The Virgin's Spy

by Laura Andersen

  “Call them off, and prepare to march them out so the Kavanaugh men can march in. Your soldiers will come to Kilkenny, where my men will watch them while we are in England.” Slowly, Ormond lowered his dagger.

  “You’re going to England as well?” Dane was surprised into asking.

  “To keep the two of you from killing each other along the way? Of course I’m coming. If only to watch the spectacle you make at the queen’s court.”

  Stephen had said nothing since his protest about the girl. Kit stepped in front of his brother as the parley broke up. “I’m sorry,” he said. “There was no other way. If I hadn’t agreed to come, Elizabeth would have let Dane kill you in the field.”

  “I’m not that easily defeated.”

  “She will listen to you, Stephen. Make Dane pay for his crimes.”

  Stephen didn’t look at him but into the horizon as though seeing something—or someone—else. “She had better.”

  Diarmid himself rode to Cahir with news of the stunning and unexpected reversal that had put Blackcastle into Kavanaugh hands—at the cost of putting Oliver Dane himself out of their reach and on his way to England.

  “It seemed best,” Diarmid said defensively, and Ailis realized he was afraid of her anger. “The mercenaries were ordered to fight solely under Courtenay’s command, and we gained more than we’d hoped with only a handful of losses.”

  “But not Dane’s head.”

  “No.”

  Ailis didn’t know how she felt. It was rather an absence of feeling—which after the weeks of sharp grief followed by manic preparation was almost pleasure in itself. “It is good for the clan,” she found herself saying, and meaning it. “Blackcastle and Templemore have been a thorn in the Earl of Desmond’s side for too long. Many will be pleased at what we have achieved.”

  “Are you pleased?” Diarmid asked bluntly. Are you pleased with me? he meant. Did I do the right thing? Will you ever look beyond my services to what else I can offer you?

  “My daughter is dead. I do not expect to be anything more than mildly satisfied again in my lifetime. But I am not ungrateful.”

  His face darkened, and she could see the struggle in his eyes. Then, abruptly, he pulled a letter from inside his battle-stained jerkin and tossed it on the table before her. “He asked me to give you this.” Then he turned on his heel and left. No further explanation was forthcoming—or necessary.

  Ailis,

  I refrain from addressing you with an endearment not because I do not feel it, but because I doubt it would be welcome. If I am wrong, then imagine how fervently I am whispering “dearest, darling, sweetheart” to you as I write this.

  By the time you read this, I shall be well on my way to leaving Ireland. Not of my own choice, but I suspect for the best nonetheless. I am sorry not to see you once more, and most sorry of all not to be bringing you Oliver Dane’s head as my farewell gift.

  For it was always going to be farewell for us, wasn’t it? From the moment I uttered my first lie to you, our fate was sealed. And yet, if I had not lied, I should never have known you—and that, for me, would be worse. I dare not presume to expect the same regrets from you. I am English and an interloper and could never have been more than tolerated in an Irish household. Save that Liadan liked me. And you? I don’t know if I hope that you are happy to see the last of me, or are touched by regret. My pride says the latter, but my better nature the former. My father told me once that to leave pain behind was the worst sort of repayment I could make to a woman. I have paid you in more than pain, and I will feel it to the end of my days.

  Dane and I are both commanded to the queen’s presence in London. For once in my life, I am desperately glad to bear my family’s name. I will make every use I can wring out of it to see Dane executed for his crimes.

  I have loved you, Ailis. Among all my regrets, that will never be one of them. May your life to come have more of joy than pain in it.

  Stephen Courtenay

  Ailis had hardly finished that achingly poignant letter when Maisie entered. “He is gone, then?” she asked. No need to specify who.

  “He is.”

  “And the English queen has traded a castle for Liadan’s life.”

  “It is a better trade than any other dead Irish child has been offered.”

  “I know. I’m sorry, it’s just…” Maisie, usually so self-possessed, circled the council chamber restlessly. “What are you going to do now?” she asked Ailis.

  “Ride in triumph to take possession of Blackcastle. And then, I suppose, offer our services to the Earl of Desmond. With Dane out of Ireland, my vendetta is done. I must move forward, so that Oliver Dane is followed in his retreat by the rest of his countrymen.”

  Ailis looked at Maisie and realized she was no longer wearing full mourning. Her gown was dark gray, but beneath the overskirt her kirtle showed pale blue. With dawning comprehension, Ailis said, “You mean to leave Ireland as well.”

  Maisie stopped pacing. “I stayed for Liadan. You must know that.”

  “I do. I suppose you will take your mercenary company with you?”

  “A matter of business,” Maisie said slowly. “I feel my investment will be more profitable elsewhere.”

  Ailis hadn’t expected different. Uneasy as Scots relations were with England, it would be folly for Maisie to sacrifice a trained company to Irish fighting. But she found that it was not the practical loss that concerned her. It was losing Maisie herself.

  “You will return to Scotland?” Ailis asked.

  “Not just yet. I mean to evade my brother’s plans to marry me off again as long as possible. I still have friends in France. And some business arrangements that would be greatly forwarded by my presence.”

  Ailis shook her head, a smile of respect wrung from her without meaning to. “For all my life, I shall remember not to underestimate anyone who crosses my path. Who would have guessed the formidable mind behind the child face?”

  “Not such a child,” Maisie said. “Not any longer.”

  There passed between them, almost as though Ailis could see it through Maisie’s eyes, the image of Liadan falling beneath Dane’s dagger. Ailis swallowed and turned away. In truth, her admiration and even liking for Maisie had been slightly tainted by the fact that the girl had been with Liadan at the end. Worse, that in the months before, it was Maisie whom Liadan had turned to over and over again.

  “Safe travels,” Ailis said with finality. “I expect I will hear of you from time to time.”

  “It is never too late to be happy,” Maisie replied. “Think about it, Ailis.”

  There was nothing to think about. Ailis had never expected happiness—just successful vengeance. She hadn’t expected it to feel so hollow.

  23 September 1582

  Anabel,

  This may not reach you before we do, but I wanted you to know from my own hand that all is well. That is, I took only minor injuries and so did Stephen—and those we mostly inflicted on each other. He is in something of a temper; it’s quite refreshing, actually, to find myself the reasonable one.

  Love to my sisters, if they are still with you. Your raven is winging his way back as soon as can be.

  Kit

  Kit’s letter found Anabel still convalescing at Syon House, though her health had improved enough for her to appear publicly twice a week. She had made charming farewells to both the Duc d’Anjou and Esmé Stewart, and was grateful for the discretion that prevailed among them all. No one had mentioned any topic so delicate as marriage, and so she was able to enjoy their last hours and thank them for the time they had spent in England.

  No doubt the men had watched her narrowly for any lingering signs of illness, but she had always been able to perform well under pressure. And her mother’s wig makers had provided her with a number of options that looked, if not quite as lovely as her own hair, at least adequate to the task. By spring her hair should be regrown enough to leave off wigs entirely.

  Anabel was rereading
Kit’s letter for a third time when Madalena appeared in her privy chamber to announce that Brandon Dudley had requested an audience.

  “Were we expecting the Earl of Leicester?” Anabel asked. She knew they hadn’t.

  “He says he hesitates to intrude, but has a personal favour to ask. He looks…” Madalena paused, then said, “He looks a tiny bit desperate.”

  Brandon Dudley, desperate? That was a sight worth seeing. Anabel laid aside the letter and said, “Bring him through.”

  She remained in her lovely privy chamber with its abundance of light, even in autumn, and the pale colours that so soothed her restless mind. Though not dressed for public audience, Anabel wore a presentable enough gown in the Spanish style she often chose when less formal. The stiff satin of peacock blue and gold helped disguise the loss of weight she had not yet fully regained.

  Every time she saw Brandon Dudley, she was struck by his distinctively dark good looks. If he truly resembled his late uncle, then no wonder her mother still thought fondly on Robert Dudley. There had been a time Anabel had thought her mother might force a match between the two of them, but since making Brandon the Earl of Leicester, Elizabeth had dropped the idea.

  Anabel knew she should think of him as Lord Leicester, but she had known him too well when they were young. “Brandon!” she said as he made his courtly bow. “It’s a pleasure to see you. What have you been doing all these months since last you were at court?”

  “Seeing to my estates, Your Highness. The queen has been very generous, and I would not take lightly my responsibilities. Though of course, that has kept me away from the two most beautiful women in England.”

  She had always thought Brandon Dudley too charming by half, but today his compliments had a slightly forced air and she could see the same signs Madalena had reported. The tension of his hands, the wariness of his eyes…He did look a little desperate.

  Taking pity on him, she decided to skip the pleasantries. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  Brought to the point, he did not hesitate. “Yes, Your Highness. I would like you to bring Nora Percy into your private household.”

  Of any request he might have made of her, this was the most unexpected. Anabel tipped her head curiously. “Why? Not that Nora is not always welcome, but she has no need of my household. She is a king’s daughter, recognized as such, and although she may not be wealthy, she has enough to set up her own household as she likes.”

  “But it is not as she likes, Your Highness—it is as her mother likes.”

  Anabel leaned back in her seat. “Ah, the formidable Eleanor Percy. But Nora is—what? Twenty-eight years old? Surely she can hold her own against her mother.”

  “That proves how little you know Eleanor,” Brandon said grimly.

  “Why you?” Anabel queried. “If Nora wants aid in achieving her independence, why does she not ask me herself? We are cousins, after all.”

  “Because Nora is the most gentle and unassuming of women, Your Highness. She does not believe herself worthy of any position, and thus will not exploit it. Her friends must do it for her.”

  “Her friends?” Anabel asked shrewdly. “Is that what you are?”

  That dark skin of his could still show colour. “I am honoured to be her friend.”

  So Brandon Dudley was in love with Nora Percy. And apparently her mother did not approve. Sharply, Anabel asked, “This isn’t merely your attempt to spirit Nora away into an impulsive marriage, is it? I would not like to be so used.”

  “Considering my birth, I am hardly likely to make that mistake, am I?”

  For Brandon was the child of a reckless, secret marriage—between Guildford Dudley and Margaret Clifford. Not particularly troublesome, except that Margaret was of Tudor birth and her royal connections meant she could not be married without permission. Brandon’s father had paid for the marriage with his life. His mother had been married off again to a much older man, and then died unhappily some years later.

  Anabel spoke gently. “But you do love her?” When Brandon looked prepared to protest, she added, “I warn you, I will only help if I am convinced I am being told the truth.”

  He stared at the floor for a long minute, and when he raised his head he hardly needed to speak. For all his good looks and surface arrogance, there was something genuine at heart about Brandon Dudley. “I love her, Your Highness. Of course I hope that one day we can marry. But if not, I will still do all I can to ensure her happiness. And she is more likely to have that in your household than with her mother.”

  How could she possibly resist that plea? With her own heart so precariously happy for the moment, of course she wished to ensure that for others. “I shall be glad to have Nora with me. She is a skilled musician, I know. I will gladly make use of her talents if she is willing to share them.”

  Relief brightened Brandon’s eyes. “Thank you, Your Highness. You will not regret it.”

  I might, though, she realized. I’m not sure my mother will approve of me interfering with her royal niece.

  —

  Elizabeth drew a deep breath—not quite of satisfaction—when informed that Stephen Courtenay and Oliver Dane had safely landed on English shores.

  “They came without protest?”

  “Without requiring undue violence, at least. So Ormond reports.” Burghley and Walsingham were both with her—Walsingham making his report first. The court had temporarily moved to Richmond, but were planning a quick return to London. For now, Elizabeth enjoyed the crisp autumn air as she walked with her two favourites in her privy garden full of the roses Minuette had always been so fond of. There were still a few blooms among the hardier varieties.

  “My dear Black Tom,” Elizabeth said fondly. “At least, out of all this mess, it will give me pleasure to see him again.” She looked at Burghley. “Dominic and Minuette have arrived?”

  “In London, yes. They have leased a house in the Strand.”

  “They refuse our gracious hospitality?”

  Burghley knew how discontented she was and phrased his reply with care. “I think they do not wish to be a burden at a politically sensitive time.”

  “You mean they are angry with me and decline to be reconciled as long as their precious son is at odds with my throne.” Even as she snapped, Elizabeth knew she was being unfair. It was such an uncomfortable feeling that it demanded to be swamped by her temper.

  “Your Majesty,” Burghley said, using a tried and true technique of switching to another topic. “We should prepare to make an official announcement about Princess Anne’s marital future.”

  “The council are prepared to endorse the Scottish marriage?”

  “They are prepared to endorse a formal betrothal. The time is ripe to announce England’s intentions for the future…with the awareness that the future is fluid. Still, a betrothal at this stage will with near certainty lead to marriage. I do not think King James will be dissuaded once your daughter’s hand is promised.”

  “Anne knows what she must do,” Elizabeth said firmly. “But you have not spoken of the French marriage.”

  Burghley’s breath hitched and he shot a quick glance at Walsingham. Elizabeth ignored them both and sailed on. “When we bring the matter of Anne’s marriage before the public, we will also bring forward that of myself and the Duc d’Anjou.”

  There was a ringing silence, and Elizabeth narrowed her eyes at her two most trusted councilors. When neither showed signs of breaking the silence, she said with an elaborate show of patience, “You have comments?”

  She was fixed on Walsingham, for she knew where her true opposition lay. He looked uncomfortable, but his strict Protestant conscience would not let that stop him from speaking. Better, she thought, to let him air his discontent in private and get it out of his system.

  “Perhaps we should not have this discussion in the open air,” Walsingham said.

  Which only reinforced that he intended to be unpleasant. Elizabeth narrowed her eyes, but led the way to th
e door that opened on her privy chamber. There were three women within—Elizabeth dismissed them and took a seat.

  Only then did she speak again. “Well?” she asked with elaborate patience.

  It seemed Walsingham was more than discontented; he was furiously, adamantly, opposed. “You cannot do this, Your Majesty,” he said flatly.

  “Cannot do what? Direct my own privy council? Obtain their approval as their monarch?”

  “You cannot marry France. The council will never allow it.”

  “Am I queen or am I not?”

  “You are a queen subject to the advisement and guidance of your council! Unless you mean to turn tyrant like your father or brother—”

  “How dare you!” Elizabeth rose in a swirl of skirts, temper pounding behind her eyes. “I will not bear insolence from any man, whomever he may be. Mind your tongue or I’ll mind it for you!”

  Burghley made an attempt to moderate. “He means only that the council is concerned about the tenor of the public. There is uneasiness about Your Majesty’s autonomy. Being so recently separated from Spain, why rush to replace it with a French loyalty?”

  “French loyalty? Is that what my people think—that when I was Philip’s wife, I was also Philip’s slave? Have I not proved myself firm in my loyalties to my people above all else, including my own happiness?”

  “Your Majesty—”

  “Enough, Burghley! I will not be spoken to like a child who must needs be coddled for temperament’s sake! How much have I sacrificed for England’s good? How much must I still sacrifice? Am I to be denied the most common of comforts, to have a companion who pleases me?”

  “Yes!” Walsingham shouted. “You were not born a common woman, Elizabeth, and if you wanted anything approaching common comforts, you should have taken care to ensure your brother survived his last battle!”

  The words rang through the chamber and into Elizabeth’s head like weapons. Burghley hissed, but otherwise it was just the two of them staring at each other: the queen and her intelligencer.