The Virgin's Spy

by Laura Andersen

  Pippa laughed just a little, relieved despite herself. “I suppose if that is true of the queen, it would be arrogance to assume more of myself.” She nodded at the portfolio. “Tell me.”

  He opened the portfolio to reveal a sheet on which was drawn a large circle, divided into twelve sections. Some of the sections were blank while others contained astrological and mathematical symbols. If Dr. Dee had written out his conclusions based on that chart, he did not refer to it now but simply spoke to her.

  “Do you need me to tell you that the time and place of your birth ensured you an inquisitive mind and passionate nature? The two are often at odds. Your life is a long experience of duality—pushing and pulling, not against the world, but against your own nature. Saint or sinner, realist or fantasist, mystic or witch…the world will never know how to read you as long as you do not embrace both sides of your nature.”

  “You’re telling me to be more like Kit?” she teased, but only halfheartedly. What he said felt…true. And uncomfortable.

  “Your twin’s stars will be subtly different from yours, even born so near together. And I am not telling you what to do or not to do—I am merely explaining you to yourself. As you have long had occasion to explain others to themselves.”

  She dipped her head in wry acknowledgment, then said, “If I were to ask about places in my future…?” She trailed off.

  “As you are planning to go north with Princess Anne, I expect you already know the answer to that. But if you like, I will tell you anyway: You are meant to go north, Philippa. In that place, you will be a beacon of hope.”

  You will light the beacon, Doña Catalina had said. But your princess will command the flames.

  For the last few years the North had called to Pippa. Yorkshire, Leeds, the borderlands of England and Scotland—she had long known that her path was leading her north. It was only…

  Softly, John Dee asked, “What is it you fear in the North?”

  Rushlight and fog, insistent hands and curious faces, melodious Spanish voices mixed with the unmistakable lilt of the Scots, the certain knowledge that she was dying…

  “Not fear,” she answered. “Not exactly.”

  She rose, and Dee followed, slowly. He hesitated, then said, “Is there nothing else you care to ask me? Most everyone is anxious to know—”

  “How long their life will last?” She met his eyes and fixed on them. “There is nothing you could tell me that I do not already know for myself.”

  It hung in the balance whether he would press her. But John Dee was an English gentleman, always prepared to default to reticence. “Pippa,” and his use of her nickname made tears prick at her eyes, “thank you for allowing me to sight your stars. It has been a privilege.”

  “If I said my only unanswered worries were about my family…I don’t suppose you have any insight?”

  “Your family was created from the strongest of loves, tested by fire and death. Love does not preclude pain, but it will heal it. In time.”

  She surprised them both by kissing him on the cheek. Her heart was lighter than she’d expected as she left. She was not—had never been—afraid of death. She was afraid of leaving things undone, of thinking too much and waiting too long, so wary of making the wrong move that she made no move at all.

  She had taken the first step by advising Anabel to go north. Tonight had been the second step.

  And third?

  Matthew. She must do something about Matthew Harrington.

  Pippa just didn’t know what.

  To Katie,

  as necessary to me

  as air and water

  and Diet Coke

  As I began pondering this story, I picked up a book called The Twilight Lords: Elizabeth I and the Plunder of Ireland by Richard Berleth. Without that book, this one would be different—and significantly less. James FitzMaurice, Humphrey Gilbert, the Earl of Desmond, the occupation and destruction of Kilmallock, the practice of laying waste to the landscape…all burst from the pages of history with dramatic stories thrumming beneath the matter-of-fact words.

  For the purposes of my story, Oliver Dane and Ailis Kavanaugh and her clan are entirely imaginary. But not, I think, terribly far from reality. Carrigafoyle, with defenses designed by an Italian engineer, Captain Julian, and garrisoned mainly by Spanish and Italian soldiers, fell to a three-siege by the English. In the aftermath, a contemporary observer wrote: “There escaped not one, neither man, woman, nor child.”

  The Virgin’s Spy is meant as entertainment. But if it stirs curiosity into the nonalternate history of Queen Elizabeth’s reign, I shall be well rewarded.

  Now, as always, a very partial list of the many people to whom I am indebted. If I were in the position to require a royal privy council, the following would be my choices.

  As Lord Secretary and Chief Councilor: Tamar Rydzinski. Even Lord Burghley cannot compete with my agent’s calm in the face of chaos and her knack for the perfect advice at the perfect time.

  As Lord Treasurer and Chief Intelligencer: Kate Miciak and the entire Ballantine team. With all the wisdom I lack (which is an astoundingly large amount), Kate shapes my writing and the team gives life to my imagination. Like Francis Walsingham, they see what I don’t and safely guide me there.

  As Chief Lady of the Privy Chamber: Katie Jeppson.

  For so many reasons I would have to write an entire book to do them justice. So here are just three: for traveling with me, for eating with me, and for always speaking of my characters as though they were real.

  As Ladies-in-Waiting: Debbie Ramsay, Concessa Shearer, Kari Whitesell, and the many kind women in Boston who wait so patiently for the rare moments I emerge from isolation.

  There were times when I thought this book would never be written. I’m quite sure I say that with every book—but it feels particularly true for this one. Between lingering illness, family crises, and one hundred and ten inches of snow, my titular spy wasn’t especially interested in moving quickly. But here it is. And here it most certainly would not be without, forever and always, my family.

  And so, last of all, those faithful members of my Personal Household: Chris, Matt, Jake, Emma, and Spencer. No royal has ever been loved or served half so well.

  BY LAURA ANDERSEN

  The Boleyn King

  The Boleyn Deceit

  The Boleyn Reckoning

  The Virgin’s Daughter

  The Virgin’s Spy

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  LAURA ANDERSEN is married with four children, and possesses a constant sense of having forgotten something important. She has a B.A. in English (with an emphasis in British History), which she puts to use by reading everything she can lay her hands on.

  www.lauraandersenbooks.com

  Facebook.com/​lauraandersenbooks

  @LauraSAndersen

  31 December 1582

  Hampton Court Palace

  My dear Robert,

  How often I have longed for your presence these many years! And yet, I do hesitate to write so much for fear of seeming but a weak and sentimental woman. Almost I can hear your teasing words, warm in my ear: “Since when do you care what others think?”

  The answer, of course, is since I became queen. A ruling queen of a divided country cannot afford even the appearance of weakness. Which is why I do not speak of you, not even to those nearest to me. And hardly do I even allow myself to think of you.

  Occasionally, though, I cannot control my thoughts. And I find myself wondering how my years of ruling might have been different with you at my side. Perhaps even literally so, for your Amy died less than two years after I came to my throne. Had you lived, my sweet Robin, what temptations might have assailed me then! To have a husband not only of my choosing, but of my heart? I look now at my Anabel, at her instinctive resistance to a marriage of state, and I both understand and wonder what might have been.

  It would have been most difficult, for you were hardly a good prospect even for a princess royal, let
alone a ruling queen. A fifth son, a father and a brother executed for treason, already married…but I am remarkably stubborn. Almost, I can envision the fight I might have made. For a rarity, I suspect Walsingham and Burghley would have been on the same side in opposing me. Though I do wonder what possible marital choice I might have made that could have pleased Walsingham? Lord Burghley, naturally, supported the Spanish marriage. He was nearly alone in doing so. Not that Walsingham or my other councilors had anyone realistic in mind to replace Philip. An Austrian archduke? A Swedish prince? An Italian count? A Scottish noble? Hardly appropriate, any of them.

  It was not so much that Philip was a foreigner that informed their objections—for they could never agree, either, on an English candidate—but that Philip was King of Spain. They feared his power and influence. Not that such considerations had ever been a difficulty where queen consorts were concerned. But a queen regnant? I found it insulting how quickly even those who knew me well assumed I would be putty in a husband’s hands.

  That is one grudge I continue to hold against my cousin, Mary Stuart: that she set such a poor precedent for a woman ruler. True, her French husband died before he could bind Scotland to him, and Darnley was a disaster from beginning to end. But by the time she tried to reclaim power as queen, it was too late. She had squandered her chances with her impulsive and emotional choice of Darnley. At least Mary had the good sense not to give him any real power…but was that not also the downfall of their marriage? Few men are ever content to be second to their wives.

  I like to think you might have proven an exception to that rule.

  I knew that Philip and his countrymen would desire power in England. But I gambled that a ruling king would never have quite the desperate, hungry edge of a Henry Darnley or an extraneous prince of a faraway state. At the least, I could be certain that Philip would have many other claims on his attention than me.

  Why did I marry Philip? Certainly not for the reasons you married Amy Robsart! It was not due to our mutual attraction—though that was certainly part of our marriage, a strong and most pleasant part. Does that bother you? Good. You deserve that discomfort for all the times you sought out your wife and your other women behind my back. How many women did you sleep with in your relatively short life? Far more, certainly, than I care to count.

  So, attraction. That was one point in Philip’s advantage column. But I could not afford for that to be the defining factor. Politics, then. It was certainly logical to ally ourselves with Spain at a time when England had been weakened by my brother’s vendettas.

  In the end, can you guess the deciding factor? Probably you can, knowing me as you do.

  Pride.

  You know how deeply ran the scar of losing Calais to the French. Held for so long by so many English kings…how could I bear the thought of having lost it due to William’s reckless affections and careless diplomacy? But we had not the strength then to take it back. And the longer it remained French, the less likely we could ever wrest it free again.

  Philip did it for me. And I do mean for me—he might have been glad of the chance to discompose the French, but Calais was meant as a betrothal gift for England’s queen. And it worked. The day the Spanish ambassador brought us word that Calais had been liberated by Spanish troops and then promptly handed back into English control was the day I told Lord Burghley to draw up a treaty of marriage.

  It took many months and much suspicion and wrangling of specific language, but finally it was sealed and the marriage date set. Only then did I panic. Just a little, but enough for me to beg the only friend I had left for help.

  Minuette and Dominic would not come to me, in those first years of my reign. At least not to London. But every now and then I could persuade Minuette to meet me elsewhere. For advice, for comfort, for the purest friendship left to me. Even when she made me furious. No one has ever been able to irritate me as quickly and thoroughly as Minuette—except you, of course.

  And no one, not even you, has ever been quicker to restore my confidence.

  She did not tell me what to do. She did not offer an opinion on either politics or personalities. What she said was simple: “Do what you think is right, Elizabeth. You are at your best when you are sure of yourself to the point of arrogance.”

  Philip was not, could never have been, the husband of my heart. But I did love him. And for all the enmity we now throw at each other, I cannot wish it undone. It brought me Anabel, whom I love more than I will ever let her know. Unlike me, she is being raised to rule in her own right. You would like her, Robert. Of that, I am sure.

  Do you know what I remember most often about you? It is not your eyes or your charm, not your grace or the strength of your hands. It is not even your impudence, though I do miss that more than I could have guessed.

  What I remember are the last words you ever spoke to me. When I asked you to take Minuette out of England, far from my brother’s reach, you kissed my hand. And you said, “I am your man, Elizabeth. To the last day of my life.”

  It is the one thing for which I have never forgiven Will—that the last day of your life came far too soon.

  Because of that, my heart breaks a little when I see my daughter’s eyes following the man she loves—and cannot have. But you, who knew me best, will know that sentiment will always come second to duty. My daughter will do what she must, as I did before her.

  And one day, perhaps she will write just such a letter to the man who claimed her heart. As you claimed mine, so early that by the time I realized it, it was already too late.

  Good night, my sweet Robin. I trust your eyes are watching me from heaven as always they did on earth.

  Elizabeth R.

  QUESTIONS AND TOPICS FOR DISCUSSION

  1. Discuss the relationship between Mary and Elizabeth. Do you agree with Elizabeth’s actions? How would you have handled the situation, in Elizabeth’s position? How do you feel about Mary’s relationship with Philip, compared to Elizabeth’s?

  2. As Anabel gets older, the dynamics between the princess and the queen become increasingly complex. Compare and contrast the two women. In what ways are they similar? How are they different?

  3. How does the parenting style of Minuette and Dominic compare to that of Elizabeth and Philip? Is one technique more or less effective? Would Elizabeth be a different sort of mother if she weren’t also a queen?

  4. What do you think of the dynamic between Anabel and Kit? Do you see any parallels to Elizabeth’s relationships?

  5. Responsibility and honor are reigning principles in the Courtenay household. How do the Courtenay children embody these principles? Discuss the sacrifices each member of the family makes to uphold their sense of honor. Does each define honor in the same way? Do any of them fall short of their high moral standards?

  6. The political and the personal are intimately entangled for Elizabeth, Philip, Mary, and Anabel. How—if at all—do these characters separate themselves from the offices they hold? Is there room for a monarch to have a personal life outside of the throne?

  7. Discuss Stephen’s experiences in Ireland. What surprised you the most? In what ways is he similar to his father? In what ways is he different? If you read The Boleyn King trilogy, do you see any parallels between Stephen’s experiences and those of his father?

  8. Discuss the importance of military training and experience for young men during this time period.

  9. How do the events of this novel compare to the actual historical record? Did anything strike you as particularly plausible or implausible?

  10. Do you have any predictions for the next novel in the series?

  Fifteen-year-old Pippa Courtenay woke to the blazing sun of a late July day with a smile on her face and practically floated out of bed—then promptly fell earthbound under the onslaught of humid heat. She would have to choose her clothing with care today if she didn’t want to melt before noon.

  After the briefest hesitation, she threw caution to the wind and decided to forgo a p
etticoat entirely. No one would know she wasn’t wearing one beneath her striped blue silk kirtle. Over that she laced her lightest gown of white voile, thickly embroidered with jewel-toned flowers and vines so lifelike they appeared to twine around her as she walked.

  Then she tripped downstairs to Wynfield Mote’s hall, humming as she went. And when she entered, he was waiting for her as promised: Matthew Harrington.

  Eighteen, tall, broad, brown-haired and brown-eyed, Matthew gave her one of his rare smiles. “Shall we?” he asked.

  Considering the unusual heat of this summer, they had decided on a breakfast picnic while the air was still breathable rather than openly liquid. For the same reason, they had decided to walk rather than punish horses with a ride. Their route was instinctive—eastward to the old church.

  Pippa talked at an unusually rapid pace even for her. The words spilled out in a rush and burble of delight, dancing from topic to topic. It was such a pleasure to have Matthew home. For the last year he had been deep in his studies at Balliol College, Oxford, but returned two days ago to visit his mother.

  Pippa loved her siblings, but her sister Lucie had been moody and difficult for the last few years and had taken to spending a great deal of time in London—ostensibly studying with Dr. Dee but more practically avoiding their parents. Both Stephen and Kit were training seriously with their father as well as riding back and forth with him this summer to Tiverton Castle, leaving even Pippa’s twin with but little energy to spend time with her. But Matthew could always be counted on.

  She didn’t set out to make the day momentous. She rarely set out to do anything—if Lucie acted from principle, Pippa relied on instinct. Though most people found Matthew uncommunicative, with her he talked freely. In and around and over her shifting topics, he told her wry stories about his college and tutors and fellow students, making her laugh in a manner no one else did. Not even Kit.