The Virgin's Spy

by Laura Andersen

  She has made me study Welsh with her, though her language talents far outstrip mine. I might just be able to ask for a loaf of bread if left alone, but Anabel is capable of conducting quite broad conversations. She is rightly proud of her talents, and of the work she has put into them. I think the Welsh will be celebratory enough to please even her.

  The queen will meet us in Ludlow. I suspect it is not easy for her to launch Anabel on her own, but what makes her such a good ruler is that she does not put personal feelings above the good of the realm. England needs Anabel.

  And Anabel needs me. For now, at least.

  You are coming to Ludlow, aren’t you, Lucie? Or has joy—and newlywed nights—turned your mind enough that you have decided to live in York forever?

  Pippa

  11 August 1581

  Pippa,

  Julien and I returned to Compton Wynyates two weeks ago, as you know perfectly well since that is where you directed your letter. I still don’t feel I can call it home—I suspect that will always be Wynfield Mote—but I am not one to take against a perfectly good house and land merely because it’s new. Besides, the queen would be insulted. Yes, I know, Compton Wynyates was Father’s gift to us, but I also know that it was the queen who made the suggestion to him and might even, I suspect, have paid for some of it. How could I not be touched? Both by her unexpected parting with money, as well as the even more unexpected humility in doing so in secret.

  And don’t lecture me about what I owe her. The queen and I understand each other perfectly well since last summer.

  Do you miss Kit very much? It is hardly fair that you should be caught between him and Anabel. Now that one of them has been enlightened, how long before the other follows? Queen Elizabeth may have had her Robert Dudley (though we have only stories of their love), but I do not imagine she will remember that if ever she is forced to deal with a defiant daughter in love.

  How very glad I am to be out of all that uncertainty! And yet, despite my perfect happiness, we will indeed be in Ludlow for the investiture. Julien and I can only stay locked away for so long before it becomes a scandal, even if we are married.

  I wish you well in managing your absent twin and temperamental princess.

  Lucie

  After just one week in Ireland, Stephen was good and ready to take a ship straight back to England. Except he couldn’t, because they were well into the interior by now. His company had landed in Waterford on the fourth of August and marched out again just forty-eight hours later, for rumours of Spanish troops along the west coast were rampant and Sir William Pelham and Captain Oliver Dane needed as many men in the field as fast as they could get them.

  It wasn’t especially fast. Waterford was an English town, but its hold on the coast was tenuous, and within five miles the landscape itself seemed to turn against the English soldiers. There had been no recent fighting, but the countryside could hardly be called easy. They were shadowed along their way—Stephen could feel the watching eyes even when he had no idea where the watchers were hiding. He and Harrington marched the men at a pitch of wary preparedness that was exhausting. He knew ambushes were the favoured method of the Irish fighters and wondered how he was supposed to avoid them. It would take him years to learn the land half as well as those born in it, which left all the momentum in the rebels’ favour.

  From tension and exhaustion, everyone in the company was in a foul mood by the time they met up with Oliver Dane’s troops. Stephen left his men settling under Harrington’s direction and went directly to Dane’s tent.

  It was serviceable and stripped down, the tent of a man accustomed to rough campaigning and who had little use for ornament. By reputation, Captain Dane also had little use for idle noblemen who came to Ireland simply for the sport of it.

  In appearance, Oliver Dane seemed a man designed not to stand out. Of medium height and build, he had brown hair shorn close to his skull and was as clean-shaven as could be managed in a military encampment. Other than the red and gold boar badge that marked his jerkin, his clothes were as serviceable as the rest of him.

  He had maps spread before him on a table, and after a quick glance in Stephen’s direction when he was introduced, kept his eyes on his work.

  But it was clear whom he was addressing. “How are your men?”

  “Wet and hungry, but fit enough.”

  Dane grunted. “Can’t control the weather, and supply lines are a bitch throughout Munster. Fields and crops are nonexistent here and that old biddy of a queen won’t loosen her purse strings sufficient to feed us as she should.”

  Stephen guessed that Dane wanted to see how he’d react to the offensive remarks about Queen Elizabeth. Of course, Dane would know the Courtenay family’s ties to the throne. He was trying to goad Stephen into a display of temper that he would no doubt slap down as hard as he could. Stephen might be a titled earl, but in the field he answered to a commanding officer.

  Fortunately, the queen needed no defense from him. Stephen had never known a woman more able to look after herself than Elizabeth Tudor—except possibly his own mother. So his tone was level when he replied. “We’ve brought our own supplies along, and used them sparingly on the road. We will not be an additional burden to your forces.”

  Finally, Dane straightened from the maps and, crossing his arms on his sturdy chest, studied Stephen. His eyes were an icy blue that seemed designed for no emotion warmer than contempt. “Not completely useless, then. Good to know. But bloody hell, boy, I hope not all your men are as wet behind the ears as you. What are you—sixteen?”

  Another offensive strike, for Dane would know perfectly well his age. “Looks can be deceiving. I am twenty-one, and yes, that makes me considerably younger than most of the men of my company.”

  With a twist to his mouth that might have been amusement or grudging respect, Dane replied, “Well said, Courtenay. Which is what I’ll be calling you, mind, at least as long as we’re marching. I have no patience to coddle English lordlings when every day might be your last—or, more importantly, my last. I’ve been in Ireland twenty years now and I know my job. Your job is to obey. Is that clear?”

  “Perfectly clear.”

  Dane flicked his hand in dismissal. “Take an hour to see your men are settled and your camp in order. Then come back and we’ll talk strategy while we eat.”

  Stephen nodded once and turned.

  “And Courtenay? I’ve a rough tongue but that doesn’t mean I’m not glad enough to have you and your men. Any son of Dominic Courtenay is always welcome as a fighting man.”

  And that was perhaps the most offensive thing Dane had said yet, though no doubt the man had meant it as a compliment. How was he to guess that Stephen was growing awfully tired of being known simply as Dominic’s son and heir?

  —

  “How many men?” Elizabeth asked Walsingham. The Lord Secretary had just brought her the unwelcome—if not entirely unexpected—news that Spanish ships were headed for the west coast of Ireland.

  “Not more than five hundred,” Walsingham answered, and he looked almost unhappy about the small number. If only Philip would commit once and for all in Ireland, then Walsingham might get the support he needed to wage wholesale war and crush the Irish. But Philip was nearly as cautious as Elizabeth. The Spanish king probably wanted war in the far-flung island as little as she did.

  Burghley, at least, was relieved. “Enough to cause increased trouble in Munster, but not enough to reach beyond. And there’s no indication that Desmond himself is committing to join them.”

  Gerald FitzGerald, rebellious Earl of Desmond, had been proclaimed traitor by Elizabeth’s government in Dublin two years earlier. And he deserved it, for he had offered aid and comfort to the rebels in his county and never turned out with troops or support for Elizabeth’s army. But nor had he fired upon English soldiers, and in her most contemplative moments Elizabeth knew that Desmond was in a desperately difficult position. Besides, wasn’t it she herself who had pointed ou
t to Pelham the idiocy of publicly proclaiming Desmond a traitor before they had managed to lay hands on him? As she had predicted, the proclamation served only to drive the earl further into rebellion.

  Walsingham had never been hesitant to push his Irish policy. “Pelham and Dane are on the move to Carrigafoyle. The Spanish will not break out from the coast. And when Carrigafoyle is taken, Your Majesty, your soldiers should move against Askeaton.”

  Her refusal was swift and uncompromising. “No.”

  “As long as Desmond remains in Askeaton, he will continue to be the center of resistance in Munster. And as long as Munster is in open rebellion, all our Irish holdings are at risk. Before we know it, the Pale will shrink to merely the streets of Dublin itself. Are you so certain of the Earl of Ormond that you cannot envision him taking advantage of an English retreat to consolidate his own power?”

  “The Earl of Ormond,” Elizabeth said chillily, “is to be trusted. He has shown it often and I will not suspect my own kinsman of so lightly moving against our throne.”

  “It is imperative that you suspect everyone!”

  Being shouted at was not a common experience for a queen—in the handful of times it had happened in the last few years, it was certain to be either Walsingham or Anabel doing the shouting.

  And when Walsingham shouted, it was almost always about Ireland. Or Spain. Catholics, at least.

  There were two ways to deal with it—shout back or cloak herself in royal hauteur. Elizabeth chose the latter this time. “Perhaps I should suspect you of wanting to bleed England dry of both money and men in advance of a concerted Spanish attack, so that we are vulnerable when the ships are pointing at our island rather than Ireland.”

  Burghley, always and ever the mediator, spoke swiftly into the appalled silence. “The point is to avoid matters coming to such a head. Which is why we must pursue negotiation.”

  “You mean conciliation,” Walsingham spat.

  “If necessary. We can afford, to some degree, Ireland in turmoil. We cannot afford that same turmoil to strike our own shores. What if it were the Midlands scorched to the ground, her people starving? What if it were the Earl of Arundel pressing his newfound Catholic conversion in open defiance? We have just arrested Lady Stonor and her son for harboring Jesuits!” Burghley pressed his lips together and made an effort to control himself. At last, he said firmly, “England must have peace.”

  “At what cost?”

  “Enough!” Elizabeth used the most impressive of her public voices, the one that mingled Henry VIII’s righteousness with Anne Boleyn’s pride. With just that word, Burghley and Walsingham were brought to heel. For the moment.

  “Pelham and Dane will deal with the Spanish landing at Carrigafoyle,” Elizabeth stated. “They have our leave to crush anyone in their reach at that time. The Spanish must not break out—and just as critically, neither must any of their supplies. Weaken the Irish with hunger this winter and perhaps they will be more amenable in the spring. But by no means are our troops to launch headlong against Askeaton. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” Burghley answered for both men, probably because Walsingham was still fuming at her restraint.

  Elizabeth turned her back. “That is all.”

  Only when they had left did she allow herself to sigh and rub her forehead. Would to God she could solve the Catholic problem. She had been so certain, taking the throne twenty-three years ago, that navigating a middle path between the torrent of religious fanatics on either side was the only way to keep England afloat.

  She still believed it was England’s only hope—she just didn’t know if there was any chance of success.

  —

  Kilkenny Castle was an impressive fortress that had controlled the fording point of the River Nore for more than four hundred years, and the town that had sprung up near its walls was one of the largest in Ireland. Chartered by the Lord of Leinster in 1207, the burghers of the town had long profited from the protection of the Butler family.

  Awed, as he was meant to be, Kit approached the walls of Kilkenny with Brandon Dudley and fifty of the Earl of Leicester’s men for a courtesy meeting with the Earl of Ormond. Though Leicester’s assignment was primarily in Dublin, maintaining close ties with Ormond was a very close second.

  There was a flurry of building work within the castle’s outer walls. It took only moments to identify Thomas Butler, black-haired and fierce in the midst of a swirl of people from rough-garbed workmen to sober clerks. Kit was hardly a stranger to castles and palaces but had seen few as impressively medieval as Kilkenny Castle. With its four enormous circular towers and massive defensive ditch, it looked like a place prepared to withstand Viking raiders.

  With a shout, Black Tom hailed Brandon Dudley. “What’s this, Robert Dudley risen from the dead? For sure, boy, you have your uncle’s very aspect.”

  “But not his arrogance, or I’d have something less flattering to say about your own aspect, Ormond.” Brandon swung down from his horse and submitted good-naturedly to his fellow earl’s thumps on the back.

  Kit was prepared to be overlooked entirely, but Brandon Dudley pulled him quickly into the circle. “And here’s Lord Exeter’s younger son, Christopher. He’s my secretary while in Ireland.”

  “Dominic Courtenay’s boy. But with the look of your mother, all the better for you. The Duchess of Exeter is, as I recall, an uncommonly beautiful woman.”

  “She is, my lord.”

  “Call me Ormond. We do not stand on ceremony so much in Ireland, save against our fellow landowners. Come.” Ormond gestured to the two men to follow him, leaving the others of their escort in the capable hands of his own men. They followed Ormond into Kilkenny Castle. Though built as a Norman stronghold, it had been more recently opened to the light and air with Tudor windows set into the medieval walls, and the interior was now almost as much elegant manor as military fortress.

  Kit found the castle a good backdrop for Black Tom. The earl was fifty years old, the same age as Kit’s father, and like him had retained the figure and bearing of a serving soldier. Ormond’s abundant black hair had less silver to it than Dominic Courtenay’s and there was something definitely, restlessly, Irish to him despite his Norman heritage. He was cousin to Queen Elizabeth from several generations back, for Anne Boleyn’s grandmother, Margaret Butler, had been born in this very castle more than a hundred years ago. There had even been a time in Anne Boleyn’s youth (Pippa had told him these stories) when she was nearly married back into the Irish Butler family. What a change that would have wrought—no Queen Anne to give Henry VIII a son, no Elizabeth Tudor to reign now.

  Ormond took them into a long gallery flooded with light pouring through the open diamond-paned windows and overlooking a meticulously planned ornamental garden. Despite its comforts, the chamber lacked the indefinable touches that reminded Kit that Ormond had been single for nearly twenty years. He’d separated from his wife long years ago with no legitimate children and had not remarried. Yet.

  “Tell me about the roads,” Ormond said when he’d passed around wine and the three were seated casually before a stone fireplace.

  “Quieter than we’d feared,” Brandon answered. “But not quiet in a good way. More in the manner of being watched and weighed.”

  “I wish I could say your unease is unwarranted, but you’re no fools. Kilkenny is safe enough, but best you stick to Dublin this autumn. Unless Pelham and Dane are pulling you into the mess of Munster?”

  Brandon shook his head. “We’re not a fighting force. Her Majesty wants us in Dublin and to be seen supporting you in the east. The west is not our affair.”

  “Will Desmond throw in with the rebels openly?” Kit asked bluntly.

  For a measuring gaze, Ormond seemed likely to slap him down for interrupting. But then a spark flashed through his eyes. “That’s right—the Earl of Somerset has men with Oliver Dane’s forces. Your older brother. Why aren’t you marching with him?”

  “I wasn’
t invited.”

  Ormond laughed heartily. “Ah, to be young and so easily offended. Fear not, little brother. If Philip of Spain manages to land forces sufficient to break free from the west coast, there will be fighting enough for all Her Majesty’s men in Ireland. Pray that it does not come to that.”

  As far as Kit had gathered, Ormond himself was desperately praying for it not to come to that. He was Elizabeth’s man through and through—not only by the blood of cousinship, but in temperament. Black Tom Butler wanted to preserve what he had, not see it scorched to the ground as so much of southern Ireland had been. And, after all, Gerald FitzGerald was not only a fellow Irish earl but had been married to Ormond’s mother after the death of his father. Family ties marched hand in hand with family resentments, and Ireland provided fertile ground for such a disastrous mix. Another of Pippa’s stories popped into Kit’s head: That when English troops had last laid siege to Desmond’s castle at Askeaton, they had destroyed the neighboring abbey and wantonly flung corpses out of their crypts. Including that of Desmond’s second wife—who had been Tom Butler’s mother.

  Into the silence of men contemplating the complexities of war as they drank came the trill of feminine voices. One voice clearly dominated—one that made Kit swear to himself softly when he recognized it.

  How had he not known that Eleanor Percy was currently resident at Kilkenny? He had noted her absence from Dublin during their brief stay and been glad of it, without bothering to wonder where she had gone. He really must learn to think ahead, as Pippa was always counseling him.

  “What need have I to think ahead when you do it for the both of us so neatly?” he usually teased. But Pippa wasn’t here and so Kit met the lady unprepared.

  He’d never seen a woman so thoroughly able to take charge of a room outside his mother and the queen. Eleanor did it not through position or warmth or natural respect, however, but by wielding her considerable physical charms. Past childbearing she might be, but everything about her was cultivated for best display. Even Kit grudgingly conceded her appeal to that part of a man interested only in pleasure.