Stephen’s breath caught in his throat at Harrington’s name. But after a moment he realized it did not hurt as bitterly as he’d braced for. There was pain, yes, but mellowed by memories of love and care. Lucette let him walk in silence for a time, her fingers tightening a little on his arm.
At last Stephen said, “Thank you, Lucie. I can’t imagine you wanted to spend your first winter with your husband stuck out here.”
“Make it worth my while, Stephen. Don’t slip back, don’t hide, don’t run away. Make the amends you feel necessary, and then move on. Your life is not wholly your own; it belongs to those who love you as well. Do you hear me?”
Stephen stopped walking and turned his sister to face him. She looked fierce and vulnerable at the same time, with those blue eyes that she alone of the Courtenays possessed. “Lucie,” he said softly. “I swear that I will not give you cause to save me again.” Then he hugged her.
Lucette and Julien departed the next day. One week later, Stephen also left Farleigh Hungerford. He packed thoughtfully but not extravagantly. He held long meetings with his steward setting forth plans and then delegating to him responsibility for at least a year. Then he traveled to London.
His family was at Whitehall. He met with his parents first, alone, and told them the whole of what had happened in Ireland—from the massacre at Carrigafoyle, to the dispute over the prisoners, to the slaughter near Kilkenny. He told them where he’d been and with whom and that Harrington’s last words to him were a warning against misbehaviour.
When he was finished, his mother said, “When you are ready, it is something you should tell Carrie. For your own sake, as much as hers.”
His father said, “You are not the first man, nor the last, to take to bed the wrong woman at the wrong time. Try not to do it again.”
Stephen could not imagine ever wanting to take any woman to bed again, and wondered if he’d been permanently scarred by the bloodshed. With his mother looking at him, now was not the time to worry about it.
And then his father asked the pertinent question, the one to which Stephen had taken far too long to turn his attention. “Who do you think set the gallowglass on your prisoners?”
For that was the operative point, was it not? Any Irish force, mercenary or not, might gladly have attacked an English force too far from its own lines. Killing English soldiers was what they did. But prisoners? Irish women and boys? Even in the dark, a gallowglass force was too well-trained not to at least have hesitated at the women. But they hadn’t. Indeed, in Stephen’s memory, it seemed they headed straight for the larger tents, as if they knew who was housed there.
But it was not his father he wanted to discuss the matter with. Not that his father couldn’t be helpful, but he was on his way shortly to Spain with Kit and Pippa. And Stephen knew this was his own matter to deal with. No more worrying about how he appeared to others. No more fears that he wouldn’t live up to expectations. Time to be his own man. Appropriate vengeance, Julien had advised. For that, he needed to be in Ireland.
So the morning after half of his family headed to Portsmouth, Stephen sat down for a private conversation with Francis Walsingham. Not in his role as Elizabeth’s Lord Secretary, but as the queen’s intelligencer. Long before Elizabeth had come to the throne, Walsingham had been her man, ensuring that she always had all the information necessary to run her kingdom and protect her life.
Stephen had worked peripherally and briefly for Walsingham in the spring and summer of 1580, dancing attendance on Mary Stuart while keeping eyes and ears open for any mention of the Nightingale Plot. He’d gained the Scots queen’s trust, and some of her secrets, but not enough to stop the plot in its tracks. Still, Walsingham seemed to think Stephen was worth cultivating, as he’d sent him to Ireland last summer with a watching brief to pay attention for any mention of the Kavanaugh clan.
When Stephen was shown into Walsingham’s study, neither man wasted time. “What can I do for you, Lord Somerset?” the Lord Secretary asked.
“Send me back to Ireland.”
“Her Majesty is always grateful for soldiers—”
“Not as a soldier.”
“Then in what role? Your name is rather…restrictive. What use could the Earl of Somerset be in Ireland if not fighting?”
“You have men of many names and identities and stories working for you—let me be one of those. Under any name you choose.”
Walsingham steepled his fingers, eyes that were as black as his clothes fixed and cautious. “To what end?”
“To the end of stopping the fighting in Ireland. If Philip and Mary gain serious hold there, Ireland will drown in blood. Even more than it already has. And Mary will never cease troubling the Spanish king to aid the rebels. I suspect that, for both of them, pride is at stake. And I know about the hundred missing Spanish troops from last summer.”
With a deep sigh, Walsingham leaned back in his chair. “Do you remember the name Kavanaugh?”
“I do. The splintered clan, one faction led by Finian Kavanaugh. With the aid of his unexpectedly canny niece, they have orchestrated several victories in Ireland.”
“Correct. Matters in that direction are somewhat…unsettled at present. Finian Kavanaugh died last month, leaving his clan under the tenuous hold of his niece. Finian also left an even younger widow—the only granddaughter of William Sinclair.”
Stephen cast through his mind. “Edinburgh. The merchant family.”
“The extraordinarily clever and influential and wealthy merchant family. William Sinclair’s estate at his death was valued at five times the queen’s personal wealth.”
Stephen blinked. “How much of it came to the girl? Wasn’t there some question about the settlements…” Lucie would know, or Pippa. That was always the sort of thing his sisters knew.
“Sinclair also left a single grandson, who is titular head of the merchant concerns. A young man of dubious reputation and worse financial sense. He’s being restrained as much as possible by the board of the company. But they couldn’t stop him auctioning off his sister to an Irish clan chief at a cut-rate price.”
“But now you fear some of that merchant wealth might find its way to the Kavanaughs. Is the girl pregnant?”
“Does not appear to be. But she has made no move to return to Scotland. Perhaps only because she is estranged from her brother, or would prefer to stay out of his hands and any plans for another bargain marriage. But perhaps not.”
Stephen pondered. “A household and clan headed by two women. Two young women. That’s where you want me?”
“You did well in Mary Stuart’s household.” Meaning Stephen had used his looks and his manners to ingratiate himself with the former Scots queen.
“Neither of these women are likely to be charmed by an Englishman. I can hide my name—I can’t hide my tongue or country of birth.”
Walsingham smiled, a singularly disconcerting sight. “There are ways around that. If you don’t mind a little pain?”
Stephen gave a wolfish grin in return. “I would expect no less of Ireland.”
22 April 1582
My dear Lucie,
I had my suspicions when I saw how many trunks Father loaded for our travels to Spain. I kept waiting for someone to say something…but it seems the secret was well kept until now. When it is too late for a furious queen to interfere.
Mother is coming to Spain with us.
She wrote four letters tonight, carefully sealed with her signature star badge, and gave them into the hands of Lord Burghley’s son, Robert Cecil, who rode with us to Portsmouth. We have been here two nights, but the weather is perfect and we set sail tomorrow morning in the great galley built during the days of the last king, the Elizabeth Rose. The Duke and Duchess of Exeter, and their two younger children—I wonder what the Spanish king will make of that. I wouldn’t put it past Mother to task Philip to his face with taking you and Anabel hostage at Wynfield Mote.
Poor Robert Cecil. He was no match for Mother. She s
miled at him warmly and said, “Don’t fret—no one will have expected this. Just deliver my letters.”
One for you, of course, and one for Stephen. One for Carrie at Wynfield Mote…and one for the queen. It is that last one I wish I could read!
Pippa
22 April 1582
Dear Elizabeth,
Yes, I address you as my friend rather than my queen. Because my friend will understand why I am doing this rather better than the queen will. You have always been prone to quick offense, Elizabeth, but you know me too well to let resentment linger.
I did not ask your permission to go to Spain because I knew you would not give it. But I made a vow all those years ago, when I returned from France and then learned Dominic had survived. I vowed that I would never again cross the sea without him. And he feels the same. I know your arguments—that we should not trust so many of our family to a single ship, that illness could lay waste to all of us…I don’t care. Where Dominic goes, I go, at least when it involves oceans and months of separation.
We will be fine! I promise to hold my tongue in front of Philip and Mary—though if I am given a private audience with the Scots queen, I may possibly find a few things to say. Somehow, I do not think you would mind that.
Promise me that, if anything does happen to us against my blithe belief in my indestructibility, that you will care for my Lucette and Stephen. As I have always cared for your Anabel.
Your most loving, impetuous friend,
Minuette Courtenay
The last thing Stephen did before abandoning his name and title in favour of going undercover to Ireland was to visit Wynfield Mote. It looked its best in the late April sun, showing its outer face of mellow stone to the world. But the true beauty of Wynfield was hidden—it only revealed itself fully once one crossed the moat and passed through the gatehouse. The house had been rebuilt to its original medieval design, around a central courtyard, and as he dismounted, Carrie appeared at the entrance to the hall.
Stephen swallowed once, then handed over his horse to a waiting groom and went straight to Carrie. He didn’t quite know how he was going to greet her—With formality? Begging forgiveness at her feet?—but she took the matter into her own hands. As he reached the top of the steps, she pulled him into an embrace. He might have been a child again, going to Carrie for both comfort and dry wisdom. For only the second time since Kilkenny, Stephen felt the relief of tears.
Her own eyes were damp when she dropped her arms, but her expression was a familiar mix of affection and forbearance.
“It took you long enough,” she said tartly. “I nearly came to Farleigh Hungerford myself to shake you out of it.”
“Out of what?”
“Out of feeling sorry for yourself.”
“That wasn’t…I didn’t mean…” he stuttered.
“Hush, now.” She put a hand to his cheek and smiled. “Come inside and rest. You can tell me all about it over food.”
As when he was a child, Stephen did precisely as Carrie said. He rested and changed and joined her in the painted breakfast chamber for a meal of spinach pie and toasted cheese. And then he told her all of it—not even leaving out Roisin and his own poor judgment—and when he was finished, they sat in silence for some minutes.
“And so,” she said finally. “Have you spent all this time away afraid to ask for my forgiveness, Stephen?”
“I…yes, I suppose I have.”
“Then you are a fool, for I would have offered it long since. Even supposing it were a matter for forgiveness, which it is not. It sounds to me as though it was simply the fortunes of war. And those are not your responsibility.”
He drew a deep breath and let it out, a little shakily. “Thank you, Carrie.”
“Now that we’ve settled that—you are leaving England for a time.”
“I am.”
“Somewhere you don’t want people asking questions about. Well, I won’t ask, either. I will only say to be careful. It would be poor repayment of my husband’s life to lose yours in the bargain. Do you hear me?”
Stephen smiled, and it was the truest smile he’d offered in almost a year. “I hear you. I will come back, Carrie.”
She sniffed. “See that you do.”
—
When Elizabeth learned that Minuette had boarded the ship for Spain with her family, she was incandescent with rage. If she could have gotten her hands on any member of that rebellious, proud family, she might well have locked them up in the Tower purely for spite. But Lucette and Stephen were well out of her reach, and so, as usual, it was Walsingham and Burghley who bore the brunt of her temper.
“Damned proud woman will ruin everything!” Elizabeth stalked the perimeter of her blue-and-silver privy chamber, clenching her hands to keep from hurling various breakables to the floor. “And how Philip and Mary will mock that I cannot even control one woman! If Minuette’s plan was to fatally weaken me abroad, then she has already succeeded beyond her wildest dreams.”
Only when her anger had reduced itself to a low simmer did Lord Burghley venture to say, “Lady Exeter is strong-minded but not stupid. She will do nothing to weaken you. I daresay she was not thinking of you at all.”
“Of course not! She was thinking of her precious Dominic and how she could not bear to be separated—that woman could not live a day on her own if required to!” Even as she shouted, Elizabeth knew she was being unfair. Minuette was highly capable of living on her own if required. Why do I resent her so much when I don’t have to? Elizabeth asked herself. It is not Minuette’s fault that I am queen.
Although, come to think of it, if Minuette had only done William’s bidding and married him, then it would be Minuette with the crown, and Elizabeth herself would be…elsewhere.
Fine. Minuette had taken advantage of their friendship, and she planned to lecture her friend severely when she returned, but Burghley was right. Minuette would make a success of this visit. Truth be told, probably rather more successful than if Dominic were leading it alone. Dominic did not do gracious diplomacy. Minuette would smooth his edges and, with the twins, ensure that Philip was reassured as to his daughter’s state of mind.
Speaking of which…“The Duc d’Anjou is committed?”
“He is,” Walsingham answered gravely. He was opposed to any consideration of a French marriage for Anabel. “He will sail before month’s end and stay ‘as long as is amenable to Her Royal Highness.’ ”
“Charming, if disingenuous. It is my pleasure he must watch out for. Being French, I suppose he can make himself agreeable to whomever he must.”
“What of Scotland?” Walsingham probed.
“There’s no use extending an invitation to James—they would never let him come in person. The last monarch who left Scotland spent twelve years imprisoned, and pity for us it wasn’t longer. They will never risk it.”
“And you will not agree to Princess Anne going north?”
“To Scotland? Absolutely not. It is for James to court her. He needs us far more than we need him. I will not send my daughter traipsing to Scotland to beg for a husband.”
“They are willing to send Esmé Stewart in place of James. He is Duke of Lennox now, and his credentials are impeccable.”
“And he grew up in France—and also he is Catholic,” Elizabeth countered. “Still, I hear that he is engaging and very good-looking. Perhaps it’s as well he is already married or Anabel might have her head turned by a completely unsuitable man. But as he is King James’s favourite, we must take it as the compliment it’s meant to be and do our best to welcome him. Arrange it, Burghley.”
“For after Anjou’s departure?”
“It wouldn’t hurt them to overlap a little. Does Anjou know Stewart from his years in France? Even if not, they will no doubt share acquaintances. Let each man size up the competition. It will be entertaining.”
Burghley did not look convinced. But he had long ago learned when to argue and when to hold his peace. On the subject of eligible
men courting Anabel rather than Elizabeth, he wisely held his peace.
DIARY OF MINUETTE COURTENAY
24 April 1582
At Sea
There have been moments these last two days when I have nearly regretted my rash insistence on accompanying Dominic. It has been some years since last I crossed the sea and I am not as easy with it as I once was. But never mind, what is a little discomfort in the cause of my family and my queen?
There have been clouds, but the captain is confident we will sail into the Bay of Biscay tomorrow.
25 April 1582
Bilbao, Spain
We landed—and none too soon, as we were chased by high winds and rain the fourteen miles from the Bay of Biscay to this merchant city grown wealthy from its port. We were met by a dozen men and two women of King Philip’s personal household and they managed to accept my unexpected appearance with aplomb, though I gather there was some concern that two women courtiers would not be sufficient. I assured them neither Pippa nor myself are accustomed to constant attendance and we could keep each other company just as well.
They smiled their lovely, unreadable smiles beneath their serene black eyes, and have not left us alone for a moment until bedtime. I suppose it is to be expected. They will be watching for our unspoken messages as well as our words.
I can play that game, for I was taught it by more than one master.
30 April 1582
Valladolid, Spain
I must say that King Philip has extended himself and his country to show its best face. We have ridden horses with the most exquisite lines and perfect gaits, we have feasted each night in elaborately decorated homes and courtyards that serve as way stations from the north coast, and everywhere we see beautiful people and gorgeous churches.
After all my lifetime, there is still a faint call in my blood for the faith of my mother. For all her friendship with Anne Boleyn, Marie Hilaire Wyatt never abandoned the Latin rituals. I can dimly recall hearing her recite the rosary, fingers clicking on the jet beads. I have that rosary still, though I myself have never prayed it.
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