The Virgin's Spy (28 page)

Relief brightened Brandon's eyes. “Thank you, Your Highness. You will not regret it.”

I might, though, she realized. I'm not sure my mother will approve of me interfering with her royal niece.

Elizabeth drew a deep breath—not quite of satisfaction—when informed that Stephen Courtenay and Oliver Dane had safely landed on English shores.

“They came without protest?”

“Without requiring undue violence, at least. So Ormond reports.” Burghley and Walsingham were both with her—Walsingham making his report first. The court had temporarily moved to Richmond, but were planning a quick return to London. For now, Elizabeth enjoyed the crisp autumn air as she walked with her two favourites in her privy garden full of the roses Minuette had always been so fond of. There were still a few blooms among the hardier varieties.

“My dear Black Tom,” Elizabeth said fondly. “At least, out of all this mess, it will give me pleasure to see him again.” She looked at Burghley. “Dominic and Minuette have arrived?”

“In London, yes. They have leased a house in the Strand.”

“They refuse our gracious hospitality?”

Burghley knew how discontented she was and phrased his reply with care. “I think they do not wish to be a burden at a politically sensitive time.”

“You mean they are angry with me and decline to be reconciled as long as their precious son is at odds with my throne.” Even as she snapped, Elizabeth knew she was being unfair. It was such an uncomfortable feeling that it demanded to be swamped by her temper.

“Your Majesty,” Burghley said, using a tried and true technique of switching to another topic. “We should prepare to make an official announcement about Princess Anne's marital future.”

“The council are prepared to endorse the Scottish marriage?”

“They are prepared to endorse a formal betrothal. The time is ripe to announce England's intentions for the future…with the awareness that the future is fluid. Still, a betrothal at this stage will with near certainty lead to marriage. I do not think King James will be dissuaded once your daughter's hand is promised.”

“Anne knows what she must do,” Elizabeth said firmly. “But you have not spoken of the French marriage.”

Burghley's breath hitched and he shot a quick glance at Walsingham. Elizabeth ignored them both and sailed on. “When we bring the matter of Anne's marriage before the public, we will also bring forward that of myself and the Duc d'Anjou.”

There was a ringing silence, and Elizabeth narrowed her eyes at her two most trusted councilors. When neither showed signs of breaking the silence, she said with an elaborate show of patience, “You have comments?”

She was fixed on Walsingham, for she knew where her true opposition lay. He looked uncomfortable, but his strict Protestant conscience would not let that stop him from speaking. Better, she thought, to let him air his discontent in private and get it out of his system.

“Perhaps we should not have this discussion in the open air,” Walsingham said.

Which only reinforced that he intended to be unpleasant. Elizabeth narrowed her eyes, but led the way to the door that opened on her privy chamber. There were three women within—Elizabeth dismissed them and took a seat.

Only then did she speak again. “Well?” she asked with elaborate patience.

It seemed Walsingham was more than discontented; he was furiously, adamantly, opposed. “You cannot do this, Your Majesty,” he said flatly.

“Cannot do what? Direct my own privy council? Obtain their approval as their monarch?”

“You cannot marry France. The council will never allow it.”

“Am I queen or am I not?”

“You are a queen subject to the advisement and guidance of your council! Unless you mean to turn tyrant like your father or brother—”

“How dare you!” Elizabeth rose in a swirl of skirts, temper pounding behind her eyes. “I will not bear insolence from any man, whomever he may be. Mind your tongue or I'll mind it for you!”

Burghley made an attempt to moderate. “He means only that the council is concerned about the tenor of the public. There is uneasiness about Your Majesty's autonomy. Being so recently separated from Spain, why rush to replace it with a French loyalty?”

“French loyalty? Is that what my people think—that when I was Philip's wife, I was also Philip's slave? Have I not proved myself firm in my loyalties to my people above all else, including my own happiness?”

“Your Majesty—”

“Enough, Burghley! I will not be spoken to like a child who must needs be coddled for temperament's sake! How much have I sacrificed for England's good? How much must I still sacrifice? Am I to be denied the most common of comforts, to have a companion who pleases me?”

“Yes!” Walsingham shouted. “You were not born a common woman, Elizabeth, and if you wanted anything approaching common comforts, you should have taken care to ensure your brother survived his last battle!”

The words rang through the chamber and into Elizabeth's head like weapons. Burghley hissed, but otherwise it was just the two of them staring at each other: the queen and her intelligencer.

From the first time she'd met him nearly thirty years ago now, Elizabeth had been struck by Walsingham's refusal to be intimidated by her. Over the years, he had often teetered on the edge of honesty, without ever falling over into insubordination. For all that time, he had been one half of her most trusted duo: Burghley with his careful statesmanship, Walsingham with his intelligence and strong convictions.

But this she could not forgive. He had used her personal name and had struck at her most vulnerable spot with unerring skill. Elizabeth's voice trembled with the effort not to screech at him in her rage. “You are dismissed.”

“Your Majesty, I am only telling you what others are too afraid—”

“You are dismissed from my presence and from my court.”

Walsingham had never been one to show his emotions. The corners of his dark eyes tightened, but he was otherwise impassive. “I apologize for my manner, Your Majesty.”

“Noted. Now get out.”

She turned her back, holding herself rigid while she waited. At last she heard the soft footsteps walking away. She knew that Burghley remained, weighing how to speak to her, judging the right approach.

Elizabeth was tired of being handled. All she wanted was to give in to her passions—to throw something, to let Anjou tease her into flirtation, or simply to lay down her head and weep.

It took their disparate, discontented company weeks to make the trek across Ireland, the sea, and then England. By the time Stephen and the others rode into London, it was the end of September and the city was an assault on all the senses for men attuned to the quieter countryside of Ireland.

Ormond took Dane with him, having pledged his word to the queen for the recalcitrant captain's appearance at her bidding. Stephen followed Kit and Julien—not to court, but to a four-story brick house with high walls and open courtyard. There, he was met by the whole of his family and subjected to the sort of tactful, gentle conversation that ensured he did what they wanted—talk about Ireland.

He'd had time to rehearse the essentials and he delivered them in unsparing and unemotional terms. When he finished, it was Lucie who spoke first, with the devastating frankness she had developed during the years of estrangement from their father. “I'd like to think the queen will be moved by the girl's death, but she tends to be parochial in her empathies. Liadan Kavanaugh was not English. I fear that will limit Elizabeth's human regrets.”

“Then Elizabeth does not deserve her crown,” Stephen said curtly. “I can make her understand. I must.”

He saw his parents exchange looks and imagined a shared exasperation with their son's self-righteousness. Stephen didn't care. He was righteous because he was right. Elizabeth might be hampered by political and religious tensions, but how could any woman, especially a mother, not be moved by the cruel murder of another woman's daughter?

The London household was rather cramped, but no one seemed prepared to leave until Stephen had his audience. The days dragged into weeks, and Stephen, forced to remain under a loose house arrest by royal command, began to go a little mad. Kit was preoccupied and serious, spending more hours in study and correspondence than he'd ever been known to do before. Pippa went daily between their leased house and Charterhouse, where Anabel set up residence a week after Stephen's return.

Twenty-two days after reaching London, the summons finally arrived. Stephen appeared, as commanded, at the public gatehouse at Whitehall and presented himself with only Kit in attendance. Another caveat of the queen's. He knew it must be killing his parents to remain behind.

They were escorted to a corridor Stephen knew well, where the familiar figures of Ormond and Dane waited. Ormond looked exasperated, Dane insolent.

“Ready to grovel?” Dane asked Stephen.

It was an effort of will to ignore him. Fortunately, the queen did not keep them waiting long. A page opened the door and they were ushered into her presence chamber. In the gilded, golden space, Elizabeth dominated on a throne set beneath her canopy of estate. She wore a delicate crown set with pearls and a gown so crusted with gold thread it almost had the look of decorative armor.

Usually, her presence chamber would contain anywhere from twenty to fifty people, but today there were only two guards at the door and Lord Burghley standing to her side. It seemed the rumours of Walsingham's disgrace were true—Stephen wasn't sure whether the intelligencer's absence would help or hurt his cause.

Elizabeth did not waste time in pleasantries. “Tell me why I should refrain from locking both of you up for disturbing my peace in Ireland.” She spoke to the space between Stephen and Dane, who stood only an arm's length apart before her. Ormond and Kit stood gratefully behind them.

“Your Majesty,” Stephen said with all the grace he'd learned at his mother's knee, “I most willingly submit to whatever punishment you deem fit. I know I have proved a disappointment to my family and to your government. But please trust that it was not done from malice, only from righteous anger.”

Used to flattering speeches from men much better at making them, Elizabeth raised a single eyebrow. “It is not intentions that concern me, Lord Somerset, but actions. You appeared on the field in opposition to my own royal forces. Never mind locking you up—why should I not have you executed for that treason?”

With a voice all honeyed satisfaction, Oliver Dane interrupted. “Well might you ask such, Your Majesty, for great damage has been done to your cause in Ireland by the flagrant flouting of your authority by one so near to your throne. So public a betrayal should be punished just as publicly.”

From the look she turned on Dane, it was clear that Elizabeth found him distasteful. “And for your own crime, of killing an Irish child?”

His tone darkened, but he answered readily enough. “It was a regrettable incident. But the family has been compensated.”

“By Blackcastle, yes. So you consider the matter closed?”

“I do. Save for the matter of Lord Somerset's involvement.”

“That matter is not your concern. It is ours.” Elizabeth pondered Dane for a moment. “I understand from my dear cousin Ormond that you are eager to return to Ireland.”

Stephen moved involuntarily, and felt Kit staring at him from behind, no doubt silently commanding him to hold his position and his tongue. With difficulty, he complied.

“Ireland has been my home for twenty-five years, Your Majesty,” Dane offered. “I have no remaining ties to England, save that of a subject. A role I believe I fill most profitably in Ireland.”

The queen wasn't really going to listen to this, was she? Stephen shot a look at Burghley, who looked uncomfortable but resigned. The Lord Treasurer was a reasonable man—surely he would not allow Dane to return to the land and people he had ravaged and used for his own purposes all these years? How often had Stephen heard Dane in the field complaining about Elizabeth, using terms that she would have racked him for if she'd ever heard him? Dane didn't care about Elizabeth's rights—he wanted to be in Ireland for his own profit.

Elizabeth waved a single hand in Dane's direction. “You may return to Ireland to serve us, Captain Dane. For the immediate future, you will be under the close command of the Earl of Ormond. I do not care to hear of further…irregularities in your relationships with the Irish. Prove yourself faithful, and perhaps you will regain an independent command.”

Stephen felt all the blood leave his face and nearly swayed on his feet as, next to him, Dane bowed low. “Thank you, Your Majesty. You are truly wise and gracious. I will endeavour to serve you well.”

“See that you do.” Elizabeth turned those remote, penetrating eyes on Stephen. “As for you, Lord Somerset, you will return to Farleigh Hungerford and remain on your estates until recalled. We are displeased with your actions, but trust that you will serve us better in future.”

He couldn't speak, couldn't move, could hardly even breathe. Stephen felt Kit touch him gently on the back of his shoulder as though prodding him, and he managed to swallow. There was nothing else he could do. Stephen jerked his head in perfunctory acknowledgment. “As you say, Your Majesty.”

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes at his obvious reluctance, but dismissed them all with an impatient gesture.

This is not happening
. Stephen felt as though he were sleepwalking. He had come prepared to be arrested, to be publicly chastised, to be stripped of all his honours and wealth…but he had not prepared for this. After everything, Oliver Dane had won.

Kit knew better than to try and engage his brother, but the Earl of Ormond tried, speaking low and urgently at Stephen's side. “She had no choice, boy, you must see that. With the latest victories by Desmond, our forces in Ireland are dangerously vulnerable. There are still a hundred Spanish soldiers on the ground and the threat of worse. Dane is despicable, but he is a key piece in keeping Ireland quiet.”