The Virgin's Spy

by Laura Andersen

  As they entered the castle, Liadan took charge of Maisie. “I want you to stay by me,” the child announced. “Right next door.”

  Ailis interposed. “Maisie will have Uncle Finian’s chamber, as she should.”

  It was a calculated move. Ailis had watched Maisie closely during her uncle’s illness, but the Scots girl managed herself so neatly that perhaps no one would have been able to read her intentions. Maisie had cared for her dying husband with kindness, and conducted herself as a new widow with perfect gravity that gave nothing away. She had come to Ailis three weeks after Finian’s death to inform her there was no chance she was with child—Ailis was not surprised—and ever since, all the household had been waiting for Maisie to announce her intentions. Return to Scotland seemed likely, for why would she remain in Ireland now?

  But here she still was. Without ever announcing anything, simply a serene part of the household whom Ailis was uncharacteristically hesitant about questioning too closely. The Holy Mother knew how desperately they could use Maisie’s fortune—if she left Ireland, there would be no chance at all of any more forthcoming. Ailis controlled her curiosity. Instead, she began to compile an unwritten list of possible Irish husbands for Maisie. Young, this time, and handsome. Silver-tongued charm would not go amiss. Although come to think of it, Ailis had no idea if Maisie was at all susceptible to charm. Surely she must be. She was a girl just turned sixteen who had been married off to an old man. Find her the right young man now, and they could tie her to Ireland and its interests for the long future.

  Maisie accepted the offered courtesy of taking up residence in her dead husband’s usual chamber. Ailis didn’t mind—she had never been easily moved by luxury. Far more important to have the power rather than merely its trappings. And the Kavanaugh plans would be run from her own chamber in the rectangular keep, with its narrow windows giving a far distant view of the Rock of Cashel in clear weather. She had settled herself beneath those windows at the long table that served as her desk, reviewing the household accounts for the move from Carlow, when Maisie knocked on her door.

  “Come in.” Ailis angled her chair away from the table and waited for Maisie to draw up a low padded stool near her. The Scots girl wore a black Italian-style bodice gown, silver buttons running from waist to high neck, with an underskirt of dark gray that echoed her eyes. Her extraordinarily pale hair was severely parted in the middle and contained in a silk caul at the back of her head. The colours of mourning suited her fairness.

  Ailis didn’t often smile, but she did now. “How are you settling in?”

  “Very easily. I was hoping, now that we have something of a new beginning, that we could talk about my role in the household.”

  Interesting. Was Maisie going to make a power play? She’d never get away with it, not without a child of Finian’s to her name, but it could prove entertaining. Not that Ailis had time for entertainment this year.

  So she said neutrally, “How do you envision your role?” Always let the opposition speak first. The more you knew of their minds, the better you could anticipate and block them.

  “I had thought I could take over Liadan’s education. That would remove some of the pressure from your clerks. I know you were convent-educated, as was I, and if you are not yet prepared to send Liadan away, I could be useful for the interim. She is a very bright girl. She should not be neglected.”

  It was the closest thing to a criticism Maisie had ever made. It narrowed Ailis’s eyes as she answered, “No, I am not prepared to send Liadan away.” Certainly not this year or next, for Liadan lay at the very heart of her ultimate plans. “And I do agree, of course, that she is very bright. Do you think I had not noticed?”

  Maisie managed to apologize without backtracking, a rare feat. “I think you notice everything and everyone. I only thought I might be useful in this. As far as the rest of your tasks are concerned, I suspect only you could accomplish them half so well. If I could ease your mind about Liadan’s education—and even some of the domestic details of the household—then you would be freer to use your talents where they will have the greatest effect.”

  “How much do you know of the effects I intend?”

  “Finian was my husband. If it was not precisely a marriage of true minds, he did speak to me a little. Mostly of you, and always with admiration. I know something of the Spanish soldiers, and something less of how you intend to use them. As I say, I doubt I could be helpful in those plans. But why not use the talents I do have to make your life easier?”

  “Why?” Ailis asked abruptly. “Why do you care to make my life easier? Why do you care to stay in Ireland at all? How do I know I won’t turn over Liadan’s education to you, only to have you decide on a whim to return to Scotland? My daughter is exceedingly fond of you. I would not encourage that attachment if it will only lead to her disappointment when you leave.”

  “It is my intention for the foreseeable future, certainly for the next year, to remain in Ireland. My brother would not welcome my return to Scotland. If I were to return, he would no doubt once more arrange to marry me off to the first convenient suitor. I would prefer to make my own choices for now. I had thought that was a viewpoint you might understand.”

  Ailis stared at Maisie, who stared right back without a trace of being flustered. She was such a small thing, and young. Ten years younger than herself. But there was, as Ailis had noted from the beginning, a steadiness in her eyes and a diamond-sharp quality to her mind that belied her appearance. If she were to be completely honest, she would have admitted that part of her wanted Maisie to stay merely for the company. There were so few she had trusted since she was younger than Maisie.

  With the smile that she used as one of her finely honed assets, Ailis put out her hands to Maisie and said, “Liadan will be beside herself with joy to have you stay. And indeed, the household would be the poorer without you.”

  “Then I shall gladly make myself as useful as I am able. With whatever you care to entrust me.”

  “For now, that is Liadan. Sharpen that mind of hers so that she might grow up to do honour to our clan.”

  Everything that sharpened Liadan made her more valuable…and more useful. Ailis knew how to deploy every one of her advantages. And finally, after ten long years, her revenge was beginning to be in sight.

  —

  Despite his own wariness, Philip discovered that he actually enjoyed having the English visitors at his court. Usually the only English that came to Spain were professionals—diplomats and ambassadors and cautious churchmen of the heretical variety—all of whom came primarily as Elizabeth’s messengers and were not interested in anything other than their own points of view.

  The Courtenays were a different matter. Philip had known them fairly well during his stays in England and found the Duke of Exeter to be a man of good sense, if little patience. His wife, of course, would have been worth cultivating by any measure, as she was undoubtedly Elizabeth’s closest personal friend. The Duchess of Exeter could get away with saying things to the English queen that no one else could, not even Philip when he’d been her husband. But Minuette Courtenay made it a pleasure to cultivate her, for she was warm and witty and effortlessly charming.

  Philip’s present queen did not like her at all.

  But Philip’s truest interest among the guests were the children: Christopher and Philippa, whom his daughter, Anne, seemed to consider as siblings. A less intelligent observer might think, as Mary said to him the third night after the party’s arrival, that he was “wasting his time and efforts with those too young to be influential.”

  Those observers would be missing the longer view. Elizabeth was a remarkable woman, but even she could not live forever. When their daughter inherited England, it was her friends who would wield influence. And that meant paying them attention while they were young.

  Besides, whatever his other purposes, Philip was always a father. If he could not have Anne in Spain, then her friends were the next best thing. Phi
lip craved their stories of Anne, and he hoped they would return to her with good impressions of him and his kingdom.

  After five days of lavish feasts and receptions in Madrid, the royal party escorted their English guests to Philip’s pride and joy, the royal complex at El Escorial. Situated at the foot of Mount Abantos thirty miles from the capital, the monastery and royal residence had been begun twenty years ago as a burial place for his father. Charles V had added a codicil to his will to establish a religious foundation in which he could be buried with his wife and Philip’s mother, Isabella of Portugal.

  Philip had overseen every step of the design and decoration of the complex himself and, though only the chapel and monastery were completely finished, he felt an almost unholy sense of pride at its appearance. To bring the Courtenays here was a way to highlight his artistic, spiritual side as opposed to merely his formal religious opinions.

  They toured the basilica, two stories high at the facade, the interior with its Greek cross originally modeled on St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome. To the south of the church were the austerely decorated royal apartments. The Patio de los Mascarones, surrounded on three sides by a gallery, led to the queen’s apartments, in which, for this visit, the Courtenay family would be quartered. They seemed appropriately impressed with their surroundings, though none of them were given to lavish praise.

  Leaving the family in their suite of high-ceilinged chambers, Philip spent two hours in council with Cardinal Granvelle and others. All were cautiously optimistic about the Irish project, but it was still a relatively minor matter. From the high mountains of the New World to the sultry tropics of Manila, the Spanish empire had both problems and opportunities enough for three monarchs to handle.

  When matters of business were concluded and his councilors withdrew, Philip walked silently through El Escorial. The monks were accustomed to him, and he slipped unaccosted into the church for vespers. There, he was surprised to find Philippa Courtenay sitting in the far back of the public chapel, the monks’ voices wafting from behind the sail vaults.

  “Like angels,” Philip said softly, seating himself near her. “Heard and felt, but never seen.”

  She smiled, a shade more warmly than mere politeness dictated, and Philip smiled in return. “How do you like Spain, dama?”

  “Very well, Your Majesty.” She spoke Spanish with near fluency, a point of pride for Philip, as he knew she had learned it with his daughter. “I am only sorry that you must make do with us, rather than the visitor you would most prefer.”

  “But Anne would not be a visitor. Spain is her heritage as much as England.” That was disingenuous, for he knew that heritage must be nurtured over time, and time was a luxury Anne would never have for her father’s country. Philip sighed. “Can you tell me, dama, of my daughter? Those things not easily found in ambassadorial reports.”

  “She was most anxious that we convey to you her love and care. She rejoices in her new young half brothers and hopes they will bring you great joy.”

  “That is no more nor less than might be written in a report.”

  When she wanted, Philippa Courtenay had her mother’s smile, one that lit up wherever she was. Her next words were much less formal. “Anabel is your daughter. She will always choose her words with care. But privately? She is as dear to me as my own sister. So you will not accuse me of lack of love when I say that she has a temper and a way with words to rival Queen Elizabeth for wit and sharpness.”

  Philip surprised himself by laughing.

  Then Philippa added, “She has considered that the birth of your sons will ease the pressures on you, and thus on her. She hopes that in these new circumstances, your attitude to England might soften. She has no wish for her young brothers to be raised to think of her as an enemy. Whatever the politics, families should behave generously.”

  “I hope I will never fail in my generosity to my only daughter,” Philip said, suddenly less amused. “But Anne, like her mother—and myself—is responsible for far more than her own life. These two women have the souls of all England in their charge. And they fail them every day in which they hunt down innocent priests and continue to defy God by setting themselves above his earthly representatives.”

  Philippa Courtenay, for all that she had her mother’s looks, had her father’s ability to make her expression completely neutral. “Anabel has never once failed to remember the lives of the people that will one day be in her charge. She will do what she must for England.” She rose, without genuflecting toward the altar, and said, “I am sure Your Majesty is aware that the Duc d’Anjou will soon be in England to pay court to your daughter. I know that was your wish, that she consider marrying a man of your faith.”

  It had once been his wish, and he still thought it the most likely match, for England needed a counter to Spain’s increasing hostility. Now he was not so certain.

  As if she could read his indecision, Philippa Courtenay added as a parting shot, “I understand that Esmé Stewart has also been invited to court. He will come with full authority from King James of Scotland to treat for Anabel’s hand as well. I wonder how Her Majesty, Queen Mary, will feel about that possibility?”

  Perhaps not so much a girl after all, Philip thought, but a clear-eyed, sharp-tongued female such as only England seemed to produce. Why could they not keep their women reserved and restrained like the Spanish?

  —

  The journey from the isolated crofter’s hut to the Kavanaugh manor in Cahir was a nightmare for Stephen, jolting along on the pony Peter Martin had brought along. The pony was sure-footed but bony, and Stephen ached clear through with every jolt. Martin had done a dispassionately thorough job of beating him, though he had avoided the once-broken arm and anything too difficult to heal. That didn’t make Stephen’s head or jaw ache less, or stop parts of him from being covered in spectacular bruises.

  It all went to the authenticity of his cover, as did his hair, allowed to grow past the collar of his doublet, and his rough growth of beard. His clothes had been carefully procured in England to reinforce the picture of a young man born bastard to a gentleman who had only carelessly provided bits and pieces for his unnecessary son. The Courtenays were a conservative family by royal court standards, so Stephen only realized how accustomed he was to the luxury of expensive—if sober—fabrics and soft linen when forced to change to coarser weaves.

  It felt like penance, which was a very Catholic thought. That also played into his cover, for in his new role he was a recusant, born of a mother devout in her faith if not her behaviour. That was something else Julien had provided him with—an attempt at understanding Catholicism that only one born and raised in that faith could grasp. Stephen didn’t need to be word perfect; he need only have another plausible reason for loathing the ruling English authorities.

  Not a problem, with ruling authorities like Oliver Dane.

  That was the only thing Stephen had kept wholly to himself—his certainty that the gallowglass force that attacked them outside Kilkenny had been sent by Oliver Dane. It was the only answer that made sense. Who else had wanted those prisoners dead? Pelham might have hanged them at Carrigafoyle if he’d cared to, but he had made no move to reinforce Dane in trying to wrest them from Stephen’s hands. Pelham, he was quite sure, was essentially law-abiding. Dane, on the other hand, had a malicious streak a mile wide. He was the one who had engineered the massacre at Carrigafoyle after the surrender, the one who had spoken almost casually to Stephen about killing women for nothing more than being Irish. After using them to his satisfaction, no doubt.

  And once his head had cleared from the fog of physical pain and emotional turmoil, Stephen remembered one tiny, telling detail from that horrific night: the masked man who, before breaking his arm, had sneered at him. English lordling, the man called him. A phrase Stephen had first been called in Ireland—on the day he met Oliver Dane.

  Not absolute, but telling. And a detail Stephen did not intend to share with anyone.

  Appro
priate vengeance, Julien had counseled. Stephen was in Ireland primarily to keep the Spanish and their new queen from exploiting the situation—but he intended to exploit whatever opportunities came his way for bringing down Oliver Dane. No need to share that with Walsingham, who might not like the thought of removing an important—if sadistic—English landholder from the shaky balance of power. Stephen would not let Ireland fall to Spain if he could help it, but nor would he overlook any opportunity to strike at Dane.

  They reached Cahir in a sodden spring rain that had them huddled beneath cloaks and blowing on cramped fingers for warmth. Martin walked, with Stephen on the pony, his hands tied together to complete the picture of a sullen Englishman half refugee, half prisoner. They were stopped at the causeway to Cahir Castle, secure on its little island, challenged by men of sturdy build and sharp eyes. The men knew Peter Martin, of course, but declined to let Stephen enter or even dismount on the cleric’s authority. So Martin went ahead while Stephen shivered in the rain under the scrutiny of the wary Kavanaugh guards.

  He expected the thin, ascetic man who returned with Martin and recognized him immediately from description, as well as the priestly robes he wore, as Father Byrne. With Finian Kavanaugh’s death, the priest was the chief voice of male authority in the household.

  But Byrne and Martin did not return alone. Walking a little ahead of them was a tall, striking woman with black hair and cheekbones that set off a face of rare beauty. He knew she must be Ailis Kavanaugh, the niece who now ruled by tacit consent, the strategist who had planned her uncle’s small but significant victories of the last five years. Martin had prepared Stephen for Ailis’s authority—he had not prepared him for the intensity of her presence.

  Ailis drew near, the guards in protective stances beside her, and tipped her head up to study Stephen. She did not rush to speak, but slowly considered every aspect of his appearance, from wet hair to bruised face to stiff posture indicating discomfort.