The Virgin's Spy

by Laura Andersen

  On this particular morning, Kit was long gone on a ride with Pippa and Anabel. Lucie and her husband had spent the night at their new home, Compton Wynyates, and from there meant to go north and spend the next few weeks in Yorkshire, since the French-born Julien thought it sounded exotic. From the way Lucie and Julien had been looking at each other last night, Stephen supposed they would hardly notice their surroundings, as long as they had a bed.

  And that was a disturbing image of one’s sister. Stephen shook it off as he swiped bread and cheese from the Wynfield Mote kitchens and headed for the fount of all certain knowledge where his family was concerned—Carrie Harrington.

  Just turned sixty, Carrie had been in his mother’s service for twenty-five years, and in Minuette’s mother’s service before that. After she’d lost her first husband and both their children to illness early in life, she had remarried the large, silent Edward Harrington, who’d served Dominic Courtenay since before he was the Duke of Exeter. Carrie had personally delivered Stephen and each of his siblings and could always be counted on for good advice.

  And also a certain amount of mind reading.

  “Looking for your parents?” she asked, squinting up at him from her comfortable chair in the sunlit solar. “Or looking to avoid them?”

  Stephen smiled. “Which should it be?”

  Her hair was a soft gray-brown and her face lined, but her hands were steady on her needlework. “Don’t look to me to sort your problems. Go to Ireland or not—it is your decision. And that, for what it’s worth, is what your parents will tell you.”

  “I know. Sometimes I wish they were more autocratic.”

  “No, you don’t. You only appear submissive in comparison to your brother. If ever you are commanded against your wishes, Stephen, you will balk authority as surely as Kit does.”

  “Then let us hope I am never commanded against my wishes. There can only be one Kit.”

  “Your parents walked in the direction of the old church,” Carrie said, dismissing him and returning to her sewing.

  Stephen met them coming back toward the house, halfway between Wynfield Mote and the Norman church that had stood empty since Henry VIII’s reformation. Dominic and Minuette Courtenay had been married in that empty chapel—married in a Catholic ceremony, surprisingly. Every now and then Stephen remembered that his parents had not only had a life before their children, but a rather complicated and dangerous life. They were so very…stable. But today, remembering that his father had once been enough of a rebel to land in the Tower gave Stephen courage to speak the whole of his conflicted mind.

  As ever, his mother went right to the heart of the matter. “The queen is demanding an answer to Ireland, is she not? I could feel the weight of her attention on you yesterday.”

  “I’ve put her off as long as possible. If I’m taking a force to Ireland, it must be before summer’s end.”

  “Are you seeking counsel, or approval?” his father asked.

  “I’m always seeking both.” Stephen smiled briefly. “Partly I feel I don’t want anything to do with the mess in Ireland—and partly I feel that very reluctance means I should go.”

  His mother laughed. “So like your father, making everything ten times more difficult than it need be. Go to Ireland or don’t, Stephen, but stop flaying yourself alive over the decision.”

  But Dominic Courtenay knew his son as he knew himself, and so he added what the young man craved—an opinion. “If it were myself, I would go. I was your age when I commanded men along the March of Wales, and it was a critical experience in my life. You are a good leader with good men from your Somerset lands who will follow you. Let them. What they learn of you in Ireland will shape their lives and yours. Besides,” and here he cast a rueful glance at his wife, “military service is the least demanding request a monarch can make. Be glad if that is all the queen wants of you, son.”

  Stephen laughed as he was meant to, and he did feel lighter when he wrote to the queen later that day to accept her offer of command in Ireland.

  But beneath the lightness of a decision made was a brittle unease. Because military service was not the only thing wanted of him. His second letter was addressed to Francis Walsingham. Though officially the queen’s principal secretary, Walsingham had never given over his role as her chief intelligencer. Last year, Stephen had served him from within the imprisoned household of the exiled Scots queen, Mary Stuart. Walsingham was a man to exploit what advantages he could, and having a spy he trusted in Ireland would be a definite advantage.

  I will be in Ireland by mid-August, Stephen wrote.

  He expected Walsingham would have requests of his own to add to the queen’s orders.

  —

  Anne Isabella, Princess of Wales, had learned from her earliest years that she could nearly always get her way. Not many people had the power to say no to the daughter of two reigning monarchs, and so nineteen-year-old Anabel, when she was being particularly honest with herself, admitted that she was a bit spoiled.

  The trouble was, one only tended to realize that when one didn’t get one’s way. As now, with Kit Courtenay staring her down in refusal.

  “What do you mean, ‘No’?” she demanded. “I have appointed you my Master of Horse. It wasn’t a request.”

  “Unless you mean me to operate in chains, then I am telling you that I very kindly decline the appointment.”

  “What is wrong with you, Kit? You’ve been irritable and difficult for months.”

  “Because I have a mind of my own and a wish to do more with my life than follow you around and offer you compliments? ‘How lovely you are today, Your Highness,’ ” he said in deadly mimicry of court sycophants. “ ‘The very image of your royal mother, but is that a touch of Spanish flair in your dress?’ ”

  Anabel’s temper went from raging to white-hot in a moment. In a chilly tone reminiscent of her father’s Spanish hauteur, she said, “Long acquaintance does not give you the right to insult me to my face.”

  Most unusually, Kit did not immediately respond. Anabel was used to his ready tongue and quick wit, which could spin any conversation a dozen dizzying directions without warning. But in the last months, his irritability had been accompanied by these bouts of reflection before speech.

  Kit did not apologize; she had not expected him to. But he offered something of an explanation. “I am growing older, just as you are. I do not have a throne waiting for me, nor even a title. Stephen inherits my father’s riches. I must make my own path. And I would prefer to do it without undue favouritism.”

  “And what of due favouritism? Do you expect me to appoint strangers to serve in my household?”

  “I am not insensible of the great honour, Your Highness. But I have made other plans. The Earl of Leicester is bound for Dublin and has appointed me his secretary. I leave for Ireland in two weeks.”

  “You’re going to Ireland with Brandon Dudley? To be a secretary?” Anabel laughed in disbelief. “Why not at least go as part of Stephen’s forces?”

  “If I’m not going to accept your favours, Anabel, I’m hardly likely to go begging to my brother.”

  That at least sounded like the Kit she had always known—irreverent and occasionally insolent. Although Anabel was as close to the Courtenay children as anyone, the princess occasionally studied their relationships as an outsider and wondered if the pleasures of siblings outweighed the resentments.

  “I don’t suppose there’s any chance you would reconsider?” There was a wistfulness to her plea she had not expected.

  His quick, rueful grin was answer in itself. “You’ll be happier with someone more biddable, Your Highness. You and I should only spend our days arguing.”

  But those are the best parts of my days, Anabel thought forlornly. Arguing with you.

  She was still fretting about his uncharacteristic refusal that night when Pippa helped her change for bed. There were two other ladies moving silently about with her gown and kirtle and ruff, but Anabel ignore
d them.

  “What is wrong with Kit?” she demanded of his twin.

  Pippa continued to brush Anabel’s hair as she answered. “Kit told you the truth. For all his mischief, he is ambitious and proud. Is it truly a surprise he should wish to make his way independently?”

  Pippa had her twin’s sharp cheekbones and eyes that tilted up on the outer corner. They both had their mother’s thick, wavy hair the colour of sun-warmed honey, but Pippa’s had a streak of black in it that framed the right side of her face. It made her look—not exotic, exactly, but otherworldly. It was not the only otherworldly aspect to her character.

  But at the moment, Pippa did not seem interested in sharing any of her unique knowledge, so Anabel contented herself with logical argument. “Being Master of Horse for the Princess of Wales would be an independent position. I don’t mean to tell him how to perform his responsibilities.”

  “Kit does not wish to take your gifts.”

  “Because he does not wish to waste time in my company?”

  Pippa laid down the brush and, when Anabel made no objection, pulled a stool alongside her friend. Her voice was kind but implacable. “You know better than that. Anabel, what is truly bothering you?”

  Your damned twin with his arrogance and pride and sudden wish to cut himself off from me. Kit was hers, as much as Pippa. What was the point of being royal if one could not keep hold of the people one wanted?

  But not even to Pippa was she prepared to share the full turmoil of her thoughts, because beneath them lurked something that frightened her. An image—a memory—that came to her at night as she drifted between waking and sleep.

  The expression in Kit’s eyes when he’d walked into Wynfield Mote a year ago to negotiate her out of the hands of a violent man.

  Anabel had not seen that expression in the months since. Instead, Kit had been moody and unpredictable. And now he seemed so determined to get away from her that he was willing to go to godforsaken Ireland.

  When it must have become clear that Anabel would not speak further, Pippa sighed. “Someday you will have to learn to trust yourself, Your Highness. I cannot do it for you.”

  30 June 1581

  Dearest Lucie,

  When you traveled to France last year, I teased you about coming home with a Frenchman. Or half teased. I did not know—I never know for certain—how events would play out. I knew there was danger and pain and loss all tied together with your happiness…but is that not the nature of life itself? One cannot untangle only the parts one wants. They are woven together too tightly.

  How do I tell Anabel that? She is not prepared to admit, even to herself, that she knows perfectly well why Kit is leaving England. Having had the shock of confronting his own feelings for her so suddenly last August, Kit cannot go on taking her favours as nothing more than the friend he has always been. But nor will he press on her a love she is not prepared to accept. To serve in her household would be a daily insult to his pride, especially with the looming visits of the French and Scots representatives coming to vie for her hand. Kit knows perfectly well that Anabel is not meant for him.

  What do I know? Only a tangle of paths and choices and troubles that lie ahead. England’s future is no more secure than Elizabeth’s or her daughter’s. If I knew how it would all turn out, I would truly be the witch some might fear me of being.

  But I am only a girl who knows more than I wish.

  Oh dear, only days away from you and already I am slipping into melodrama. In your great happiness, Lucie, steal a few minutes away to write to me with your mix of sisterly compassion and common sense. I need it.

  Love,

  Pippa

  5 July 1581

  Pippa,

  Stop being melodramatic! The world is not yours to order or decipher, only to live in as we all must do. If you had tried to tell me that I would fall in love with Julien, I would likely have refused to do so out of sheer stubbornness. There’s no use fretting over Anabel and Kit—I have never known two people more certain to do precisely as they please. Getting in their way will only aggravate the issue.

  I feel quite certain now that York is the most beautiful city in England. Though probably I should feel that way about Bristol or Leeds or Carlisle if I happened to be passing these days in any of those towns. It is Julien that makes all beautiful, especially at night when we can shut the door and there is nothing in this world but the two of us. And a fine cambric shift. And a bed.

  It is a state I highly recommend.

  Your most lovingly contented sister,

  Lucie

  “And how are you feeling today, Maria?” Philip asked from polite habit. He could see perfectly well that his wife continued in the good health she had enjoyed since the earliest days of her pregnancy. It was a blessing he did not lightly discount, for Mary Stuart was thirty-eight years old and had not borne a living child since James of Scotland fourteen years ago.

  Pregnancy agreed with her. Mary, unlike her cousin and Philip’s previous wife, Elizabeth, was entirely feminine and she glowed with the sheen of contented womanhood.

  But, very much like Elizabeth, there were times when the queen outshone the woman.

  “Why,” Mary replied tartly, “has there been no aid sent to Ireland? The Earl of Desmond desperately needs men and arms and food.”

  Desmond also, in Philip’s opinion, needed better tactics and a country worth fighting for. But his wife knew she was on secure ground, for he would not quarrel openly while she carried what could only be hoped was the future King of Spain.

  “Maria,” Philip said with the lightest warning, “you should not trouble yourself with the politics of Ireland at such a time.” Or any time, he thought wryly. Ireland was nothing but a wasteland of men and money.

  But it was also Catholic, nominally controlled by England, and Mary sought any outlet that allowed her to strike at the queen who had kept her captive for a dozen years.

  “I am not troubling myself about the politics of Ireland. I am troubling myself about my husband keeping his word. Spain has promised aid. And do not speak to me of legalities and councils and the fine details of such a promise. Tell me what the most powerful king in Christendom intends to do in the next four weeks to aid his brothers in Christ.”

  “Sit down,” Philip said flatly. And when she opened her mouth to protest, repeated a touch louder, “Sit down, Maria. I will speak to you, but I will not keep the mother of my heir on her feet while I do so.”

  She sat and studied him with a suspicious arrogance that was an uncomfortable trait in one’s wife. Not that Elizabeth Tudor could ever be outmatched in terms of arrogance, but she possessed in addition the saving graces of a first-rate mind and a mischievous sense of humour. Neither of which Mary Stuart could claim. Mary’s intelligence was instinctive rather than cultivated, narrow rather than wide, and she distrusted anyone who might be laughing at her.

  “As a queen all your life,” he began, “you know perfectly well the limitations even royalty must work around. Yes, Spain is Holy Church’s most zealous defender, but that means we must always look at the wider view. Ireland is but one piece, and because of her geography and culture, a minor piece at that.”

  “But—”

  “Let me finish.” Once, Philip would never have talked over a woman. But queens, at times, had to be an exception. “Since your escape from England and our divorce from Elizabeth, Ireland has become a pivotal piece, for all that it is minor. We are sending men and arms and gold. They will reach the west coast of Ireland by the end of July.”

  No need to give details, for Mary would only complain that the numbers were not enough. Probably she was right. But Philip trusted his military men more than his wife. They had chosen what they thought an optimal number—enough to tip the balance if the stars aligned for the Earl of Desmond, but not so many that Philip could not afford to lose them. More importantly—if they did lose them, Spain’s prestige would not be touched.

  Ireland might yet prove fert
ile ground to attack Elizabeth’s fragile empire. But not for certain, not yet. And Philip gambled only on certainties.

  —

  “If you’re going to gamble, Kit, don’t wager more than you can afford to lose.”

  Kit choked back a curse and rounded on his twin. “First, don’t sneak up on me. Second, you sounded scarily like Mother just then. And third, don’t twit me, Pippa. I am not in the mood.”

  Mimicking his tone, she said, “First, pay attention to your surroundings. Second, I know what mood you’re in before you do. And third, I don’t care. The privilege of older siblings, Kit—to speak to you how and when we choose.”

  “You’re older by five minutes. And I don’t need you to play Stephen’s part any more than Mother’s—”

  He only stopped when he caught the flash of true concern from his twin. It was there and gone too swiftly for anyone else to have noticed, but Kit knew Pippa as well as he knew anyone in the world. Better. It wasn’t just that they had the same colouring, the same thick waves of dark gold hair, the same wide smile used to deflect others as much as to charm them. Their bond was more than physical, encompassing a queer double sense of the world and of each other. Because of that bond, Kit could feel that Pippa’s concern about his state ran deep—and her intentions to keep at him until he was at least partly truthful ran even deeper.

  “Come on,” he sighed, and pulled her away from the public galleries of Greenwich Palace into the more secluded corridors where only royalty and their closest councilors and friends ventured. He would allow Pippa much, but airing his most private thoughts for anyone to hear went too far.

  When they were as alone as could be managed, Kit folded his arms and leaned against the wall. “Talk,” he commanded Pippa.

  But his twin only smiled with deadly sweetness. “I believe that’s my order for you.”

  He would have liked to make her press and pry and work for every concession she meant to wring from him. But it would have been pointless. The talking was not to satisfy her curiosity; it was to force him to come to terms with things that, in her opinion, he had kept too long even from himself.