The Virgin's Spy

by Laura Andersen

  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?”

  He refrained from answering until the lieutenant had withdrawn. Then he asked, “You know that Dane is dead?”

  “Oh yes. It’s quite the story in London. How the most favoured son in the realm’s most favoured family committed violent murder not five hundred paces from the queen’s own presence. The betting is running high against you in the city that you’ll be beheaded by spring.”

  “Plan to make some money, do you?”

  “Make money? Yes, of course. But not by betting against you. I know you rather too well to take that risk.”

  Belatedly, he pulled out a seat for her. He could not stop staring. He had never thought to see anyone from Cahir ever again. “How is…the household?”

  How had he ever thought her bland and unremarkable? One simply had to know the tricks of her expression. There was a tilt to her chin and a pitying gleam in her eyes that told him she was not at all fooled by the vagueness of his question.

  Not fooled, but prepared to humour him. “They know of Dane’s death. I was still with them when the news came. I left Cahir a week later. The day after the wedding.”

  That wasn’t humouring him—that was eviscerating him. Stephen asked, even though he didn’t need to. “Wedding?”

  “Ailis married Diarmid. As she always knew she must.”

  “Is she—”

  “Happy? I do not think happiness has ever been one of Ailis’s aims. She is contented with the gains they have made. She will never cease to mourn Liadan. Her marriage to Diarmid will ensure she remains in control of a significant power in the region. That has always been her aim.”

  Stephen sat motionless, fighting the urge to jump up and pace. He didn’t want to show how strongly he’d been affected by the news.

  As always, Maisie knew how to choose her moments. She rose. “The lieutenant allowed me only five minutes. There is one more piece of news I thought you might like.”

  “That is?”


  “Word reached London two days ago—a Spanish fleet of fifty ships has landed all along the south and west coasts of Ireland. There are more than five thousand soldiers on board, provisioned for a long stay. This is no quick feint to see what happens, no raiding party to simply aid the Irish. It is a statement: Spain wants Ireland and will spare little to achieve it. You may be sitting in this prison for some time, for I doubt your queen has much thought to spare for one prisoner just now. This is the first shot in the war to come.”

  She didn’t wait for a response. From inside her cloak, she produced a letter, flimsy and well-traveled. “For you.”

  Only when Maisie had gone did Stephen realize he hadn’t even said goodbye, or offered thanks. He didn’t know what her plans were or where she was going next. All he could do was stare at the thin letter, his name in painfully neat letters confronting him.

  The sun had fully set before Stephen at last broke the wax and read the few words enclosed.

  I told you I would break your heart, Englishman. I did not know that you would break mine in turn. On my part, the death of Oliver Dane is worth that price.

  Ailis

  —

  On the last day of 1582, Elizabeth waited alone in her privy chamber at Hampton Court for Minuette to appear. By rights she should be at Whitehall, but in the wake of the disastrous news from Ireland, Elizabeth had wanted to retreat to her favourite palace. It had worked in a limited fashion—her headaches subsided to the point where she could work more than an hour at a time without having to retreat to vomit from the pain. But her fury still burned bright, so fierce that Burghley had only once dared to suggest she send for Walsingham. After her violent and, she admitted, profane response, he had not raised the subject again.

  She heard the door open, the murmured “Lady Exeter” from the guard, then the closing of the door that meant she and Minuette were alone. As they had been so often for so long. In all her life, there was no one who knew Elizabeth the way her oldest friend did. Even those who had known and worked with her before she was queen—men like Walsingham and Burghley—did not know Elizabeth’s secrets in the same way.

  She had guessed that Minuette would force her to speak first. From stubbornness as much as anything. Elizabeth obliged, keeping her back to the chamber, staring out at the Clock Court where once she had kept watch for Robert Dudley. “Here to beg my forgiveness?”

  A weighted pause before Minuette said evenly, “You are not the first Tudor monarch to ask me that. The begging did me little good then—why would now be different?”

  Elizabeth whirled. “I am not my brother!”

  “No. Will had the courage to confront me in his vengeance.”

  “This is not vengeance, this is ruling. Your son betrayed his title and his oath by taking up arms against my own soldiers! Do you expect me to pat him on the head and send him running along home merely because you ask me to?”

  “I have not asked that.”

  “Then what is it you do ask?”

  “One question, that’s all I have,” Minuette said softly. “Elizabeth, how did William die?”

  For an awful, piercing moment Elizabeth was back at Hatfield the autumn of 1558, in a delicate, dangerous conversation where what was unspoken weighed far more than what was.

  “What does your wide view tell you, Your Highness?”

  “That the king will ride to battle…and that misfortune awaits kings who fight from a position of despair rather than hope.”

  “A battlefield is a messy place. It would be best to be prepared for all ends.”

  She blinked and met Minuette’s eyes—not accusing, not threatening. Simply asking. Elizabeth asked in turn, “Why?”

  “There is not one of us on this earth who has not made choices others might not understand. Stephen’s enemy was Oliver Dane, not you. Now that the man is dead, my son is no threat to your government or your person. You know that, Elizabeth.” Only the last words revealed the mother behind the diplomat, and Elizabeth was reminded of her own terrible days when Anabel had been held prisoner.

  But she did not govern from sentiment. “He opposed me openly in Ireland, which just now is in great danger of being overrun by the forces of my former husband. You must know there are factions in England perfectly willing to exploit the opposition of one of my own earls against me. As long as he is locked away, he is safe from that.”

  “So you’re protecting my son?”

  “From himself, mostly. But I cannot leave his crimes unpunished.”

  Minuette’s expression flickered. Was that fear? “But not at the cost of his life.”

  It was so nearly a question that it hurt Elizabeth. Did her friend really think her as cruel as Will had been? Or her father?

  The hurt of it made her brusque in delivering her decision. “I shall keep him in the Tower through the winter. It will not hurt him to ponder his actions in some measure of discomfort.”

  “And then?”

  “He may have his life, but neither his title nor his wealth. The estate of Somerset is forfeited to the crown.”

  Relief swept Minuette openly, for the Courtenays did not greatly care for money. Easy for them to disdain it—they did not have to equip a government and protect a kingdom.

  But Elizabeth had not quite finished. “I understand Christopher intends to go to France to train with and serve Renaud LeClerc in the spring. Stephen may go with his brother. In point of fact, I will require Stephen to go with him.”

  “You are banishing him?”

  “If I must make it official, I will. I would prefer for him to go voluntarily.”

  They faced each other, two women who had been children and girls and young women together. They had never—truly—been opposed to each other. Elizabeth would regret it if they became so now. But she would not relent.

  Kings don’t have friends, her little brother had thrown at them once, furious and despairing. And if kings could not afford friendship, then even less could a queen who must in all things be twice as good as the men who had preceded her if she were to keep hold of her power.

  Minuette executed a perfect curtsey, straight-backed as Kat Ashley had taught the two of them so long ago. “Thank you, Your Majesty, for my son’s life. I will not forget this.”

  Elizabeth watched Minuette leave, wondering if that last line had been spoken with gratitude or sarcasm.

  Pippa Courtenay walked through the corridors of Greenwich Palace on her way to visit Dr. John Dee. Unusually, most of those she passed along the way did not try to engage her. Pippa was accustomed to fending off constant attention from those who wanted to exploit her influence with the Princess of Wales. But ever since Stephen’s arrest, a bubble seemed to have formed around the Courtenay family. Either people respected their desire for privacy or, more likely, did not want to risk being associated with a family in decline.

  Of the Courtenay children, John Dee had always been most associated with Lucette, as a tutor and mentor. But Pippa had spent some time with him over the years, benefitting from his wide experience of the world as well as his intimate knowledge of astrology and mysticism. In his presence, she had always maintained a detached air, as though the subjects were of only scholarly interest to her.

  As though that would deceive a man like John Dee.

  In the last three years Dr. Dee had asked her the same question five times: “Are you prepared to ask me for a star chart yet, Lady Philippa?”

  She had declined each time. Until now. Two weeks ago she had finally recognized that the time had come when she needed to consult with someone whose gifts were similar to her own. Someone who could counsel her dispassionately. Someone accustomed to the remote wisdom of the stars and the stark beauty of fate. She had at last asked for her star chart, and tonight he would present it to her. It seemed fitting that today was also her twenty-first birthday.

  Whenever John Dee came to court, he kept his chambers as far removed from the center of things as comfort—and the queen—would
allow. At Greenwich this meant an upper floor of one of the narrow towers that appeared plain in the corridors but opened into a warm and inviting space that reminded Pippa of Wynfield Mote. Not in design so much as feel, that here was a place one could be at ease.

  That is, if one was not awaiting a pronouncement on one’s fate. Pippa fidgeted in the chair Dr. Dee had pulled out for her, her eyes skipping over the homely clutter: from books to astronomical instruments to opened chests spilling over with paper. The one place she did not look was at the portfolio before Dr. Dee.

  “Lady Philippa,” he said gently, “there is no need to be frightened.”

  “I’m not frightened,” she answered scornfully. It might have been more convincing if her voice had not wobbled.

  “Do your parents know that you asked me for a star chart?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Did you know that I once read their charts? Long ago, when the queen was a princess and the king was in love.”

  “With my mother.” Silence, since there was no need to confirm the obvious. “What did their charts say?”

  He smiled at that. “You know better than to ask. A star chart is private, and made only at the request of the named individual. Although once…one time only did I make a chart for someone who did not ask it of me. But that has no relevance to you. I did this at your request, Philippa. If you ask, I will burn it unread and unexplored. The choice is always yours.”

  “The choice to know—but not the choice of what will happen.”

  “Ah, the arrogance of the young, so certain that their lives must be marked out in indelible paths.” He leaned on the desk, fingers laced together. “I will tell you what I once told Queen Elizabeth—I do not make the stars. God alone knows what paths you will walk. I endeavour merely to shed light on a point or two along that path. You need not fear what I can tell you.”