Hating Dane and Ireland and God and himself most of all, Stephen draped Liadan’s limp body unceremoniously over his shoulder. Despite his anger with God, he prayed fervently that he could mount without dropping her. No way in hell was he letting Dane or one of his men touch her.
He managed, just, and when mounted subsequently managed to shift Liadan so she lay cradled before him with her head in the crook of one arm. Kicking his horse into movement, he was glad to see Maisie aware enough to follow.
As they went through the outer gate, Stephen heard Dane call, “Tell Ailis and her clan that the English will have Ireland. If we have to kill every last Irish native to do it.”
—
It was a ride Maisie would never remember clearly. The world itself seemed flat, as though pressed from the leaves of a book. The only thing not black or white or gray was the blood on her hands and dress and even on the ends of her long braids that had slipped over her shoulder. She knew they rode and stopped and rode again. Stephen forced bread down her throat, and cheap wine that made her sputter. At one stop he wrapped Liadan’s body in the cloak she silently offered him. Neither of them spoke a word.
Diarmid and several of his men were waiting for them three miles outside Cahir. Maisie heard the hisses of shock and kept her eyes fixed on the horizon. She would not let herself be caught by anyone else’s sorrow.
But she could not avoid hearing Stephen’s sharp voice. “Don’t touch her.”
Then she did look, where Diarmid and Stephen faced each other on horseback. The Irishman was quick enough to recognize the fanatic resolve in the Englishman’s expression and did not force the issue. To fight over Liadan’s corpse would be a final insult.
They rode in procession together. No one seemed eager to carry the news ahead of them to Cahir.
Even without being warned, Ailis was waiting for them. She must have had men watching from the walls. With the distance she could not yet be certain…she would have counted the riders…but Maisie was practically the same size as Liadan, and suddenly Maisie reached up and pulled off her hood. Let the watery sunlight catch the gleam of her white-blonde hair so Ailis would have the slightest moment of preparation…
She didn’t know why she thought that might help. There was no preparation that could matter. When they were still a hundred yards away, Ailis came running straight at Stephen. The riders pulled up and Diarmid swung down to put his arm around Ailis, which she immediately shook off. Maisie wanted to look away from her awful, stark face as Ailis realized…but she wouldn’t. The least she could do was bear witness.
This time, Stephen did not protest when Diarmid reached for Liadan. Gently, he let her down into the other man’s arms. Ailis threw herself at them both so they ended on the ground, the mother stretched over her child, the peculiarly Gaelic keening that Maisie herself had produced earlier coming now from Ailis.
One of the other men helped Maisie down. She didn’t know what to do. Stephen seemed in the same dilemma. He took a hesitant step toward Ailis and stopped.
This was a moment for clan only. Neither of them were wanted—or even noticed. So Maisie did the only thing she could think of to express her compassion. She walked away.
Without thinking, she ended in Liadan’s chamber, where she had spent so much time. It was dreadfully, devastatingly empty. Everything was just as it had been that last night—was it only the night before last?—when Dane strode into the chamber and demanded they get up and get dressed quick and quiet. Maisie stared at the bed, the crumpled linens waiting for Liadan to return, and could not bear it.
She simply sat down where she was on the floor. There was a shoulder-height chest next to her and she leaned her head against it and began making tactical calculations in her head.
It might have been an hour later, or two, or only ten minutes when she felt something cold touch her face and she blinked herself back into her body. Stephen knelt before her, washing the blood and dirt from her cheeks. Then he moved to her hands, where the blood had cracked and dried and soaked so far into her skin Maisie would carry it with her always.
That was when she began to weep.
—
After seeing to the horses—not only Dane’s, but those Diarmid and his men had ridden—Stephen did not know what to do. He could trace the rise and fall of the women’s wailing and wanted to shut his ears or run away. Barring that, he expected to be secured in the chains left empty by Dane, but it seemed even the men of Clan Kavanaugh were lost in grief for a time. He could have left then, if he’d wanted.
Finally, he remembered that there was at least one person in Cahir as alone as he was this night. He found Maisie sitting on the stone-flagged floor next to Liadan’s bed, knees hugged to her chest, still wearing the gown soaked with the child’s blood. He didn’t know what to do. Looking desperately around the chamber, he saw the washing bowl with water that had no doubt been sitting there since they’d vanished. He grabbed a piece of cloth and the bowl and set it next to Maisie on the floor. He could at least clean her face.
The moment he touched her, he realized she’d had no idea he was there. He was almost sorry to have broken the balance that had kept her quiet, for almost at once her shoulders began to shake. Helplessly, Stephen put an arm around her narrow shoulders and then the sobs began in earnest.
He could remember his mother holding Kit as he’d sobbed, sometimes in sorrow, other times in rage. Kit had always been extravagant in his emotions. Just like his mother had back then, Stephen curved over Maisie protectively and she ended half on his shoulder, half in his lap, as Liadan herself might have done. Stephen’s own throat was so tight he could hardly swallow.
When the storm had gentled a bit, he realized there were words with her tears. She kept saying something. To him. “You called me Mariota.”
She must have said it three or four times before Stephen heard and interpreted it correctly. He didn’t know what to say. She looked up at him, her eyes enormous from weeping, and said, “No one has called me Mariota since my grandfather died.”
Then, like the practical-minded Scots girl she was, she straightened away and Stephen dropped his hands. He still didn’t know what to say.
Maisie solved that issue. “I know who you are.”
“I suppose Dane gave you all the hints you needed.”
“No, I meant I knew it before. From almost the first day we met.”
Stephen blinked. “What are you, given to second sight?”
“I met your brother last summer at Kilkenny. His was not a face one forgets.”
“Yes, I know,” Stephen said wryly. “But Kit and I are nothing alike.”
“The coloring, no. But the bones of your face are the same. And your expressions. You both wrinkle the corner of your eyes when you’re being polite against your nature, and your jawline twitches when you’re displeased. There’s something about the way you both speak and carry yourselves…I was sure.”
“And then you corroborated.” Stephen let out a breath that was half laugh, half admiration. “I was warned there were questions about my present location coming from the merchant communities in London. I thought it was Mary Stuart looking for me. It was you.”
“It’s what merchants do,” she said listlessly. “Hoard information like squirrels. For our own benefit.”
“Rather like a spy.”
“But you’re not really a spy, are you? Not in the way you were meant to be. You might have come to the Kavanaughs for information, but you stayed for Ailis.”
How had such a slip of girl so easily seen into the heart of him? Trying to deflect his uneasiness, Stephen said, “It doesn’t much matter now. I’m damned either way. No doubt Dane already has messengers flying to England to tell the queen I’m a traitor. But they’ll have to stand in line behind Ailis to get at me. I don’t imagine she’ll be satisfied with anything but my head.”
“Then I would say your imagination is not very good where women are concerned.”
“They’re
going to lock me up, Maisie.”
“I know it as well as you do, and yet you came back to Cahir. Don’t worry. I may not be able to defuse their anger at your initial lies, but I will be able to clear you of any involvement in…” She waved her hand around the crumpled, deserted chamber. “Any of this.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Stephen said grimly.
“I’m not. Ailis won’t kill you. She needs you. And I need you, too—because while I was at Blackcastle, I gathered quite a lot of information that will be useful when it comes time to attack. Men don’t expect much from women, especially not young women. They let us see rather more than they should have. I’ve already begun calculations on the number of men Dane has on hand, the quality of their weapons and food stores, and what Clan Kavanaugh will need to beat them.”
Stephen blinked. He seemed to have forgotten how to speak. Finally he managed to croak, “What?”
“It’s what I do, remember? There is more to me than anyone in Ireland has guessed—including Oliver Dane.”
Stephen realized his mouth was hanging open, so he shut it. But he couldn’t stop staring at this girl with her cascade of silver-gilt hair so bright it gleamed in the shadows of the dark chamber. Like her own moon.
A verse from the Old Testament came into his head: Fair as the sun, clear as the moon, and terrible as an army with banners.
“Stephen?” Maisie peered up at him, a crease of determination between her eyes. “It’s going to be all right in the end.”
After two weeks of confinement at Hampton Court, Anabel was allowed to depart by barge for the short trip to Syon House. She thought her mother was glad to see her go. The longer the Princess of Wales remained cloistered in her bedchamber, the harder it was to keep up the pretense of a summer cold or a string of sick headaches or even female troubles. And she wasn’t ready to step back into court life. She had lost weight and colour during her illness—not to mention her hair; Anabel mourned extravagantly for her beautiful hair and she hated having to wear wigs. And the terror that had seeped into her during the worst of the fever had not entirely dissipated.
The Duc d’Anjou and Esmé Stewart had been sent off to Theobalds to be entertained by Lord Burghley in his beautiful home, and from there a leisurely tour to Cambridge and the Roman city of Colchester. Anabel wondered how long they would stay in England before giving up on seeing her again. She didn’t trouble herself overmuch; her mother would handle it.
Syon House was a blessed repose of beauty and quiet. She no longer needed constant nursing, and found herself irritably swatting away the hovering women who tried. At this point she could tolerate only Minuette and Madalena. Lucette had gone home with her husband. Anabel knew that Pippa was at Syon House as well. But now that conversation was possible between them, she was not in a hurry for it.
As for her household, her clerks and secretaries ran things so smoothly she supposed they hardly even missed her. Anabel knew she should care, but it was hard to summon the energy. Though the fever had broken and the rash faded without trace, she was…weary. Lassitude had become her constant companion, and for the first time in her life, she let herself drift without intention or effort.
The only one who brought colour to her days and a curiosity in the world was, not surprisingly, Kit. She knew that his admission to her private chambers was solely at his mother’s discretion—another nursemaid would never have allowed the impropriety, now that she was no longer in danger of death. But who could complain when his own mother stayed in sight and hearing of them? Most of the time. If Minuette often drifted discreetly out of sight, who was to know?
Syon House, with all its new décor, was conducive to convalescence. Unlike other, more heavily decorated palaces, her bedchamber and privy chamber were done in a palette of muted blues and greens with liberal amounts of white and touches of silver.
In early September, Kit sat on a folding chair with an intarsia of coloured stones while Anabel reclined on a padded bench with low back and sides. The sunlight came through the unusually wide windows, illuminating Kit’s bright eyes and expressive hands as he told her stories of Spain.
“Now you’re just teasing me!” she protested, laughter making her throat ache. “There is not a woman at my father’s court with an eye patch.”
“I swear on my life, Anabel, I am not teasing. Could I imagine such a thing? Doña Ana de Mendoza lost her right eye when she was young, in a duel with her father’s page. She’s worn an eye patch ever since. And it has not in the least detracted from her great beauty.”
Now he was teasing, and Anabel responded by sticking out her tongue. It was like they were ten years old again. “I suppose she was only one of many beautiful Spanish women. How many begged you to bring them to England with you?”
“Not a single one. For once, I was quite pleased to have no title or great wealth to offer. Made it simpler to concentrate on the essentials.”
“Which were?”
He hesitated. “Do you want to do this now?”
“Talk?”
“Talk about essentials.”
“I suppose I can’t hide away forever.” Even though the thought was awfully tempting. She sighed. “How did you find Queen Mary?”
“Insufferably pleased with herself. One would think she was the first queen in history to produce sons.”
That wrung a smile from her. “James laments that. He writes that it is as though he has been erased from his mother’s memory.”
“James of Scotland. You have been in communication?”
“Esmé Stewart brought a letter for me from his king. It read more as a shared complaint of two children whose parents are bent on humiliating them, rather than a personal suit.”
Kit nodded, and Anabel would have given much to know what he was thinking. But he merely continued with his recital. “King Philip was all that was gracious. And more at ease than I had ever known him to be. Seeing him at home in Spain was a lesson on how uncomfortable he must always have been while in England. I think you would know him better if you saw him there.”
“You know I can’t.”
“Yes, and so does he. That does not stop him regretting it. I would guess that everything we were shown was calculated to make its way back to you, an offering of the most beautiful, most cultured aspects of Spain that are your heritage, whether or not you ever claim it.”
“And how does Mary Stuart respond to that?”
He grimaced. “I don’t imagine the two of you will ever meet as friends.”
“As she had me held hostage to ensure her escape, I don’t imagine we will.” That didn’t mean Anabel relished the thought of meeting the Scots queen as an enemy. At the moment, it all seemed like entirely too much work.
Silence fell between them, and as happened with increasing frequency these last days, it was weighted with tension. Anabel knew—had always known, before she even knew why—that it would be up to her to break the silence.
Despite her illness, her unaccustomed lethargy, her heightened state of sensitivity, she would always be her mother’s daughter. So when she spoke, it was as direct as she could make it.
“What are we going to do?” she asked.
If nothing else had persuaded her in the last two years of Kit’s feelings, the quality of his silence now would have done so. There was an eloquence to the quiet lines of his body, the familiar grace of it tensed ever so slightly in the shoulders and hands—he had his mother’s long, narrow hands with fingertips that made her shiver at the thought of his touch. Anabel could not see his eyes until suddenly he raised his head, and then she could not see anything else.
“You are going to get better,” he promised softly. “And when you are, I will do whatever you ask.”
“Including serve in my household?”
“If you ask it of me.”
“But it would not be your first choice.”
She knew his answer by his wry grin. “My first choice? I think attaining my third or fourth choice is the
best I can hope for in this life.”
“What would you prefer to do?” Had she ever asked anyone that before? Royalty did not usually trouble with the wishes of those who served them.
“My father has suggested an intensive course of military training. I hate to say it, but though he is your father, King Philip has his eye on war. Both his conscience and his pride cannot abide what he sees as England’s heretical defiance. And with Mary at his side determined to wrest Scotland back from her own son if she can…before the decade ends, there will be war. I would rather not wait until it comes to be prepared.”
“Well, even if you are training heavily at Tiverton, I should still see you from time to time.”
There was silence. Then, “I’m not going to train at Tiverton.”
It seemed he was going to make her ask. “Where, then?”
“With Renaud LeClerc. In France,” he added, as though she didn’t know that perfectly well.
The illness had not completely obliterated her previous temper—her first instinct was to forbid it. But she held her tongue, determined not to treat him as just another vassal. Dare she be honest?
“But I will miss my raven.”
His eyes softened, and Anabel bit her lip to keep it from trembling. If he didn’t move, she was going to have to…
With that swift grace so familiar to her, Kit knelt at her side. “Don’t cry,” he said, which was her first indication that she was crying.
“I’m afraid.”
“Of what?”
“The future. Why cannot I just be a girl, Kit?”
“Because if you were just a girl—if you were any girl except yourself—I would not love you.”
“Do you?” she whispered.
“You know I do.”
“Tell me.”
He cupped her face in those beautiful hands of his. “I love you, Anabel. Whatever the future brings, whatever choices you must make for England, always know that I love you. Mi corazon.”
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