The Virgin's Spy (6 page)

Finishing off what? Stephen wondered. The keep was in English hands, which meant the whole of the river and its approach to the port city of Limerick was secure. This defeat would be painful—perhaps fatal—to the rebellion in Munster. All that was left to finish was the diplomatic maneuvering to get to the Earl of Desmond himself, certainly nothing that could be accomplished on this battlefield.

Stephen had never been more wrong.

He crossed to the island and entered the keep, almost choking on the stench of smoke and rubble and—distinctively threaded through it all—blood. Every sense alert, as though he might be attacked, he kept one hand on the hilt of his sword and stepped cautiously past the outer walls into the courtyard where the rebels had made their final stand.

It was like no nightmare he'd ever suffered—the only thing his horrified mind could conjure were some of the more dismal ancient depictions of hell. He'd expected death, but what he found was slaughter. Everywhere he looked there were men wearing Dane's red and gold boar badge, with dripping swords and expressions either grimly purposeful or disturbingly casual. Behind and around them, heaped against walls, huddled in corners, lay the bodies of Carrigafoyle's defenders, hacked down in the moment of surrender. No, worse than that—in the hours
after
surrender, when tempers should have cooled and negotiations held sway. Even had the English meant to kill the rebels, these men should still have had a brief trial and been properly hung. But this?

This was nothing short of murder.

He might have talked himself into a cooler head—or at least a more prudent response—given time. It was Oliver Dane's bad fortune to come swaggering up to Stephen while he was still trying to settle his stomach.

“Sorry to miss the fun?” Dane asked.

“What in the name of God have you done?” Stephen demanded, his voice low with fury. It almost scared him, how angry he was. His father never showed anger beyond a few cutting words, never let his temper roil through him and into violence. Stephen had spent his lifetime, all twenty-one years of it, trying to live up to Dominic Courtenay. That habit alone kept him from knocking the smirk off Dane's face with the hilt of his sword.

“I've done what needed doing,” Dane said calmly, but the slightest twitch around his left eye showed that he hadn't missed Stephen's insubordination. “Don't come into my country telling me how to win a war, English lordling. Ireland is not like anywhere else.”

“And that justifies butchering unarmed men who have surrendered? Like they were nothing more than cattle? Do you have any idea the folly you have wrought?”

“Killing my enemies? That is no folly.”

“You haven't destroyed your enemies today, Dane. You have strengthened them a hundredfold. Have you ever met King Philip of Spain? I have.” Stephen felt the recklessness seize hold of his tongue and made no effort to restrain it. Damned with being controlled and sensible and cautious. “And I spent six months last year in close quarters with Mary Stuart. There is no pride like their Catholic righteousness, and I tell you that what you have done today has single-handedly ensured that Spain's support of the Irish rebels will no longer be halfhearted. Philip will send an army now—his wife will see to it—and what is left of Ireland will be razed to the ground. You stupid, stupid man.”

Dane's fist didn't connect as hard as it might have, just hard enough to rock Stephen back several steps. “I don't like English lordlings,” Dane spat at him, “and I don't like boys half my age telling me what to do. I've no more need of you now that Carrigafoyle has fallen. Take your men and go crawling back to that bitch of a queen. Tell her to leave us alone to bring the Irish to heel.”

Stephen spun around, head ringing from the blow but his temper still burning bright enough to keep him moving without showing sign of it. Then Dane called after him, “I'll send guards for the prisoners you rounded up.”

With foreboding, Stephen half turned back. “What will you do with them?”

“Don't worry, boy. I don't intend to run through a bunch of women with my sword.”

Before Stephen could decide if he believed him, Dane added with a mocking edge to his tone, “I plan to hang the lot of them.”

20 August 1581

Lucie,

I suppose I hardly need bother to write, as this letter will scarcely reach you before you are here. But habits are hard to break, and without Kit to talk to I need to spill out my thoughts in words of some sort.

We arrived in Ludlow in great state this morning. Sir Henry Sidney, newly appointed President of the Council of the Marches, spared no expense in welcoming the princess, who is, in some sense, displacing him. Sidney has built comfortable family apartments here, which they will continue to occupy, but whenever Anabel chooses, Ludlow will be first and foremost her home.

Fortunately for the Sidneys, Anabel is eminently reasonable. When she chooses to be. She has nothing to gain from being difficult at Ludlow, and everything to lose. So we swept into the town and castle with a flurry of graciousness and gratitude. All eyes were on Anabel, thanks to the queen's decision not to arrive until just before the investiture, and I think Anabel quite reveled in being the center of attention. She does it so well.

The Sidneys, while welcoming to Anabel, are less than excited about the prospect of a possible French marriage. I was politely cornered after dinner by Philip, their oldest son. In the gentlest, warmest manner possible, he grilled me about Anabel's wishes. Could the princess be brought to oppose the queen in the matter of the Duc d'Anjou?

Observers might have suspected Philip Sidney of having his own designs on Anabel—he is, after all, Robert Dudley's nephew and thus a favourite of the queen. Or they might have thought him interested in me. Even Anabel eyed me mischievously. She should know better. All the world knows that Philip is desperately in love with young Penelope Devereux—I say young, although she is only a year younger than I—but that is nine years younger than Philip, and with her father's death it does not seem likely a marriage will be ever made.

No, Philip's interest in me is only in how I am connected to Anabel. The Sidneys, nearly Puritan in their religious sentiments, are adamantly opposed to allying with France. Of course they will be, of necessity, polite to Anjou's personal representative while he is at Ludlow with the queen, but Philip at last asked me quite bluntly, “Can the princess be persuaded to look elsewhere for a husband?”

“Where would you suggest?” I asked, with my best impression of wide-eyed innocence. “Scotland? Rest assured that James's court will also be well represented at the investiture. Beyond that, I would never presume to oppose the royal family in matters of matrimony.”

With a shrewd grin, Philip said, “Oh no, the Courtenays would never oppose the royals in such matters.”

I've always liked Philip. But beneath his charm and his family's warmth is a stern conviction of their own righteousness. There are many in England who echo that. Puritans and militant Catholics—sometimes I think there is nothing to choose between them.

At least I am not Anabel, having to balance all those prying people wanting a say in my most intimate future.

Love,

Pippa

23 August 1851

Pippa,

This letter may not reach you until I do myself—but if you want to write, I have no objections. So Philip Sidney was flirting with you for information? How very wicked of him! If Kit were there, he'd never have been allowed to, so enjoy the experience while you can. Our brothers seem to believe our intelligence flies out the window the first time a good-looking man turns his attention our way.

Speaking of good-looking men…how is Matthew doing in Anabel's service? Conscientious, of course. He would hardly be Harrington's son if he were not. I am glad he, at least, is with you. It must pain Kit to be left out of the investiture—though it was more or less his choice. Have you heard from him? I've had one—annoyingly brief—letter. Our brother seems to be mostly intent on avoiding Eleanor Percy, who appears to have taken up residence at Kilkenny Castle as though staking a claim to the Earl of Ormond. I wonder how the queen feels about that!

Lucie

I
n the end, Stephen had to resort to using all his birthright and position and family and royal connections to keep Oliver Dane from wresting every last Irish woman and child from his hands. He couldn't reasonably expect to hold onto the eight men among the prisoners and had hoped the chance to hang those—especially the engineer, Captain Julian—would satisfy Dane. But the man seemed almost as obsessed with slapping down Stephen as he was with destroying Irish rebels.

“Rebels?” Stephen had scoffed when Dane accused him of aiding the enemy. Casting a calculated, contemptuous eye over the thirteen women and two boys, he added, “If you are afraid of such, Dane, then you should not be in the field in Her Majesty's service.”

It had very nearly come to blows then. It was only stopped, Stephen hated to admit, by Harrington's intervention, which consisted mostly of laying a hand on his dagger hilt and moving within arm's reach of Oliver Dane. Harrington might be well into his fifties, but Stephen had never met another man able to match him for sheer physical intimidation.

Dane had retreated then, and attempted to enlist Pelham's aid in the matter. But Ireland's Lord Justice, well aware of the Courtenay family's reach, had declined to intervene. At first light the next morning, Stephen and his men rode away from Carrigafoyle with the fifteen prisoners. Their destination was Kilkenny, where current intelligence placed the Earl of Ormond in residence. It seemed safest to get the prisoners into the hands of a local lord capable of resisting Dane and who also had a vested interest in keeping Ireland stable. What Ormond did with the women and boys then would be an Irish affair. As for himself, Stephen wanted nothing more than to go home.

But go home to what? He pondered the question as they made their way back across the ravaged landscape of Munster. No doubt Queen Elizabeth would be pleased by Carrigafoyle's fall, but she would also correctly assess the future dangers arising from the cruelty of her soldiers. No one knew Philip of Spain better than his former wife; Elizabeth would know how far he might be willing to go to placate his current wife. Mary of Scotland would press for retaliation of the cruelty in Ireland. Would Philip grant it? If he did, if Spain committed greater forces to Ireland, then England would require more men and weapons as well. Stephen had no other skills—what else could he do but fight?

Fight…or immerse himself more thoroughly into Walsingham's murky world of intelligence and lies. Stephen had proved himself quick and clever while embedded in Mary Stuart's English prison. He had gained the Scots queen's trust, even affection, and she had never guessed until the last that he had been spying on her. So it seemed he did have other skills: the ability to lie convincingly, to twist the trust of the gullible against them, to hide his true face behind a convincing mask. Yes, all that had been done in the interests of England. But that didn't stop him feeling guilty at being good at it. Dominic Courtenay couldn't tell a convincing lie to save his life—as evidenced by his past. Why was Stephen so conflicted? Wasn't he eager to prove himself apart from his name and birth? Why did the thought of proving himself a good spy feel second best?

But second best or not, Stephen thought he mightn't even mind that as long as it kept him out of Ireland's battles.

Their progress was excruciatingly slow. At the end of the third day, they'd gone barely thirty miles and Stephen's frustration had him snapping at his men. Harrington, always so careful not to overstep his bounds, also knew when and how to intervene. He got Stephen on his own and cautioned neutrally, “There's no way to move faster than ten miles a day with the prisoners walking.”

“I know. You'll smooth things over with the men?” Stephen asked abruptly.

“They understand.”

“It'll take us nearly two weeks to reach Kilkenny at this pace. And I don't…” Stephen rolled his shoulders, feeling the tight pull of tension. “The danger increases the longer we're out here.”

“I agree.”

To know that an experienced soldier like Harrington could also feel the dread that seemed to seep out of the very ground and air steadied Stephen and made it possible for him to make a decision.

“We'll split up,” he announced. “Mount the prisoners, and that still leaves us two dozen men on horseback to ride with them. The rest of the men will march behind. Without the women slowing them down, they can make nearly as fast a time as we can. That should cut our trip to Kilkenny down to four days, five at the most.”

Harrington nodded in agreement, possibly approval. “You want me with the other group?”

“No. I need you. Put Lewis in charge of those marching and see to the disposition of the horses. I'll let the women know.”

The de facto leader of the small band of prisoners was only a few years older than Stephen, a wary redhead named Roisin. She wasn't the oldest of the women, nor the most hostile, and perhaps it was her even temperament that led the others to defer to her. When told they would ride from here, she studied Stephen briefly before asking, “You feel it, don't you?”

“Feel what?”

“Someone's coming for us.”

He didn't know if she meant English or Irish—either way, it confirmed his belief that he'd best get them into Ormond's hands at Kilkenny as quickly as possible. With a curt nod, Stephen told her, “Prepare the others. We'll be riding as fast as we can go. It will not be comfortable.”

“Comfort is not something we are raised to look for in Ireland.”

Why did he feel the urge to apologize to her? Biting down on his own distaste and impulse to strike out in order to alleviate it, Stephen stalked away.

The prisoners were tough and uncomplaining riders. They more than doubled their pace from the previous walking and would have made it to Kilkenny by dark on the fourth day if a strong storm had not swept in. They made camp five miles from Ormond's castle, the women and boys housed in two tents and the men taking it in turn to watch. Stephen retreated to his own small space, having given his larger tent for the prisoners, and sat on a folding stool, head in his hands, hoping that the pounding he felt would ease tomorrow with the handing off of this unlooked-for responsibility.

That sense of responsibility, at least, was something he could trace directly from his father. Lucky Kit, he decided wryly, who seemed to have escaped that particular trait.

It was an hour or two past sunset—if they'd been able to see the sun through the rain—when Harrington announced himself outside. “Come in,” Stephen called, rolling up the map he'd been studying at a table not much bigger than the stool. The only other objects in the tent were a pallet bed and his weapons.

Harrington did not enter alone. Behind him, perhaps half his size, was Roisin, a drenched cloak over the dress that still bore bloodstains from Carrigafoyle beneath the dirt of travel.

“Asked to speak with you,” Harrington said without emphasis.

“About?”

Instead of a direct answer, Roisin said simply, “Alone.”

Stephen raised an eyebrow. “Got a knife secreted somewhere to kill me with?”

“We were searched. Your men were thorough.”

He did not want to be alone with her, and not out of fear. There was something about her direct gaze and the blaze of her hair…it had been a long time since England. And despite hating himself for it, Stephen could hear Oliver Dane's taunt in his head,
Bed an Irish girl…and you'll never be contented with a polite Englishwoman again.

“Leave us, Harrington,” he said, despite all the warnings of a young, healthy body strung too long at too high a pitch without release.

For the first time Stephen could remember, Harrington hesitated. “Stephen,” he said, the fact that he had called him by name as much a caution as his expression. Harrington looked as though he meant to say more, but obedience and reticence were long habits. He shut his mouth and exited the tent with only a last inscrutable look at Stephen and the Irish girl.

“What can I do for you?” Stephen asked. He offered her his stool, the only place to sit.

She remained standing, facing him with that self-possession he'd noticed for days, and also a touch of curiosity. Her hair was plaited away from her face, then fell loosely across her shoulders. In the lamplight, her eyes were a shifting greenish blue that pulled at Stephen like the ocean waves they echoed.

He'd nearly forgotten his question when finally Roisin answered. “You can tell me why,” she said.

“Why what?”

“Why have you gone to so much trouble for us? Splitting your force, marching us across Ireland—is it merely to spite Oliver Dane?”

“You know Dane?”

“Everyone in Munster knows him. A hard man. One it is wiser not to cross.”

Stephen gave her a wintry smile. “I do not plan to be in Ireland long enough to need to worry about the consequences of crossing Dane. As soon as I've seen you all into the Earl of Ormond's hands, I'll be returning to England at the earliest opportunity.”

“You do not care for Ireland?”

“I hardly know Ireland. And no, I cannot say I have any great wish to know it better. I would think you should be glad to see the last of any Englishman.”

She shrugged. “One less or one hundred less makes little difference. Unless your queen cares to give up her claim, there will always be Englishmen in Ireland. And in the end, we will win. Not with weapons or soldiers…There is a Latin saying. ‘Hibernia Hibernescit.' Ireland makes all things Irish.”

“All the more reason for me to retreat while I can, then, for I rather like being English.”

“There might be things here…people here…that would make your memories sweeter.”

Had she moved closer? Stephen focused on breathing evenly. She most definitely had stepped nearer, so that he had to tilt his head down to meet her eyes. They were wide and wild, fathomless in a way he was afraid to recognize.

She was his prisoner. No virgins, no wives, no force…but she was the one leaning into him, tipping up her face until her lips were within inches of his own.

“I would give you one happy memory of Ireland,” she whispered, and the warmth of her breath was like spiced wine, heady and sweet and tantalizing.

“Why?” he breathed out. When he should have said no, or simply stepped back firmly.

“Because you have been kind, Lord Somerset. There is not so much kindness in Ireland that it should go unrewarded.”

Virtue is its own reward
rang through his mind, but that platitude had little to do with the desire that had seized him until he could scarcely see straight. This is wrong, he thought frantically, this is wrong, I will not do this…

Stephen lowered his mouth the fraction needed and kissed her.

Her response was either genuine warmth or such an imitation of it that he would never know the difference. And he let himself not care. Stephen had always tried to bestow pleasure as well as take it, but nothing in his past was like the jumbled, stolen time that followed. He only came to himself, clear-headed, when he woke later with Roisin curled up next to him on the narrow pallet.

What a mess, was his first thought. But the second, on its heels, was, It was worth it.

He didn't know how long they'd been asleep, but he judged it was not past midnight yet. The rain had slowed. She could not stay here all night. As it was, every person in the camp would know what had happened in here—including, he realized with a chill, Harrington. Which meant his father would soon know it.

Time enough to deal with that when he reached England. For now, he had to wake her and thank her genuinely before sending her back. To be handed over to the Earl of Ormond in the morning.

Unless…what if he simply let them all go? They were far from Carrigafoyle, but no doubt they could slip away into the stones and hills of Ireland and make their way wherever they could. Some provisions from his stock—his men would do as ordered. And it would ease his conscience about tonight's lapse.