The Virgin's Spy (25 page)

She was not prepared for open contempt. Mildmay barked an astonished laugh. “You cannot be serious!”

“Have you ever known me to be less than serious on matters touching my kingdom?”

“Anjou will never agree,” he said bluntly.

“He already has. Privately.”

That shut their mouths, but not their eyes. Elizabeth could see the question none of them were suicidal enough to ask aloud.
Why would Anjou marry an old woman?

It wasn't as though she hadn't asked herself that question in the dead of night. In a year she would be fifty. There was no question of more children. Why wouldn't the twenty-seven-year-old Anjou hold out for a younger woman?

Because he was ambitious. And clever. He knew how to read royal currents and was as certain as he could be at this point that Anabel would never be contracted to France. If he could not wed the young princess and sire a future English king, then why not marry the reigning English queen?

Her councilors, if disapproving and shocked, were intelligent men who could follow that train of thought. They also knew her temper. So, cautiously, Burghley spoke for them all. “This is indeed news of some magnitude, Your Majesty. It is a possibility worth considering.”

She narrowed her eyes at his use of the word “possibility,” but Burghley knew how to smoothly navigate treacherous waters. “Perhaps we might leave that for future discussion and turn our thoughts to Lord Exeter's reports on Spain.”

With a glare that told him she knew what he was doing, Elizabeth assented. At which point Walsingham took over the reports.

“As expected, King Philip took care to impress his English guests with the most beautiful parts of his homeland,” he said. “Madrid, Segovia, El Escorial…it was a tour designed to awe. With Spanish culture, Spanish hegemony, Spanish wealth. Their final stop was Seville, where Exeter and his family were treated to the wealthiest port city in Europe. They were allowed to explore at their leisure. No doubt the king expected them to be calculating the resources at his disposal, as well as the power of the churchmen behind him. Seville was the original site of the Inquisition. With gold from the New World and religious fanatics in the old, Spain has only to take the decision—”

“We have always known this,” Elizabeth interrupted sharply. “Our daughter is our greatest asset, for I cannot believe Philip will move against her future as long as it remains uncertain.”

“Agreed. Which is why, though some understanding is advisable as to her marriage, a commitment to a specific wedding date is not wise just now. Delay must be our tactic—delay and charm.”

Christopher Hatton joined in. “But Exeter seems confident that there is something military in the offing. From the ships and soldiers that were not seen where they might be expected. If not England itself—”

“Ireland,” Walsingham agreed. He just managed not to sound insufferably pleased at being right. “With the hundred Spanish troops reinforcing the Earl of Desmond, he has begun to strike out from Askeaton. Ormond is worried. There is expectation that Desmond's forces will march to Cork and besiege Kinsale.”

“That's enough,” Elizabeth commanded. “We cannot fight ghosts or fears. Bring me hard news from Ireland, Lord Walsingham, and then we can take decisions.”

She did not expect that hard news to come so quickly, nor to be so shocking. That very night, an hour after she'd retired to her bedchamber to read, her ladies informed her Walsingham had arrived, eager to see her.

Eager meant highly disturbed. “Send him in.” For a moment Elizabeth thought of Anabel, but dismissed her worry at once. If anything happened to her daughter, it would be Burghley who would come to her.

Walsingham's face was always dark with worry, real or imagined, but she fancied when he entered that there was a rare disquiet added to it tonight. “What?” she asked.

“Word from Ireland.”

“If you tell me that Philip has landed troops in force, I may throw something,” she warned him.

“It is not the Spanish. It is young Lord Somerset.”

“Stephen Courtenay?” She sat up sharply. “What on earth do you mean? God help you, Walsingham, if he has come to harm in your service—”

“He is unharmed. And I am not certain that he
is
currently in my service.”

“Explain yourself.”

“Stephen Courtenay has been infiltrated into Clan Kavanaugh since May. We have had no useful information from him yet, but that is not unexpected. The plan was for him to take what time was necessary to gain the trust of the household.”

“But?”

“Oliver Dane is claiming that Stephen's loyalties no longer lie with England. Dane was briefly held prisoner by Ailis Kavanaugh and her household. He escaped, but in doing so, Stephen's secret was revealed. When Dane managed to get him free of the Kavanaughs as well, Stephen declined to remain. He returned to the Irish household, entirely of his own will, and it is possible he intends to march with the clan when next they fight against English troops.”

“I don't believe it.”

“We can't afford to let sentiment guide our decisions.”

“Stephen Courtenay would not turn against me. Whatever is going on, there is more to it.”

“I don't care what his motives are. I care only about his experience being turned against England. Dane seems to believe the Kavanaughs will march against Blackcastle. He will not move first—he will let them come to him. But if they do, Dane will fight. No matter who is in the vanguard.”

Why could the Courtenays never be simple? Elizabeth wondered. Friends, that was all she needed. Loyalty and support no matter the difficulty. Instead, they twisted and turned and used their touchy honour as a reason to cause trouble.

“I suppose Dane wants armed support?”

“Ormond will send men. But if Stephen is fighting with the Irish…no quarter will be given by Dane. I think he would gladly kill Stephen.”

Elizabeth shut her eyes, feeling the beginning of a headache pounding behind her right eye. These were the parts of ruling that she hated—making impossible decisions.

But one did not rule this many years without learning not to linger on regrets. “Send to Syon House for Christopher. I know the Courtenays—they will listen to no one but themselves. If we want Stephen out of Ireland, his family will have to bring him.”

“Why not send Lord Exeter?”

“Dominic? I may not have sons, Walsingham, but one thing I know for certain is that they are not likely to respond well to a disapproving father. Kit is the younger brother. If we're lucky, Stephen may feel responsible enough for his safety to keep a battle from occurring at all.”

Also, she did not add, just as well to get Kit away from Anabel for a little.

4 September 1582

Lucie,

I write to beg a great favour. If you read Mother's letter first, you know about Stephen. (If you didn't read it first, go read it now. I'll wait.)

The queen intends Kit to drag Stephen out of Ireland. I do not think it will be that simple. Stephen has always been the most difficult of you all to see clearly, but I do know that he does nothing lightly. If he has become entwined in this Irish household, there are deep reasons for it.

So to the begging, sister: Please will you send Julien to Ireland with Kit? He has proved that he can reach Stephen when none of the rest of us can. I do not think Stephen has been hurt—but I think disentangling him from whatever is happening will involve a great deal of pain. He listened to Julien the last time he was drowning—he might do so again. And if not, at least Kit will not be on his own. He would never say so, but he is desperately worried. He worships Stephen—how will he cope if his idol has fallen?

If Julien agrees to go to Ireland, perhaps you would consider returning to Anabel? Mother and Father intend to stay near as well, since it is to court that the first news will come.

Pippa

7 September 1582

Compton Wynyates

Pippa,

I seemed destined not to spend more than two weeks at a time in my new home. Of course Julien will go. He is already packing. And so am I. I will see you at Syon House within a week.

Lucie

L
iadan Kavanaugh was buried in the crypt below the private chapel at Cahir Castle. Despite spending two years in a French convent school, Maisie had never attended a Catholic requiem mass; she found it almost unbearably moving. There was no monastic choir to be had, but a young boy was found to sing the Dies Irae, the haunting melody of judgment and salvation.

Stephen was not allowed to attend the requiem. He was under lock and key, enforced by a sternly justified Diarmid mac Briain. Maisie had attempted once to intervene, but Diarmid dismissed her with a wave of his hand. “He's a liar,” he said brusquely. “He stays jailed until we decide what's to be done.”

We?
Maisie wondered cynically. It will be until
Ailis
decides. The problem was that Ailis was unreachable in her grief. How long could she stay shut away before the vengeful men of her clan took over?

But the men seemed at a loss. It was as if Liadan had been the talisman for the entire clan, and without her, no one knew what to do next. Well, Maisie finally decided, if the men weren't going to do anything, she would have to brave Ailis herself.

Maisie knew how to get her way. Getting in to see Ailis involved Bridey, Liadan's nurse who had known Ailis since she was a child. Maisie listened to the old woman weep, and told her stories of how brave Liadan had been, how proud Bridey would have been of her in her last days.

“You should tell her,” Bridey said finally, wiping her eyes. “Her mother would want to know that.”

“You do not think it will be worse?”

“It cannot be worse. She broods. Give her something good to think about.”

And just like that, Maisie was let in. Ailis looked at her, not blankly, but entirely without interest. Bridey said nothing, just left the women alone.

There was an untouched tray of bread and cheese on a medieval sideboard, and the four-poster bed, though unmade, appeared unslept in. Maisie had never seen Ailis look anything but fiercely pulled together; now she sat in her shift with a cloak of felted wool thrown over. Her hair hung loose, a nest of blackness.

Maisie found a carved bone comb and moved behind Ailis. Working in small sections, she began to comb the bereft woman's hair. She worked in silence and slowly she could see Ailis's shoulders loosening.

When her hair lay like a fall of black satin, Ailis finally spoke. “You used to comb her hair. She told me.”

“I did.” Maisie pulled a stool near Ailis and sat.

“She liked you better than me.”

“She loved you. Every bit of her was focused on being like you.”

“I'm almost glad she won't get the chance.”

Maisie could think of no possible answer to that.

With a great shuddering sigh, as though expelling demons, Ailis closed her eyes. When she opened them again, it was though she had forcibly pulled her former self into being. “When you first came to Ireland, I thought you nothing but a rich girl who would sit in the corner while we spent your money. How wrong I was—and gladly so. It is your mind, and your heart, that is the real wealth.”

“As to my mind,” Maisie said delicately, “I put it to use while I was at Blackcastle. There are things I could tell you that you might find useful.”

“Useful for what?”

“For avenging Liadan.”

Ailis flinched at the sound of her daughter's name. But beneath the pain, interest flickered. “Tell me.”

“When you are ready to move against Dane, I will give you every advantage that my memory and my money can provide.”

Ailis gave a tiny, perhaps involuntary smile. “Let us show these men what women can do.” She drew a shaky breath, then added softly, “For Liadan's sake.”

From the moment she assembled her council, Ailis could feel how close to the edge she stood. Beneath what had been a drowning despair, she felt a spurt of anger kindle. It cleared her head to a surprising degree, and she embraced the anger as an ally. How could these men turn on her so quickly after all she had given this clan? Her childhood stolen, her innocence abused, all the years devoted to strengthening their position—did they mean nothing? If she had been a man, her leadership would have been solidified by now.

If she had been a man, there would have been no Liadan to rip her heart out.

She took her place at the table and surveyed those here. Diarmid, looking stern and grave, but still her most devoted ally. Good. She would need him to believe in her for a little while longer. There were three of Diarmid's men as well, the most seasoned warriors, who could add their experience to the planning. All her men were competent and capable.

Also, there was Maisie.

If the men were surprised to see the Scots widow among them, they had more pressing concerns. At least Diarmid did. “What are your plans for the English spy?” he asked first.

She met his gaze coolly. “All in good time. The most pressing matter is how to answer the murder of our most innocent daughter.”

“How?” Diarmid snorted. “With violence. There is no other answer.”

“Agreed. Perhaps I should have been clearer—we must decide on the when and where of that violence. Maisie and I have a plan.”

There were raised eyebrows at that, but the men's instinctive respect for a mother who had lost her child meant they kept their mouths shut. For the moment. Ailis nodded to Maisie.

“I saw a fair amount of Blackcastle while we were there,” Maisie said, producing the carefully drawn map she had done for Ailis. “Dane could not make up his mind whether we were prisoners or guests. No doubt he expected only hysteria from females, not the ability to memorize floor plans and calculate available arms and stores. His mistake.”

Next to Ailis, Diarmid whistled as the map was spread on the table before them all. A builder or military engineer could not have done better. For having been at Blackcastle just over twenty-four hours, it was a masterpiece.

Ailis, having already gone over it with Maisie, pointed out the essentials. The interior was of less concern than the courtyard and the numbers. “Stables, armory, stores,” she said, pointing in turn. “Dane has mostly men in his castle—a few have wives working in the kitchens and laundry. Dane rides them hard. They're disciplined and quick. There will be no second-guessing of any orders they're given. They might have been shocked—or not—at Liadan's murder, but make no mistake, they will back Dane to the hilt. That is what the English do.”

“Only English troops?” Diarmid asked. “He's been known to use gallowglass.”

“Maisie didn't get any indication of gallowglass in hold. And there won't be,” Ailis said decisively. “Not for this fight. It will be Irish against English.”

“Are you certain?”

“I know Dane. This is a matter of pride. He wants to grind us beneath his boots—and only English boots will do.”

Diarmid looked unconvinced but did not dispute the matter. There was a more critical point to make. “Even if it's only his men, Dane will have more troops than we can muster. Unless you”—he nodded at Maisie—“managed to poison their food and water, we cannot match them in numbers.”

“I thought about it.” Maisie said it so matter-of-factly it was impossible to tell if she was serious. “But at the time, I had no reason to suppose we would not be released unharmed. It seemed silly to provoke matters. Besides, if there's anything well-guarded at Blackcastle, it's the food and drink stores. Dane knows he's always at risk of being cut off for a time. He can withstand a siege for some weeks at least.”

“We will not lay siege,” Ailis said flatly. “Sieges are for cold calculation, not vengeance. Liadan will not rest in peace until Dane is dead. We must draw him out for that.”

“Of course he'll be drawn!” Diarmid shouted. “He can sweep through whatever men we can muster. How will that help Liadan rest?”

Ailis felt her mouth smile and knew it was as cold in appearance as it felt. “Dane will not use gallowglass…but we will.”

“With what money? We have barely enough to feed the household through this winter. We have nothing to sell except ourselves—and even if we could, we cannot deduct one man of us from this fight.”

“Then it's a good thing Finian married a rich girl,” Maisie said.

In the silence that fell, hope warred with disbelief on Diarmid's face. He spoke directly to Maisie. “But your dowry money was not great, and most of it has been spent feeding us this far.”

“That was only the dowry money you knew about,” Maisie replied calmly. “I am not a rich girl so much as I am a merchant's girl. My brother thought he bought me off cheaply. That's because he undervalues relationships. I have a loyal faction in my grandfather's company, and my own factor in Dublin. My dowry money was twice what was reported to you—the remainder has been invested for me. One of those investments is a private company of European mercenaries.”

This time the silence was absolute. Ailis might have laughed, if there was any laughter left to her in this world. The men were staring at Maisie as though they'd never seen her before—and so they hadn't. Till now she had been thought of in the same space as Liadan, young and cheerful, meant to be cosseted and otherwise ignored.

What fools they had all been.

Diarmid was the first to recover. “A company large enough to make a difference?”

“Two hundred, half of them mounted. Including their own cooks, physician, and engineer.”

“Where are they?”

“Dublin. Since the spring. Broken into smaller units to guard my business interests in shipping. The English authorities could hardly refuse us that, seeing as they cannot be trusted to guard their own interests.”

Diarmid laughed. “Can they get out of Dublin?”

Maisie merely looked at him with withering contempt. “They are already on their way here. Once again, in small units and as quietly as possible. A few will head here—the rest will be just within reach until the last minute. We don't want to tip our hand.”

“ ‘Our' hand?” Diarmid asked bluntly. “What benefit do
you
derive from this?”

When Maisie spoke, it was with a voice of fire and threat. “You think vengeance is solely an Irish virtue? I rode back to Cahir with Liadan's blood on my hands and in my hair. I will have vengeance for that.”

Ailis took charge once more. “So we are agreed to accept the offer of mercenaries?” She waited for each of them to assent. “There is one condition—Stephen Courtenay will command the mercenary company.”

She expected a fight. But again, perhaps her grief was useful to remind them that she was only a woman and of course would act from her emotions. In any case, only Diarmid spoke. “Is this your condition? Or hers?” He jerked his head at Maisie.

“It is ours, and it is absolute.”

Even a proud Irishman could swallow the distasteful when necessary. If using one Englishman would allow them to destroy Dane, so be it.

The meeting broke up, and only Maisie lingered. “Will you tell him?”

Ailis had not seen Stephen since he'd lowered her daughter's body down from his horse a week ago. She wasn't looking forward to seeing him now. “You can do it if you like.”

“He needs to see you.” Maisie hesitated, then added, “I think you will find him a compassionate listener. You should talk to him.”

“About what?”
My blindness, my failure, my damned pride for which Liadan paid…

“You both need absolution,” Maisie said gently. “I think you will understand each other.”

Maisie left her then, and Ailis stood alone. Could Stephen absolve her? Did she want him to? He had sins of his own to count, sins against her as well as the clan…

But at the very least, he would have to be told about the mercenary force and Maisie's requirement that he lead it. She would begin there and see what happened.

Stephen's second imprisonment at the hands of Clan Kavanaugh was an entirely different experience than the first. Diarmid chained him, for one thing. No one ever talked to him, for another. But mostly, the hell of it all was inside his own skull. Rather than planning and practicing his cover, preparing to worm his way into the trust of a household he didn't know, Stephen was mired in a familiar guilt. It was similar to the torture he'd passed through in the months after the prisoners' slaughter. This time, though, there was no alcohol to dull it. Perhaps that was a good thing—but it didn't feel like it in the darkest hours of the night.