And when I see the plethora of priests and the sternness of their countenances and obvious discomfort with our—one might infer, contaminating—presence in Spain, I am grateful for England’s precarious balance between old and new. For the most part, our Spanish attendants have refrained from conversation of a religious nature. Though Pippa says that one of the women asked her if Princess Anne ever reads the religious books the Spanish priests send her through her father.
Pippa wisely did not tell her the truth.
Of the children, it is Kit who is surprisingly most at ease. I am accustomed to Pippa being the one to lead the way among others, to subtly show her brother how to behave in new situations. But Kit has grown up when I wasn’t looking. Every now and then I catch a glimpse of Dominic in his expressions. Of course Kit could not stay young and carefree forever, but I am disquieted at this new intensity.
And, uncharacteristically, I am almost afraid to ask him why.
3 May 1582
Torrelodones, Spain
Tomorrow we enter Madrid, where King Philip and Queen Mary await us at the Royal Alcazar. Considering the state of luxury in which we have thus far traveled, I can only imagine the beauties that await us.
Fortunately, we are English. We are not easily seduced by beauty.
From the moment they’d landed near Bilbao, Kit had been making notes of the many things he wanted to tell Anabel. At night he penned disjointed phrases and descriptions and partial stories to serve as an aid to his memory when he could sit with her in future and paint her a vivid picture of her father’s homeland.
It was almost painful, to be experiencing all this while knowing that Anabel herself never could. She would never witness the colours and sounds and tastes of the country that, by blood, was half hers. Did she feel the loss of it? Kit wondered. Beneath the English culture and education, were there strains that called to her in whiffs of incense and whispers of chants and hints of exotic spices? Was there a seductive Spanish beauty beneath the impeccable red-haired princess? He imagined being in Spain with Anabel, and then he couldn’t bear to imagine it. Instead he took his careful notes so that he could share it with her later as best he could.
It was illuminating traveling overseas with his parents. He was so accustomed to being with them at Wynfield or Tiverton or the English court that he hadn’t realized there might be new things to learn about his parents elsewhere. But there were, if not all of them entirely surprising. Dominic traveled like a soldier: every moment of the day accounted for beforehand and always alert to subtle shifts in behaviour or surroundings. Kit didn’t know if his father truly expected a physical attack on Spanish soil, but if it came, he would certainly be prepared.
Not that he was hostile. Just, as always, contained. Quiet. Remote, even harsh, one might think—if one didn’t consider how he behaved with his wife. Again, Kit was now of an age to appreciate how unusual his parents’ marriage truly was. The Spanish, even more so than the English, were rigid in their hierarchies and their expectations of behaviour from men and women. Their women—especially the most aristocratic—almost seemed to inhabit a different, parallel world to that of the men. Kit could only suppose Pippa would be paying attention to those things he could not by virtue of his sex.
Not that one or two Spanish women along their route to Madrid hadn’t offered to pay him rather closer attention, but Kit would have said no simply because he was here on the business of queen and court even if he hadn’t been traveling with his parents. Also, how could he make an accurate report to Anabel if he left out something as significant as his first…He was uncomfortable phrasing it even in his own head. Put it this way—he didn’t intend his first woman to be one who couldn’t even understand what he said in his native tongue.
He hadn’t set out to reach the age of twenty a virgin. He hadn’t really thought about it at all. Well, no, that was hardly right. Of course he thought about it. He wasn’t maimed or dead. And he had some experience. Just not the experience. Stephen, Kit knew, had somehow crossed that line without any great soul-searching that he was aware of. Shouldn’t it have been the older, responsible, perfect brother who kept himself pure, and the younger, charming, reckless brother who behaved badly?
Only in the last year had Kit sometimes dreamed of a specific woman. The fact that the woman was Anabel might, he knew, have some bearing on his present state of chastity. But he refused to consider that puzzle deeply, because it could not possibly end well. He would simply have to get over it at some point.
Just not on this visit to Spain.
Taken in all, Kit’s mind and senses were already overflowing with impressions and emotions by the time they reached Madrid. Philip had moved his court from Toledo to Madrid twenty years before, and the city’s architecture was a mix of foreign influences and the restrained aesthetic of Catholic Spain. The gray slate spires and red brick of the buildings around Plaza Mayor were distinctly, unmistakably, Spanish.
The English party entered the city with a guard wearing the royal badge with its three crowns—for Castile, Aragon, and Portugal—and its Latin motto, Non Sufficit Orbis—“The World Is Not Enough.” That motto encapsulated all that most worried England about Spain, for it meant the Spanish made decisions based on a certitude of faith that overrode the autonomy of even its own people. Hence the Inquisition, in force in Spain for nearly a hundred years now, whose sole purpose was to protect the purity of the Catholic faith—even at the cost of destroying its own citizens.
Although their attendants had tried to put Kit next to his father near the front of the line, his parents had subtly resisted the segregation. They rode together, beautifully paired, with Kit and Pippa matched behind them. Kit knew they were an attractive family, though it would have been better to have Stephen and Lucie to complete the look—three dark-haired, three golden—as though they were chess pieces perfectly balanced.
Then Pippa turned her head toward him and Kit amended the thought. Almost balanced—with only Pippa’s streak of black hair framing her face to disrupt the match.
The Royal Alcazar of Madrid had once been a Moorish fort, built seven hundred years ago on a high point to overlook the Manzanares River. As they approached, Kit could see the semicircular turrets along one facade of the palace that were likely Muslim remnants from the ancient fort. The newly built Tower of Gold dominated the horizon with the same slate roof as elsewhere in the city; all so unlike anything in Britain that Kit felt a rush of pure adventure.
That rush was tempered the moment they rode into the Courtyard of the King and were met by two regal figures.
Philip, King of Spain and all its imperial holdings beyond the seas, stood at the top of a short flight of steps, clothed in his typical rich but somber attire. One would think that in a country much warmer than England, black would not be the fabric of choice.
Two steps below Philip—thus equalizing their heights—stood Mary Stuart, a rare triple queen. Infant Queen of Scotland, briefly Queen Consort of France, and now through another marriage Queen of Spain. She was tall enough to carry the extra weight of age and motherhood with elegance, her hair a darker version of Queen Elizabeth’s red-gold. Mary Stuart wore a Spanish-style gown of rich brown thickly embroidered with gold thread and had a fortune of rubies around her neck. Kit had met her only once before—two summers ago, when he spent several impatient, awful days in her company as they rode from her prison at Tutbury to the French ship that spirited her out of England. Seeing her here, triumphant after her blithe disregard of Anabel’s life—not to mention that of Kit’s older sister—made him straighten, and the frisson he felt this time was not excitement, but fear.
There was so very much at stake in all this delicate web of personal and familial relationships. He would not fail Anabel or England by letting his dislike get the better of his behaviour.
He felt a hand slide into his and almost smiled in relief as Pippa twined their fingers together. A quick glance to his twin, an even quicker wink, and then the two mov
ed behind their parents as they were presented to the royal couple.
Kit had met the Spanish king many times before—as recently as two summers ago—but always in England, where Philip was little more than the barely tolerated husband of the ruling queen. Meeting King Philip in his own palace, in his own capital city—with a wife other than Elizabeth at his side—was a much more intimidating experience.
“Lady Exeter,” Philip said, coming down the steps in a show of graciousness. If initially nonplussed by news of her unexpected arrival on his shores, he’d clearly had time to accommodate the thought. “What an unlooked-for pleasure! I hardly dared dream that you would grace my humble alcazar.”
Humble, Kit thought cynically. Right. Though alcazar was the Moorish word for fort, it was centuries ago and plenty of gold spent since this had been anything but a palace. The courtyard they stood in was porticoed with gothic arches, and the May sun, so much warmer in Spain than England, picked out the lines and shadows of the carved stone frieze. A riot of vivid flowers tumbled out of planters and against pillars.
Philip welcomed Dominic with less open friendliness, but what Kit perceived as genuine respect. Though that might only be his own filial pride for a father he was beginning to think he could be a little bit like if he tried.
The Spanish king was less wary with Kit and Pippa, and promised he would spend time in the days to come pressing them for every detail they could share of his daughter.
Then came Mary Stuart. From what little he knew of her personally, Kit was somewhat surprised that the queen had managed to keep still and hold her tongue this long. Was she regretting having married a king? Her first husband had been Dauphin—and then King—of France, but she had only been a girl then, and was widowed almost as quickly. Her next two husbands had been her own subjects. Now once more, Mary was not simply a queen by birth but also by marriage. Surely that had only increased her sense of importance?
What he had not experienced during those tense days riding to the coast two years ago was Mary’s famous glamour. It was turned full force on them now. She allowed Dominic to touch her hand with his own, though Kit thought she was disappointed that he didn’t kiss it. Minuette she did not quite embrace; his mother met Mary’s wide smile with one of her own. Were they both false smiles?
“Lady Exeter, you look hardly older than when we met in France all those years ago.”
“Your Majesty is as royal as ever.” Kit had never heard that tone from his mother. It could have matched Queen Elizabeth for its ability to cut glass.
“Of course, none of us are as young as we once were. Your own twins are quite grown.” Mary moved to Kit and Pippa. Kit did not dare refuse to kiss her hand as his father had, but nor could he smile like his mother.
Mary seemed not to notice, for she was still speaking to Minuette. “Though, God be good, I have proved young enough to bring twins of my own into the world. A great gift.”
And a subtle taunt, to the absent English queen who had been divorced half for her religion and half for her age and inability to bear Philip further children.
“I cannot wait for you to meet my sons,” Mary finished triumphantly, thus underscoring her victory. Where Elizabeth had given Philip only a daughter, Mary had given him two perfect male heirs.
Kit had a flash of understanding in that moment, for if Mary were so assured of her triumph, why did she have to underscore it so carefully? No, as far as Mary Stuart was concerned, the battle between the two queens was not over. It had, perhaps, scarcely begun.
—
Stephen’s return to Ireland was effected under much different circumstances than his first visit. Rather than landing in Waterford in open daylight, his men marching serious and disciplined through the English-held town, he came ashore alone out of a fishing boat and was met by a rather dubious character whose speech was nearly unintelligible but who led him straightaway to a small farm.
Where, incongruously, awaited Thomas Butler, Earl of Ormond.
The older earl, dressed inconspicuously beneath a cloak of rough homespun, surveyed Stephen critically from head to foot. “Well, you look better than when last I laid eyes on you. Sure you want to do this? Ireland didn’t treat you so well the last time.”
“That’s precisely why I’m back. To reset the balance.”
“Better you than me,” Ormond grunted. “Don’t know why Walsingham’s taking such a risk.”
“Because I asked him.”
“You know, son, once you’re in—that’s it. You’re on your own. No visits, no messages direct…we can’t risk blowing your cover.”
“I’m quite clear on that, yes. Walsingham went into detail.”
Ormond did not smile at the, admittedly weak, jest. “Does your father know the details as well?”
“It’s none of his business—or yours.”
That did wring a smile from Ormond. “And here I thought you were nothing like your little brother.” He rubbed the back of his neck, arms strong and thick. Ormond was a working earl, as Stephen thought of it. A man of action more comfortable with his men than paying court in softer surroundings. Finally, Ormond nodded. “Fine. You’re off at dawn to meet up with Walsingham’s contact. Don’t ask me who it is—I don’t know. Until dawn, keep your head down in here.”
After an uncomfortable night in the straw, the guide roused Stephen at dawn. Their journey served as a physical progression into his new role. With each mile his title and privileges receded further, until Stephen Courtenay began to seem like an entirely different person. The last time he rode across this landscape, he had been in command, living on the edge of his nerves with the responsibility of prisoners and soldiers. He felt those memories reaching for him—the anxiety and panic threatening to undo his hard-won control—and kept it all at bay by reciting the Catholic prayers he had labored to learn as cover for his new identity.
The guide left him finally in a crofter’s hut a mile up a hill off the rough track that served as a road. Stephen hoped his new contact would make it to him before he finished the last of the bread—nothing in the landscape promised easy access to food.
The contact did make it before the end of the bread, but barely. A day and a half after Stephen arrived at the hut, a man strode up the hill leading a shaggy pony.
In educated English with a hint of Irish melody beneath it, the man greeted him by his new name. “Stephen Wyatt, is it?”
Wyatt had been his mother’s father, a name less laden with aristocratic Norman overtones than Courtenay. Jonathan Wyatt had been a scholar and gentleman farmer, of no particular account or note, ideal for Stephen’s cover.
The man, who was younger than he’d at first looked, said, “I’m Peter Martin.”
“Directly from England?” Stephen asked.
“From France, most recently. I spent two years at the English College in Douai, but stopped short of taking orders.”
The seminary whose primary purpose was training men to go undercover to England to, first, succor English Catholics and, second, topple Queen Elizabeth. Though Stephen knew Walsingham had spies everywhere, just the name of the place made his hands tense. “Right,” he said suspiciously.
Martin read his suspicion rightly and gave a fleeting, grim smile. “I report to Walsingham, same as you. I don’t suppose either one of us cares to explain why—and that’s the last time his name will be spoken between us.”
“Right.” Stephen relaxed slightly.
Tethering the pony, which bore light packs, Martin said, “We’ll leave in the morning. A quick meal now, while I give you the layout of the household and what to expect and to ensure our stories match. And then I’m going to beat you.”
It was Walsingham’s idea: Stephen as an English deserter, a gentleman’s bastard with no love for English authority and a liking for an Irish lass who’d been killed (it was easy to slide his memories of Roisin into that)…in short, an Englishman who’d opened his mouth once too often and was beaten and flung out to starve in the waste
lands of Ireland for trying to help the locals. Peter Martin would bear witness to the story.
But none of it would matter if Stephen’s body didn’t bear the marks of his supposed insubordination.
“Just try to avoid the arm they broke last time I was in Ireland,” he told Peter resignedly. “And if you have to kick me, there are some areas I’d prefer you avoid.”
After all, there might come a day when the thought of taking a woman to bed filled him with something other than guilt and grief.
By mid-May the Kavanaughs had moved from Carlow to Cahir Castle, farther west. Cahir had the distinction of being built on an island in the River Suir. Almost a peninsula, really, for though it was surrounded by water on three sides, the fourth side nearly touched the riverbank. But the causeway was easily defended and walls encircled both the castle and outer courtyards.
As the party clattered across to the island, Ailis thought how odd it was to arrive without Finian. His death had been more of a shock than Ailis had anticipated. He’d been sixty-one, but a big, bluff man who had never been ill and hardly ever injured. Then in February he was struck with fever and flux that gradually turned bloody and left him bedridden and wasting away so rapidly he seemed to grow smaller each day. After three excruciating weeks, he had died with his wife at his bedside.
Although unexpected, he had lingered long enough for Ailis to be prepared. The transition period to her leadership would be the most delicate time, but she had Father Byrne on her side and the support of the rebels in the Wicklow Mountains. She was the one who had determined to get the hundred Spanish soldiers away from the coast. She was the one who had come up with the daring plans for this summer. All she had to do now was keep a cool head, refuse to be cowed by any bluff Irishman who thought his body made him a better leader than a woman, and ensure her schemes were followed. If she succeeded this summer, her leadership would be unassailable.
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