The Virgin's Spy (27 page)

Did the idiot want to get himself killed? He was marking himself for Dane, like the red cloaks to the bulls in Spain. Damn, damn, and damn again.

So caught up was Kit in the personal disaster of it all that he hardly had time to realize that he was about to engage in his first battle. Stephen had been in several light engagements against Scottish reivers on the border even before he'd come to Ireland last year, but Kit had been more sheltered. It was hard to disentangle his emotions, but he thought he was mostly furious with Stephen rather than upset about the imminent prospect of killing men.

In the three days he'd been at Blackcastle, Kit had taken his own violent dislike to Dane—no surprise—but also had developed a grudging respect for the quality of his command. He had his men split into three groups, two of which moved out in quick but orderly fashion, while the third had camped outside the walls all night. He had tried to order Ormond and Kit to stay within the castle walls, but he could not force Elizabeth's most powerful Irish earl to obey him. “We'll keep our own men out of your way,” Ormond had said gruffly, “but they stay under our command.”

Dane did not come straight out and say that he planned to kill Stephen himself, but he didn't have to. His contempt was clear. He knew why Kit was here, and Kit would not have been surprised to learn that some of Dane's men had been told to keep an eye on him and harry him away from Stephen.

But though Kit had not fought in the field, he had been trained by one of the finest commanders in the last thirty years and had learned to ride under the tutelage not only of his father, but the best masters the English royal court could provide for their princess. And he had under his command men from Tiverton who were prepared—because of his name and his childhood among them—to follow where he led. They had their orders, and Kit waited with pounding heart for the clash to begin.

At his side, helmed and lightly armored, Julien said, “Remember, this is not a battle—it is a mission. Your only task is to get to Stephen. Our task is to allow that to happen.”

“If Dane's men are harrying me too closely,” Kit reminded his brother-in-law, “then Stephen will be your task.”

Julien flashed that quick, Continental smile that Kit supposed his sister found attractive. “Don't worry. If anyone's going to knock Stephen's head in today, it will be the two of us.”

There were more than three times the number of men they'd expected to be facing, a fact that became crushingly apparent within minutes. As did the realization that the bulk of the troops were not Irish, but highly trained and deadly mercenaries. And their objective was obvious—to clear a path to Oliver Dane. Stephen was in their midst, and Kit, in the chaos, saw flashes of beauty in the way his brother was leading them.

Dane's forces shook under the sheer mass and reckless bravery of the onslaught. They had expected to fight only against swords and axes, but the mercenaries carried guns as well. Kit could not have imagined the noise of battle—clashing steel, grunts of shock, cries suddenly cut off. He set his jaw and his mind on one single purpose, and led his men to the left to come at Stephen from the side.

It was the hardest thing he'd ever done. His envy of his brother had never been based solely on emotion, but also on the simple fact that Stephen was very gifted. If his brother knew that he was there—and he must know, he'd have seen the banner—Stephen ignored him. Which meant, Kit realized, that he was highly likely to get injured if not killed trying to fight through the mercenaries around his brother.

Except he wasn't. When the third soldier veered his horse away, Kit realized Stephen must have given orders to the men not to touch him. Instantly and irrationally, it made the old jealousy flare up.
I don't need your favours, brother.

Stephen was elusive, but not infallible. The mercenaries nearest to him, in the tight knot cleaving their way through Dane's forces, didn't aim to kill Kit or his men, but their blows fell harder the closer they got. Soon enough someone was going to die. “Stephen!” Kit shouted, but if his brother heard him, he paid no mind.

And then, all at once, there were Irishmen around him, four men surging into Kit's view, and he knew they would not spare a single soldier on the English side. One of his men went down and Kit wheeled his horse in a tight, frantic circle, deflecting blows. Only one of the Irish was mounted—the other three were using the mounted soldier and his horse as a shield and thrusting pikes into men as though they were tossing hay.

One thrust caught Kit's right arm and ripped through cloth into flesh. He was wearing half-armor, but if he lost his seat he would be trampled as easily as speared. Kit swore, but kept his grip on his sword tight. One of the Irish had seen the blow land, and using his pike as a club, the man battered the wound so that Kit's arm blazed and his fingers went numb. He dropped his sword.

And then Stephen was there, not fighting the Irish but shoving them aside with his horse and his voice. “Leave him!” he commanded, and Kit had never heard anyone sound so much like their father.

As there was bloodshed enough to spare, the Irish swept away into another wave of it, leaving the brothers momentarily face-to-face. “Get out of here, Kit.”

“Not without you.”

Stephen turned his horse's head. “Go home.”

In that brief exchange, Julien had slipped his way in behind with one of Kit's men. At Kit's nod, the soldier seized hold of the horse's harness. Stephen jerked away, but Julien brought the hilt of his sword against Stephen's helmet. It jarred him enough to drop the reins, and a second carefully aimed blow got him off the horse.

Kit and Julien dragged him out of the thick of the fight, Stephen half conscious, and into a protective circle of Tiverton men. Kit prepared to remount, in order to make sure Ormond had seen what happened so he could move on with his own part of the plan. But Kit had only one foot in the stirrup when he was tackled hard from the side.

His skull jarred inside the helmet when he hit the ground and he clawed it off and threw it at his brother. Just as he knew Stephen's form when riding, he'd been tackled enough by his older brother to know the feel of it in his bones.

“What the hell are you doing?” they both yelled at the same time.

Kit scrambled to his feet and Stephen shoved him back. “Let me through!” he ordered.

“No.”

And then it was like they were boys again, Kit an eight-year-old who resented his ten-year-old brother's title and, even more, his calm temperament, which everyone marked was so like their father. No one ever said Kit was like Dominic Courtenay.

They shoved and punched and wrestled—but they did not draw weapons. Not until Kit landed a heavy blow to Stephen's face that probably made his head ring and would certainly leave a nasty mark. Then, instinctively, Stephen drew his dagger and pointed it at his opposition.

Kit couldn't even swear that Stephen knew who he was anymore, if he could see his little brother or only saw the man who was keeping him from what he wanted. They were going to have to knock Stephen out again and then bind him if they wanted to get him off this battlefield. Julien was moving behind Stephen to do just that when there was a sudden lull in the noise of battle and one of the Tiverton men who'd been wise enough to keep watching outward shouted to Kit, “Ormond's got him!”

Kit knocked Stephen's dagger aside with the back of his hand. “You're going to want to see this.”

It was even odds whether Stephen would listen. He did. The men opened a gap in the armed circle and the brothers stepped forward with Julien to look out.

As hoped and planned, the Earl of Ormond had got his man. The plan had been simple, if not easy. Kit dragged Stephen clear of the field, and Ormond took charge of Oliver Dane. Unlike Stephen, Dane had a long dagger at his throat.

Ormond had a voice built for carrying. “Draw off,” he commanded equally to both sides. “Send forward your Irish leader and we will discuss terms.”

Julien stayed behind, but Kit and Stephen strode forward without looking at each other. They were joined by a fiercely unfriendly Irishman who ignored Kit but glared at Stephen as though he'd gladly run him through whatever the cost. No matter that they'd been fighting on the same side.

They held their parley protected by a knot of Ormond's men, weapons readied outward to keep any ordinary soldier from disputing their leaders' discussion.

Dane's face was so suffused with furious blood Kit thought he might die of apoplexy on the spot. When he saw Stephen, he instinctively lunged forward. “This is your doing, English bastard!” he snarled.

Ormond jerked him back, reminding him of the dagger at his neck. “You're English,” he said to Dane. “And shut up, this isn't your show any longer.”

“What makes it yours?” Stephen shot back.

“I do,” Ormond said grimly. “Now everyone who isn't Irish born and bred, keep your mouths shut.” He turned to the rebel next to Stephen. “Your name?”

“Diarmid mac Briain.”

“Of the Kavanaughs.”

“Yes.”

“I understand there has been a crime committed against your clan by Captain Dane. The murder of a young girl.”

Diarmid spat. “His own daughter.”

“An Irish whore's brat—”

It was Stephen who drove the words back into Dane's throat with a punch that slipped past Ormond's dagger. Kit threw himself on his brother and dragged him back.

“Is everyone here mad?” Ormond shouted. Then, to Diarmid mac Briain, “I am authorized to offer compensation for that crime. The tenancy of Blackcastle itself.”

There was stunned silence, then Dane shouting, “The castle is mine!”

“On lease from me,” Ormond said. “The castle and land are rightly the Butlers, and I offer them to the Kavanaughs—including all stores of food inside—if they will clear the field without further bloodshed.”

“And the stores of weapons?” Diarmid asked shrewdly.

Ormond shook his head. “You know better. The weapons come with me. But along with the castle, you have my word I will not try to take it back. The lass should not have been so treated.”

“And you think a castle worth Liadan's life?” It was, surprisingly, Stephen who objected so furiously. “An eye for an eye—we want Dane's head.”

“The best you can hope for is what I'm offering,” Ormond said. “Queen Elizabeth has also authorized me to bring Dane to England. You can both go before her and argue your rights.”

Dane barked a laugh. “The Courtenays are Elizabeth's lapdogs. I have little chance of being heard.”

“If I cut your throat on this battlefield, you have no chance at all.”

Dane's colour had gone down and he was clearly weighing options. Finally, he conceded Ormond was right. “Fine,” he ground out. “I'll call off my men.”

“Call them off, and prepare to march them out so the Kavanaugh men can march in. Your soldiers will come to Kilkenny, where my men will watch them while we are in England.” Slowly, Ormond lowered his dagger.

“You're going to England as well?” Dane was surprised into asking.

“To keep the two of you from killing each other along the way? Of course I'm coming. If only to watch the spectacle you make at the queen's court.”

Stephen had said nothing since his protest about the girl. Kit stepped in front of his brother as the parley broke up. “I'm sorry,” he said. “There was no other way. If I hadn't agreed to come, Elizabeth would have let Dane kill you in the field.”

“I'm not that easily defeated.”

“She will listen to you, Stephen. Make Dane pay for his crimes.”

Stephen didn't look at him but into the horizon as though seeing something—or someone—else. “She had better.”

D
iarmid himself rode to Cahir with news of the stunning and unexpected reversal that had put Blackcastle into Kavanaugh hands—at the cost of putting Oliver Dane himself out of their reach and on his way to England.

“It seemed best,” Diarmid said defensively, and Ailis realized he was afraid of her anger. “The mercenaries were ordered to fight solely under Courtenay's command, and we gained more than we'd hoped with only a handful of losses.”

“But not Dane's head.”

“No.”

Ailis didn't know how she felt. It was rather an absence of feeling—which after the weeks of sharp grief followed by manic preparation was almost pleasure in itself. “It is good for the clan,” she found herself saying, and meaning it. “Blackcastle and Templemore have been a thorn in the Earl of Desmond's side for too long. Many will be pleased at what we have achieved.”

“Are you pleased?” Diarmid asked bluntly.
Are you pleased with me?
he meant.
Did I do the right thing? Will you ever look beyond my services to what else I can offer you?

“My daughter is dead. I do not expect to be anything more than mildly satisfied again in my lifetime. But I am not ungrateful.”

His face darkened, and she could see the struggle in his eyes. Then, abruptly, he pulled a letter from inside his battle-stained jerkin and tossed it on the table before her. “He asked me to give you this.” Then he turned on his heel and left. No further explanation was forthcoming—or necessary.

Ailis,

I refrain from addressing you with an endearment not because I do not feel it, but because I doubt it would be welcome. If I am wrong, then imagine how fervently I am whispering “dearest, darling, sweetheart” to you as I write this.

By the time you read this, I shall be well on my way to leaving Ireland. Not of my own choice, but I suspect for the best nonetheless. I am sorry not to see you once more, and most sorry of all not to be bringing you Oliver Dane's head as my farewell gift.

For it was always going to be farewell for us, wasn't it? From the moment I uttered my first lie to you, our fate was sealed. And yet, if I had not lied, I should never have known you—and that, for me, would be worse. I dare not presume to expect the same regrets from you. I am English and an interloper and could never have been more than tolerated in an Irish household. Save that Liadan liked me. And you? I don't know if I hope that you are happy to see the last of me, or are touched by regret. My pride says the latter, but my better nature the former. My father told me once that to leave pain behind was the worst sort of repayment I could make to a woman. I have paid you in more than pain, and I will feel it to the end of my days.

Dane and I are both commanded to the queen's presence in London. For once in my life, I am desperately glad to bear my family's name. I will make every use I can wring out of it to see Dane executed for his crimes.

I have loved you, Ailis. Among all my regrets, that will never be one of them. May your life to come have more of joy than pain in it.

Stephen Courtenay

Ailis had hardly finished that achingly poignant letter when Maisie entered. “He is gone, then?” she asked. No need to specify who.

“He is.”

“And the English queen has traded a castle for Liadan's life.”

“It is a better trade than any other dead Irish child has been offered.”

“I know. I'm sorry, it's just…” Maisie, usually so self-possessed, circled the council chamber restlessly. “What are you going to do now?” she asked Ailis.

“Ride in triumph to take possession of Blackcastle. And then, I suppose, offer our services to the Earl of Desmond. With Dane out of Ireland, my vendetta is done. I must move forward, so that Oliver Dane is followed in his retreat by the rest of his countrymen.”

Ailis looked at Maisie and realized she was no longer wearing full mourning. Her gown was dark gray, but beneath the overskirt her kirtle showed pale blue. With dawning comprehension, Ailis said, “You mean to leave Ireland as well.”

Maisie stopped pacing. “I stayed for Liadan. You must know that.”

“I do. I suppose you will take your mercenary company with you?”

“A matter of business,” Maisie said slowly. “I feel my investment will be more profitable elsewhere.”

Ailis hadn't expected different. Uneasy as Scots relations were with England, it would be folly for Maisie to sacrifice a trained company to Irish fighting. But she found that it was not the practical loss that concerned her. It was losing Maisie herself.

“You will return to Scotland?” Ailis asked.

“Not just yet. I mean to evade my brother's plans to marry me off again as long as possible. I still have friends in France. And some business arrangements that would be greatly forwarded by my presence.”

Ailis shook her head, a smile of respect wrung from her without meaning to. “For all my life, I shall remember not to underestimate anyone who crosses my path. Who would have guessed the formidable mind behind the child face?”

“Not such a child,” Maisie said. “Not any longer.”

There passed between them, almost as though Ailis could see it through Maisie's eyes, the image of Liadan falling beneath Dane's dagger. Ailis swallowed and turned away. In truth, her admiration and even liking for Maisie had been slightly tainted by the fact that the girl had been with Liadan at the end. Worse, that in the months before, it was Maisie whom Liadan had turned to over and over again.

“Safe travels,” Ailis said with finality. “I expect I will hear of you from time to time.”

“It is never too late to be happy,” Maisie replied. “Think about it, Ailis.”

There was nothing to think about. Ailis had never expected happiness—just successful vengeance. She hadn't expected it to feel so hollow.

23 September 1582

Anabel,

This may not reach you before we do, but I wanted you to know from my own hand that all is well. That is, I took only minor injuries and so did Stephen—and those we mostly inflicted on each other. He is in something of a temper; it's quite refreshing, actually, to find myself the reasonable one.

Love to my sisters, if they are still with you. Your raven is winging his way back as soon as can be.

Kit

Kit's letter found Anabel still convalescing at Syon House, though her health had improved enough for her to appear publicly twice a week. She had made charming farewells to both the Duc d'Anjou and Esmé Stewart, and was grateful for the discretion that prevailed among them all. No one had mentioned any topic so delicate as marriage, and so she was able to enjoy their last hours and thank them for the time they had spent in England.

No doubt the men had watched her narrowly for any lingering signs of illness, but she had always been able to perform well under pressure. And her mother's wig makers had provided her with a number of options that looked, if not quite as lovely as her own hair, at least adequate to the task. By spring her hair should be regrown enough to leave off wigs entirely.

Anabel was rereading Kit's letter for a third time when Madalena appeared in her privy chamber to announce that Brandon Dudley had requested an audience.

“Were we expecting the Earl of Leicester?” Anabel asked. She knew they hadn't.

“He says he hesitates to intrude, but has a personal favour to ask. He looks…” Madalena paused, then said, “He looks a tiny bit desperate.”

Brandon Dudley, desperate? That was a sight worth seeing. Anabel laid aside the letter and said, “Bring him through.”

She remained in her lovely privy chamber with its abundance of light, even in autumn, and the pale colours that so soothed her restless mind. Though not dressed for public audience, Anabel wore a presentable enough gown in the Spanish style she often chose when less formal. The stiff satin of peacock blue and gold helped disguise the loss of weight she had not yet fully regained.

Every time she saw Brandon Dudley, she was struck by his distinctively dark good looks. If he truly resembled his late uncle, then no wonder her mother still thought fondly on Robert Dudley. There had been a time Anabel had thought her mother might force a match between the two of them, but since making Brandon the Earl of Leicester, Elizabeth had dropped the idea.

Anabel knew she should think of him as Lord Leicester, but she had known him too well when they were young. “Brandon!” she said as he made his courtly bow. “It's a pleasure to see you. What have you been doing all these months since last you were at court?”

“Seeing to my estates, Your Highness. The queen has been very generous, and I would not take lightly my responsibilities. Though of course, that has kept me away from the two most beautiful women in England.”

She had always thought Brandon Dudley too charming by half, but today his compliments had a slightly forced air and she could see the same signs Madalena had reported. The tension of his hands, the wariness of his eyes…He did look a little desperate.

Taking pity on him, she decided to skip the pleasantries. “Is there something I can do for you?”

Brought to the point, he did not hesitate. “Yes, Your Highness. I would like you to bring Nora Percy into your private household.”

Of any request he might have made of her, this was the most unexpected. Anabel tipped her head curiously. “Why? Not that Nora is not always welcome, but she has no need of my household. She is a king's daughter, recognized as such, and although she may not be wealthy, she has enough to set up her own household as she likes.”

“But it is not as
she
likes, Your Highness—it is as her mother likes.”

Anabel leaned back in her seat. “Ah, the formidable Eleanor Percy. But Nora is—what? Twenty-eight years old? Surely she can hold her own against her mother.”

“That proves how little you know Eleanor,” Brandon said grimly.

“Why you?” Anabel queried. “If Nora wants aid in achieving her independence, why does she not ask me herself? We are cousins, after all.”

“Because Nora is the most gentle and unassuming of women, Your Highness. She does not believe herself worthy of any position, and thus will not exploit it. Her friends must do it for her.”

“Her friends?” Anabel asked shrewdly. “Is that what you are?”

That dark skin of his could still show colour. “I am honoured to be her friend.”

So Brandon Dudley was in love with Nora Percy. And apparently her mother did not approve. Sharply, Anabel asked, “This isn't merely your attempt to spirit Nora away into an impulsive marriage, is it? I would not like to be so used.”

“Considering my birth, I am hardly likely to make that mistake, am I?”

For Brandon was the child of a reckless, secret marriage—between Guildford Dudley and Margaret Clifford. Not particularly troublesome, except that Margaret was of Tudor birth and her royal connections meant she could not be married without permission. Brandon's father had paid for the marriage with his life. His mother had been married off again to a much older man, and then died unhappily some years later.

Anabel spoke gently. “But you do love her?” When Brandon looked prepared to protest, she added, “I warn you, I will only help if I am convinced I am being told the truth.”

He stared at the floor for a long minute, and when he raised his head he hardly needed to speak. For all his good looks and surface arrogance, there was something genuine at heart about Brandon Dudley. “I love her, Your Highness. Of course I hope that one day we can marry. But if not, I will still do all I can to ensure her happiness. And she is more likely to have that in your household than with her mother.”

How could she possibly resist that plea? With her own heart so precariously happy for the moment, of course she wished to ensure that for others. “I shall be glad to have Nora with me. She is a skilled musician, I know. I will gladly make use of her talents if she is willing to share them.”