned scarlet despite himself, and stuttered in reply. “I…What do you…” he stopped, wishing the earth would swallow him up. Was this the sort of conversation Stephen had with their father? If so, perhaps he preferred being overlooked.

“You haven't,” his father concluded. “I didn't think so, but I'm not so old as to be convinced I know everything my children do. I'm afraid it's that fact—or, more truly, the motivation behind it—that has King Philip worried.”

“Surely the King of Spain has more to worry about than my love life!”

“Did you not mark the number of women who, well, more or less offered themselves to you along the way? Spain is traditionally more conservative than England—these women would not have done it if they hadn't been steered in that direction.”

This was growing too wild for reality. King Philip of Spain had been trying to lure him into a Spanish woman's bed? Why would he possibly care?

As though he'd spoken the last question aloud, his father answered. “Because of Anabel.”

From scarlet, Kit's face turned white. He kept his eyes fixed on the horizon beyond the masts of the ships below.

His father continued, gently, “I do not wish to force you to speak of private things, but Kit? You're in dangerous waters if royalty is noticing your attentions and trying to find ways to break it. Philip is afraid of the hold you have on his daughter.”

“And are you afraid of the same thing?” Kit asked bluntly.

“No. I'm afraid of the hold she has on you. I have always wished for my children to love as your mother and I do—but I had hoped it would come without the costs we had to pay. You and Anabel…I do not see an easy path there, son.”

“Why do you think I went away?” he said forcefully.

His father sighed. “Does she feel the same about you?”

“No. Of course she doesn't. She's in England right this minute trying to decide between France and Scotland.”

“I hope so, son. For both your sakes.”

“Tell me, Walsingham, what am I do about William Catesby and this wild scheme for a Catholic English colony in the New World? The Spanish ambassador has his fingerprints all over this proposal. And I do not like them meddling with my subjects.”

“Catesby should have remained in prison,” Walsingham said severely. “He harbored Edmund Campion and has shown no eagerness to reform after the treasonous priest's execution. When you give the recusants so much room to maneuver, of course they will maneuver to your disadvantage.”

“Better to let them leave, then?” Elizabeth demanded, piqued. Walsingham was nearly always proposing harsher measures. Sometimes she wondered if she opposed him merely from habit.

“I do not think any plan that involves the Spanish and English citizens is a good plan.”

“Well, let us see what our envoys and Lord and Lady Exeter have to say about Spain when they return. It's only another ten days or so. I doubt Catesby and his ilk are preparing to sail on the next tide.”

Walsingham nodded and his brother-in-law, Walter Mildmay, took the pause to redirect the conversation. “Esmé Stewart is expected to pass the night at Oxford and arrive at Hampton Court late tomorrow. Apparently the Duke of Lennox is coming with full plenipotentiary powers to treat for a marriage with Princess Anne.”