The Virgin's Spy

by Laura Andersen

  After the slow ramble, they reached the copse of beeches that looked down a low hill onto the stone walls and spire of the old Norman church. She flung herself into the meadow grass at the trees’ edge and leaned back on her elbows, staring up at the sky. Matthew lowered himself more cautiously to sit beside her, and deftly handled the domestic details of laying out breakfast: ripe strawberries, early apples, fresh bread and soft cheese. They took their time eating, letting their stories slowly wind down into companionable silence.

  Eyes closed, Pippa lay down in the sweet-smelling, sun-warmed grass.

  “Princess Anne is coming to Wynfield soon?” Matthew asked.

  “Next week.”

  “And what trouble are the two of you planning to launch this time?” He corrected himself. “The three of you, I mean. Kit is the worst.”

  “Anabel’s the worst,” Pippa said drowsily. “Because she isn’t afraid of my mother. You’ll be here, won’t you?”

  “I’ve been invited to Theobalds for a month, to work with Lord Burghley’s household. I can hardly say no to England’s Lord High Treasurer.”

  Pippa’s eyes flew open, the first shadow of the day crossing her sunny mood. “But I want you here!”

  “What a pity I cannot learn the intricacies of English government from a fifteen-year-old girl.”

  He was deliberately baiting her, and she let herself rise to it. “Anabel is a fifteen-year-old girl,” she pointed out. “And before too long she will be in a position to compose her own household and council. Shouldn’t you be trying to please her?”

  “The princess is far too practical to want advisors with no experience. Why do you think Lord Burghley is taking an interest in me? Because he thinks it likely Princess Anne will draw me into her circle. He intends me to be fit for that position.”

  She delivered a practiced pout, a little hard while lying flat on her back. And only halfheartedly, because it never worked on Matthew. Really, the only person it ever worked on was her father. When he simply continued to look steadily at her, Pippa huffed a gusty sigh and gave it up.

  “I never could make you do what I wanted,” she complained.

  He made a sound between a laugh and a cough. “Do you think so?”

  There was a queer note to his voice that made Pippa sit up and study him sharply. His face looked placid as always, but she caught the slightest quiver at the corner of his mouth.

  “Matthew?”

  All her life, Pippa had viewed the world with an awareness of shifting layers of meaning and feeling. Most often it was Kit whose emotions pressed in upon her, Kit who came to her in flashes of his present life. But just now her emotions were entirely her own. And in all that brilliant, beautiful day, there was only one thing she wanted.

  So she took it.

  Pippa leaned in so suddenly that Matthew startled back. She gave him no chance to speak or wonder or think at all. She simply kissed him.

  It was, of necessity, inexpert. Pippa was not in the habit of kissing the gentlemen of her acquaintance. She was attractive and wellborn and wealthy, but she also had a formidable father who, rumour had it, had nearly killed Brandon Dudley several years ago after discovering him in passionate concord with Lucette. All of which meant she would have to take the initiative with any man—and with no one more than Matthew.

  Almost at once, as though sparked by the touch, Pippa could feel Matthew’s responses layered with her own. His first instinct was pure physical response—his second, to pull away. But because she felt it coming, she put her hands on the sides of his face to keep him engaged.

  And once past his second instinct, Matthew let himself return her kiss. Having nothing to compare it to, Pippa had no idea if he was experienced or not. All she knew was that it was right. They fit perfectly, as she had always known they would.

  Despite her curious double awareness, it was still a surprise when Matthew spoke. “I love you,” he whispered in a suspiciously rough voice into her hair when they released each other to breathe. “I have always loved you, Philippa. But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

  She laughed, a little breathlessly. “Why does everyone think I know everything?”

  “Only the things that matter.”

  And just like that, like a candle being snuffed out, the brilliant day vanished and Pippa was wrapped in a dream or vision—a very specific one that had crept into her life so long ago it seemed to have always been with her. Rushlight and fog, insistent hands and masked faces, melodious Spanish voices mixed with the unmistakable lilt of the Scots, the certain knowledge that she was dying…

  It had never frightened her—until now. Because for the first time, a new element was added to the familiar litany of her life’s eventual end. “Run, Philippa. Run now!” Matthew’s voice. Matthew’s beautiful, beloved voice, strained with fear and anger. But she could not run, because he was bleeding and if she left him he could not live—

  Pippa gasped, the shock of it like falling into an icy Devon stream in winter. She came back to the hillside, the warm sun on her face, and Matthew grasping her hands. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  She slipped out of his hold and stood up, still disoriented as to time and place. All she could think of was to get away as quickly as possible. “I don’t always like what I know,” she managed to say. “And neither would you. Don’t follow me, Matthew.”

  She walked away, knowing he would not press her. Matthew’s restraint always won out.

  1 November 1584

  Middleham Castle

  Dear Kit,

  I confess to being unreasonably envious of you just now. Would you believe that it snowed here yesterday? Yes, it melted by morning, but when I think of you and Stephen in the temperate Loire Valley I want to board the first ship that will take me away from Yorkshire.

  And yes, I know, I am the one who counseled Anabel to take up residence this far north. But do you not remember Madalena’s Moorish grandmother telling me that I am by nature contradictory? Who am I to gainsay such a wise woman?

  I am not the only contradictory female in Yorkshire. I suppose you know from Anabel that Brandon Dudley and Nora Percy married suddenly last month. Not, despite what the gossips say, because there is a child coming too soon—no, for all its apparent suddenness, this wedding has been looming for some years. I am only surprised that they waited this long. Nora is already thirty and has been in love with Brandon forever. But her mother did not approve—probably because Eleanor Percy hoped one day her daughter would learn to be as cynical at manipulating men as she is herself.

  Not that Eleanor’s manipulations have been particularly successful lately. The Earl of Ormond proved willing to be her lover, but not her husband. And with the dangerous situation in Ireland, he has finally broken with Eleanor for good and sent her back to England. She was not invited to her daughter’s wedding.

  Nor was the queen informed in advance, despite Nora being her niece. Anabel is a little tense, awaiting her mother’s response.

  I wish you would write more often. To me, not just to Anabel. It has been surprisingly lonely being apart from all my siblings. At least you and Stephen are together, and Lucie has Julien. Still, there is little time to indulge in self-pity in this household. Anabel is almost as ferocious a ruler as her mother, and Matthew…

  Pippa Courtenay broke off writing. For a woman who had often been told she never lacked for things to say, she could not find the words to finish that sentence. How to explain her current tenuous relationship with Matthew Harrington, a man she had known since birth? At the age of fifteen, she had allowed herself one reckless moment with him—and had spent the last seven years ensuring they never again crossed the boundaries of simple friendship.

  Twice in the last eighteen months Pippa had attempted to explain to him the wisdom of her decision, and persuade him to look for his future happiness elsewhere. It had not gone according to plan.

  Which seemed to be the theme of the Courtenay family these last two years. Her o
lder brother Stephen had spent five months confined to the Tower of London. He’d subsequently lost his title and estates as Earl of Somerset, then been unofficially banished from England. Now he and Kit, Pippa’s twin, were training in France and serving with the men of their father’s old friend, Renaud LeClerc. And Lucie, the oldest sibling, though gloriously happy in her marriage to Renaud’s son, Julien, had suffered three miscarriages in the last two years.

  Hands came to rest on Pippa’s shoulders and the Princess of Wales said teasingly, “Run out of things for which to scold Kit? I can provide you a list if you need it.”

  “But then what will you write to him?”

  Anabel took a seat next to Pippa and gave a small, secret smile. “Don’t worry about me. I have no shortage of things to write to Kit.”

  Pippa put aside her unfinished letter and decided to change the subject from emotional entanglements to something less fraught. Like politics. “How is the news from Dublin?”

  Anabel pulled a face. “It continues disastrous. With the fall of Waterford, only Dublin and Cork are open to reinforcements, and that’s presupposing we have any to send. No one thought the Spanish troops would remain this long, but success breeds willingness, and King Philip has had little difficulty rotating men in and out without losing the advantage.”

  King Philip being also Anabel’s father. She had not referred to him as such, not even to Pippa, since the Spanish fleet had landed ten thousand soldiers to oppose English possession of Ireland. He was the enemy now, or at least well on his way to becoming such.

  “I suppose Mary Stuart continues to crow about it in her correspondence all over Europe.”

  “Certainly in her correspondence with her oldest son. James’s letters to me are three-quarters rants about his mother and one-quarter demands that England do something about it. Not that he’s offering any material help.”

  The courtship of King James VI of Scotland and England’s Princess of Wales had thus far been conducted entirely at one remove. Pippa couldn’t help teasing, “Leaving no space for a single word in any of those letters about his most cherished bride-to-be?”

  “I am quite happy to escape fulsome and insincere compliments, I assure you. I am less happy when he presumes to criticize my mother and Parliament for not sending more aid to Ireland. I pointed out in my last letter that Scotland is also a Protestant nation and perhaps they would be interested in lending us money or men for the fight in Ireland. I imagine that will shut him up for a bit.”

  Pippa laughed. “This is quite the most amusing courtship I’ve ever witnessed.”

  Anabel sobered. “Just as long as James remains content to be betrothed rather than pressing for a consummation of the treaty.”

  She didn’t have to add the obvious, that she continued to hope the marriage might never take place. Anabel was stubborn and passionate and hardheaded and romantic all in one. As long as she remained unwed, there existed the smallest hope that she might be allowed to marry the man she loved: Kit Courtenay.

  The course of true love never did run smooth, Pippa thought mordantly. But this is beginning to be ridiculous. For all of us.

  —

  “The Queen of England will not be kept waiting by a rebel Irish countess!” Elizabeth Tudor snapped. It really wasn’t fair to snap at Burghley, who did no more than deliver the message that Eleanor Fitzgerald was running late. But he’d had thirty years of serving royals and knew fairness was not something to be expected.

  That didn’t mean he wouldn’t make his own retorts from time to time. “I could hardly burst into her bedchamber and drag her out half clothed.”

  “Oh, she’s fully clothed, mark my words. This is a tactical move.” Elizabeth, who knew all about tactical moves, let her ruffled temper smooth into glass. “She thinks she is announcing Ireland’s independence. Truly independent rulers do not have to make such petty shows.”

  It was a further five minutes before the pages proclaimed the arrival of Her Ladyship, the Countess of Desmond. Arrived in England as emissary for the rebel earl, her husband, the only reason Elizabeth had agreed to meet with Eleanor Fitzgerald at all was to impress upon the woman the might and power of the English court. Elizabeth had never been to Ireland, but she had read plenty of accounts and knew that the Irish nobility—saving perhaps those such as her cousin, the Earl of Ormond—often lived in worse conditions than even her own middle-class merchants. Just because she was finding it difficult to fund a sufficient force of soldiers to beat back the Spanish didn’t mean the Irish had any chance at all in the end. Indeed, without Spain, the war would have long since been over.

  A point Elizabeth did not hesitate to make when the tardy countess arrived and made a barely adequate curtsey. “I thought the entire point of Desmond’s rebellion was resistance to foreign interference. We English have been part of Ireland for more than four hundred years, and yet we are accounted more foreign than the Spanish, who share no heritage with you at all?”

  Eleanor was not easily frightened. “They share our faith. And we have less quarrel with foreign soldiers than we do with men who take our lands for their own and pretend they belong.”

  “As did the Fitzgeralds,” Elizabeth pointed out waspishly. “Not all that many generations ago.”

  “Long enough ago that we have earned the right to govern our own lands.”

  “If you believe the Spanish will allow you that, then you are being willfully blind. It is just possible that King Philip is willing to commit troops on principle’s sake—though I doubt it—but Mary Stuart wants much more. Surely you have heard the rumors that her youngest son will be proclaimed Prince of Ireland in the coming year.”

  “The boy is two years old. We are not afraid of a child. Not the way we are afraid of men who have determined the best way to rule Ireland is to murder every last Irish soul, thus leaving a clean slate for the English.”

  Elizabeth waved a hand in disdain. “I am not impressed by melodramatic statements based on hysteria. If you want the fighting in Ireland to stop, the answer is simple: evict the Spanish. When you have done that, then England and Ireland will have something to say to one another. Until then, go back to your husband and tell him I have no place for traitors at my court. You will be escorted back to your ship tomorrow.”

  She almost thought the woman would respond, for she had a very Irish glint to her eyes, but protocol won. When Eleanor Fitzgerald had left, Elizabeth looked at the one man in her government sure to have even more disdain for the countess than she herself. Francis Walsingham despised Catholics and the Spanish in equal measure. Long an advocate of a swift, harsh end to Ireland’s rebellions, he was even more fiery now that they were supported by Philip’s troops.

  “Well?” she asked pointedly.

  Those hooded eyes had never grown easier to interpret. “The Spanish won’t go. Not until they’ve made a serious play for Dublin.”

  “Dublin will never fall.”

  “Perhaps not, but it might be starved into submission. If the Spanish decide to blockade the port—”

  “Then they will be committing to open warfare against all our forces,” Elizabeth snapped. “Philip isn’t prepared for that.”

  “Yet.” Walsingham let the syllable hang ominously, but said no more.

  Elizabeth would like to have believed that her Lord Secretary had learned discretion during his banishment from her court two years ago, but she doubted it. Walsingham was who he was and she valued him for it. Even if sometimes she wanted to kill him as well.

  Of the two of them, Walsingham did not hold grudges. And though Elizabeth did, she knew the difference between wisdom and vanity. He had hurt her pride with his opposition to the French marriage, but she could swallow that for the greater good. Especially since there was no chance of the fight resuming, for Francis, the Duc d’Anjou, had died earlier this year of a tertian fever. It was just as well Elizabeth had thought to take Anjou for herself and tied Anabel to James of Scotland, or else England would be doing so
me rapid maneuvering at this point.

  “Keep an eye on the Netherlands,” Elizabeth reminded Walsingham unnecessarily. “If Philip begins removing troops from the Low Countries, then we can begin to worry about Dublin and our own shores. For now, he is stretched thin on the ground.”

  Lord Burghley cleared his throat.

  “Yes?” she prompted.

  “Sir Walter Raleigh has been making quiet inquiries into the Somerset estates. He would be most willing to buy Farleigh Hungerford from the crown. If the crown has decided to sell, that is.”

  “The crown has not so decided.”

  A long silence. “As long as it remains in crown control, Your Majesty, there are those who expect Stephen Courtenay will be reinstated to his titles.”

  “They can expect whatever they like. But I promise you one thing—as long as I live, Stephen Courtenay will never again be the Earl of Somerset. Spread that news, if you like.”

  It hurt her to say it, but not because she had second thoughts. Stephen had committed treason. Any other man in her kingdom would have paid for those crimes with his head. But Stephen was Minuette’s son. So he lived—but without title or lands or even his home. He had been in France for nineteen months now. As far as she was concerned, he could stay there indefinitely.

  And if he helped keep his brother, Kit, out of England as well? All the better.

  —

  Maisie Sinclair had never been to Yorkshire before. Indeed, she had never been in England at all until a week ago. Despite her birth and childhood in Edinburgh, so close to the border that there always seemed to be alarms about whether the English were coming, Maisie’s travels had taken her seemingly everywhere save her nearest neighbor. After her short-lived Irish marriage, she had turned to the Continent. Since 1582 she had spent time in Antwerp, Bruges, Germany, Italy, and France. Now, at last, she was on her way home. Three and a half years after sailing from Scotland as the fifteen-year-old bride of an Irishman she’d never met, Maisie was prepared to make her play in Edinburgh.