The Virgin's Spy (29 page)

“By sweeping away every last Irish man, woman, and child by whatever means possible? How is that English justice?”

“Justice?” The voice was Dane's, smooth and amused. He came up on Stephen's other side so that Stephen was flanked by these two men of Elizabeth's Irish service. Ormond, born and bred generations back in Ireland, but still fundamentally English. And Dane, a cynic out for his own good no matter who he had to destroy to achieve it.

“Don't fret, English lordling,” Dane continued. “I doubt our paths will cross again. You have proved you cannot be trusted in Ireland—the queen will not risk you there a third time. And I have no plans to return to England. Give thanks to see the last of me and put Ireland out of your mind.”

Stephen clenched his jaw. Ireland was the only thing on his mind, mostly the faces of those he'd come to know flickering behind his eyes in rapid succession: Father Byrne, upright and warm beneath the weight of his duties; Diarmid mac Briain, who led his men honourably and well; Liadan, all kinds of clever and loving, and in the end broken; Ailis, who had lost her childhood and then her daughter to this man now openly mocking the sins he'd committed.

“Perhaps,” Dane mused, “I'll see if that Scots widow is still available. The queen wouldn't mind having her money available for England's use. And though she is a little older than my usual preference, she looks young enough. I'd get a few good years of pleasure out of her. And I've heard the Scots are nearly as wild as the Irish. Maisie, wasn't that her name?”

Mariota, we have to go.
Blood on her hands and dress, keening over a small body, weeping alone for a child who had been nothing but a friend…

When Stephen moved, it was with the purpose and clarity of long-planned battle tactics. He saw every move a half second before he made it, his body in perfect alignment with his intentions. Ormond was to his left, his jewel-hilted ceremonial dagger affixed to his close-fitted velvet jerkin. One move for Stephen to swivel and snatch it with his right hand. The next move to plant his other foot and pivot back, then grab Dane's coat with his left hand. For symmetry's sake, Stephen would have preferred to cut his throat, but there wasn't time. Instead, in the manner Julien had taught him, the dagger slid expertly up and under Dane's ribs, to angle into the heart.

There was a wash of blood over Stephen's fingers and a froth of bloody spume from Dane's mouth as he fell. Even as the guards lunged forward, Stephen raised his hands in surrender, the dagger still in Dane's chest.

The guards had one job—to ensure the Queen of England's safety. They didn't care who Stephen was. They forced him down with a kick to his knees and then they were on him, striking and kicking even though he made no move to fight back.

He could hear Kit shouting at the guards to stop, trying to get to Stephen through them all. One of the guards struck Kit in the side of the head. “Leave it!” Stephen called. “It's no matter, Kit. It's fine. I'm fine.”

And he was. For the first time since Liadan's murder—no, from before that, from the moment Roisin and the other prisoners had fallen near Kilkenny—Stephen felt as though he could breathe.

The guards—brought to rough order by Ormond's commanding presence, with more men pouring toward them and even Lord Burghley in the distance, hastening to see the commotion—jerked Stephen to his feet. As they twisted his arms behind in order to march him away, he sent a thought winging west to Ireland.

He's dead, Liadan. You can rest now, sweet lass.

I
t was a full two weeks after Stephen's shocking arrest for murder before Anabel saw any member of the Courtenay family. The princess hadn't even seen her mother—the queen coped with emotional difficulty by flinging herself into intense political efforts, those things she could control. The firsthand account of what had happened came to Anabel from the Earl of Ormond, who courteously came to see her at Charterhouse when she sent him a message.

She listened to Ormond's story and asked only one question. “Did the man deserve it?”

He was too experienced to fall for such simplicity. “The question of punishment was the queen's to decide, not anyone else.”

But Stephen Courtenay wasn't just anyone else. Anabel sat isolated at Charterhouse, waiting, and wondered how much her mother's harshness had to do with her earlier fury with and banishment of Walsingham.

Pippa finally came the second week in November. Anabel took her straight through to her bedchamber and commanded her other women not to disturb them. Then she sat her friend down and demanded, “Tell me.”

“There isn't much to tell. My parents have been allowed to see Stephen in the Tower. He has not been charged with any crime, and there is no indication that he will be in the immediate future. Lord Burghley thinks it likely the queen will simply leave him there for some time to let him think about what he has done. No one seems to believe there is any chance he will be tried and executed.”

“What do you believe?”

“I keep looking at my parents and seeing the shadows that have always been on the edges of their lives. There was a time, I expect, when no one thought there was any chance of the two of them falling from grace with the last king. Monarchs are capricious creatures.”

She said it with a detached air that made Anabel grasp her hand. “Pippa, my mother is not the same as her brother or her father. She is furious, yes, at the insult to her pride and the assault made so near to her presence. But all she is doing is making a point. She would never harm Stephen.”

Pippa closed her eyes, looking weary. “There is more than just Stephen. Two days after his arrest, Lucie miscarried a child. Nearly four months along…it was a girl.”

“I'm so sorry,” Anabel whispered. “How is she recovering?”

“She is in no danger. Just desperately grieving. As soon as she can travel, Julien will take her home. They have hardly been there since they were married. She doesn't want to leave Stephen, but there is nothing she can do here that others cannot do as well.”

“And the rest of you?”

“My parents will remain in London as long as Stephen is in the Tower. Kit will have to oversee things at Tiverton and Wynfield Mote and Farleigh Hungerford—he will spend the winter on horseback bearing a responsibility he once craved. But not at this cost.”

Anabel put Kit out of her mind. There would be time later for that. “And you?”

Pippa smiled, swift and sad. “Do you not want me with you?”

“Of course I do! I did not know if you would care to be associated with me.”

“Oh, Anabel. You are not your mother. Where do you mean to spend the winter?”

“Not London. They do not think it would be good for my health. Ludlow, perhaps?” She saw the queer expression on Pippa's face and asked sharply, “What? Do you have a better idea?”

“Have you ever thought,” Pippa said slowly, “of going north? It has been generations since an English royal has spent significant time in the North for other than military purposes. Richard, Duke of Gloucester, was the last royal to make his home in Yorkshire, and it was those ties that allowed him to take England's throne, even if only for a short time.”

“You want me to become a Yorkist?”

“I want you to be an effective leader. Your mother's example is brilliant, but she cannot be everywhere. Why not extend yourself in a less crowded arena?”

“Why do you want me in the North, Pippa?”

Her friend had that familiar, disconcerting, otherworldly look that had always half frightened and half intrigued Anabel. Pippa sounded like a prophetess when she said, “Because the North is going to need you—and you will need them. War is coming, and when it does, England will need to meet it in united fashion, Protestants and recusants together. The North will love you, Anabel. You will have the power to command them. And also…”

Anabel finished that final thought. “And also, it is near to Scotland and James.”

Pippa nodded.

“You hinted once,” Anabel said, looking down at her clasped hands, “that I might have a husband of my choosing.”

“Choices are made for many considerations, Your Highness.”

Anabel closed her eyes and sighed, allowing herself one regretful memory of Kit's caresses. Then she opened her eyes. Firmly, she said, “I will speak to Lord Burghley. He will know how best to broach the subject with the queen.”

15 November 1582

Dear Kit,

I begin to regret not leaving London with you. It seems wrong to flee to Anabel every day, but in truth I'm not at all certain Mother and Father notice me when I am here. Father is as silent as the grave and Mother spends her days in a whirl of letter writing and making personal calls on anyone in London whom she might charm. There has been some debate as to whether that latter should include Francis Walsingham. It has been more than a month since Elizabeth sent him away in a temper—the longer she does not call for him, the more entrenched I fear she will become. If there is one thing our queen cannot bear, it is being forced to admit she is wrong.

I can feel your continuing turmoil as easily while you are on the road as when you are in the next chamber. I shall do what I can with Anabel, but your guilt about stepping into Stephen's shoes you will have to deal with on your own.

Pippa

23 November 1582

Pippa,

I leave Tiverton tomorrow for Farleigh Hungerford. I am sure it will be as unnecessary a visit as this one, for both Stephen and Father have capable agents running things. I am merely the figurehead. And yes, I am uncomfortable. Be careful what you wish for—I am learning the truth of that in spades. I will be delighted to hand these responsibilities back as soon as Stephen is freed.

Anabel writes that you have encouraged her to go north. What do you know that I do not? (And don't say “many things”—you know what I mean.) If you can feel my turmoil, then I can feel yours. When we were three years old, I would wake whenever you had a nightmare. When we were seven and you fell down the tower steps at Tiverton, I had bruises to match yours all down my left side. And when we were fifteen, I knew the first—and the last—time you kissed Matthew Harrington. (Which is a subject for another day, twin mine. I will not forget.)

The point is, I know that you have not been sleeping well. I know that your heart is twisted every hour you're awake and that the muscles in your face hurt from presenting a serene expression before the world. And it is not because of Stephen or Mother and Father or Anabel or me or even Lucie's miscarriage…you are working very hard to keep something from me. There is no need. I may not have your insights, but I have fully as much love as you and a burning desire to do something!

Your not wholly useless brother,

Kit

1 December 1582

Kit,

If you know me so well, you know I have never thought you useless. Everyone seems to think that you need me to be your anchor—but the truth is, I need you even more. For courage, for confidence, for love.

There is still no word on Stephen's future. Bless her, Carrie has arrived from Wynfield. For the first time since Harrington's death, she is something like her old self. Carrie is always at her best when needed.

The queen's privy council met yesterday. No doubt you will soon have word, wherever you are, that the official papers of betrothal between King James and Anabel are to be signed the day before Christmas. As soon as the holiday season is over, I will travel with Anabel and her household to Middleham Castle. The marriage date is still somewhat fluid. Not in the next year, at least.

And the queen, despite vociferous opposition from her councilors, has invited the Duc d'Anjou to return to England next spring and formalize a betrothal between them. The atmosphere in London is strained.

Still no charges laid against Stephen, or indication that there soon will be. Mother has reached the end of her patience. I believe she means to confront the queen as soon as Elizabeth will consent to see her.

I wish you were here to make us all laugh.

Pippa

Stephen's confinement in the Tower of London was not especially onerous. He was housed in Constable Tower, two chambers plainly but adequately furnished and warmed thanks to his parents' money. He was allowed paper and ink and he exchanged detailed letters with his steward at Farleigh Hungerford. His parents were allowed to visit several times in the first few weeks, but then the visits stopped.

But if his family no longer came, neither did anyone else. Not even Walsingham. Stephen supposed the Lord Secretary's disgrace must be running very deep if he dared not take up the cause of one of his intelligencers. Not that Walsingham would have any reason to aid him. The Lord Secretary was probably even more disgusted than the queen by his betrayal.

On second thought, probably not. Walsingham was a cold-blooded creature ruled, above all, by his refusal to trust. He must always be half expecting to be betrayed. Which is how he'd kept the queen safe all these years.

Stephen had no attendants, which meant he had no one to talk to save the guards who delivered food and occasionally passed a few words with him. Through November and December, he grew increasingly impatient for news. Even letters from his family were being strictly rationed—no more than one every two weeks and then only from his parents. Strangely enough, it was Kit whom he most wished for. During this last long journey back from Ireland, Kit had shown himself to have grown up in a manner that surprised Stephen. He'd always considered his little brother the lucky one, to have no responsibilities and thus the freedom to say what he liked and make his choices without weighing how they affected others. But Kit had been nothing if not ferociously responsible in staying by his side during the trip with Dane.

From the guards, Stephen was reminded when it was Christmas. He wondered if his family had returned home for the season. The Courtenays had always jealously guarded their privacy, and he had many memories of Christmas at Tiverton, of gathering holly and ivy, the men searching out the Yule log on Christmas Eve, the scents of baking for days in advance, the children making up plays to perform…Stephen missed all of it.

The slit windows in his outer chamber showed twilight's early descent that Christmas day when his prison door was opened unexpectedly. Stephen looked up from the table—where he was not writing so much as fiddling with a pen and daydreaming of mincemeat and sugared almonds—and saw the lieutenant of the Tower himself. Stephen got to his feet, heart pounding. Was this Elizabeth's Christmas gift—to finally charge him with murder or treason? The thought of being released he dared not entertain.

There was another figure behind the lieutenant, so small and slight that a head could not be seen, only the edge of heavy skirts and a fur-trimmed cloak.

“Visitor,” the lieutenant said unnecessarily. The man looked slightly stunned, as though not certain how this had come about. Then the visitor stepped around him and Stephen felt a comparable shock himself.

Maisie. All five feet of her, the heart-shaped face and sea-coloured eyes unchanged, wearing velvet and silk, her abundance of light hair contained in a jeweled net, looking as at home and unflappable as she had wearing wool in an Irish household.

“Mariota,” Stephen said stupidly. “What the devil are you doing here?”

“The question,” she retorted tartly, “is what are
you
doing here?”