The Virgin's War (16 page)

Kit could move swift and silent when he chose. That night he opted only for swift. Heads snapped round at his march, and men took a step back when they saw Kit with his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

The ringleader—fortunately a Carlisle man, as Kit didn't suppose Maxwell would appreciate an Englishman meddling with his household—held his ground, either because he was brave or because he was too drunk to notice the danger. He even hurled another insult. “And here's her lapdog to yip at my feet.”

“Shut your mouth and walk away,” Kit warned.

“For you? I don't think so.” The man slurred the words and his steps forward were unsteady. But his expression was alight with malice. “You're no more than a jumped-up younger son of a traitor. Like your father, your only real talent lies in seducing the right women. Why else would yon silly princess send a boy to do a man's job?”

“That is treason,” Kit said softly.

“I'm not afraid of you, any more than I'm afraid of your Tudor whore.”

It wasn't his sword Kit drew. Swift as a snake, his left hand snatched the dagger at his back. In almost the same movement, he flipped it round and struck the drunken man with its hilt full across his face. And in case that wasn't enough, he struck again until the man went down.

And when they reached Carlisle, he went to Lord Scrope and demanded the man be thrown in a cell until he'd learned to keep his mouth shut.

He hadn't meant to tell Anabel, but gossip flew faster than even men could ride. The moment they were alone, she said tartly, “Been fighting, have you? I hear you broke a man's jaw in Dumfries.”

“Did you hear why?”

She shrugged. “More or less. I appreciate your instincts, but I am meant to be binding the North to me, not alienating them.”

“In that case, it might be best if I retire from the North. I'm doing your reputation no favours.”

“Those who oppose me will always find a reason to justify their opinion.”

“That doesn't mean we need to hand them reasons.”

“I'm not sending you away,” she said flatly. “At this point, it would only lend credence to such malicious talk. I won't have it said that I fear idle words. Perhaps you could bring yourself to flirt with my women?”

“You want me to flirt with my sister?” Kit asked with elaborate patience.

“You know what I mean.”

If she would not acknowledge uncomfortable facts, he would have to force her into it. “I also know that this situation is not sustainable,” Kit said. “What do you intend to do when you are married, Your Highness? Make me your lapdog in truth? I do not think your Scottish husband will allow that.”

“Are you jealous?”

“Damn right I'm jealous!” He struggled to get himself under control. “But that doesn't matter. What matters is your reputation and your ability to rule. I am compromising that. It must end.”

“What must end? Speaking to me? Serving at my command? What are we doing that is so unforgivable? Although…” Her eyes turned soft. She stepped within his reach and tipped her chin up consideringly. “If I'm going to be judged and convicted, Kit, shouldn't I at least have the pleasure of the sin beforehand?”

She kissed him before he could move, and then he didn't want to. For a few blessed moments his body concurred with her assessment and he very much wanted the pleasure. But that cursed sense of responsibility that his family had inculcated in him without his ever being aware did not completely desert him. “Anabel,” he murmured against her cheek. “You know better.”

She breathed out a mild oath and, slowly, released her hold on him. “I will make you a bargain,” she finally offered. “I will refrain from dragging you into openly compromising positions if you will remain in my councils. Not for my sake alone. I truly believe your voice is valuable.”

He was helpless to refuse her. “Then you shall have it. As long as you require.”

Fortunately for Anabel, she excelled at putting aside personal issues and dealing with the public necessities of her position. She thought very few would be able to read any of the ruffled emotions behind the serene face with which she swept into her council chamber at Middleham. The men were on their feet, bowing, as she settled herself at the top of the circling chairs and waved them back into their seats. For conferences such as this, Anabel tended to keep to neutral palettes and severe lines in her dress; today's gown of dove grey velvet had close-fitting sleeves and a high-cut square neckline edged with an inch of silver bullion.
I have a serious mind,
such a gown declared,
and am not to be put off with flattering words.

“Sir Christopher,” she said to her chief minister and secretary, seated to her right. “We have had word from the queen's court at Nonsuch?”

It was a rhetorical question, for it had all been discussed beforehand in smaller, less formal groups. But this was for posterity, with clerks taking careful notes of all that was said.

Christopher Hatton answered in his normal, equable fashion. “The treaty was signed with the Netherlands on the tenth of August. The queen has agreed to provide more than seven thousand troops and to bear almost a quarter of the annual cost of the war. Philip Sidney has been appointed governor of Flushing and Sir William Pelham will command the English troops.”

“In return?” Anabel asked drily. “For I well know the queen gives nothing without ample return.”

“In return, the towns of Brill and Flushing will be ceded to English control, to be garrisoned at our own cost. Also, two seats on the Council of State and the title of Governor General of the Netherlands. That last,” Hatton added drily, “the queen has declined.”

Nicely judged, Anabel thought in admiration. No one negotiated better than her mother, or knew to the precise detail what could be safely bartered. But her public position of defiance allowed no more than a raised eyebrow and a cool, “Interesting. That could argue the queen does not trust any of her men to hold such a position.”

Only Tomás Navarro looked pleased with that assessment. The Jesuit was allowed to attend her privy council meetings, without being allowed a formal position. A way of controlling the information that flowed to King Philip.

“England must recognize,” Navarro said in his precise and accented English, “the futility of opposition in the Netherlands. The queen would do well to leave the rebels to His Majesty, who knows so much better what his people need.”

In her opinion, the Flemish could hardly be reasonably called the people of a Spanish king, no matter that King Philip's grandfather had been archduke of that territory. But Anabel merely smiled noncommittally and asked Robert Cecil, “And Ireland?”

“Stephen Courtenay has embarked from Dumbarton with the St. Adrian's company of mercenaries. Their task is to strengthen English forces in Dublin and, if possible, push back against the rebels and expand the size of the Pale.”

“At least I trust Stephen to do his work efficiently and without undue severity. He has no interest in religion or politics—only in doing his job well.”

“A man with no interest in religion is a man scarcely to be trusted,” Navarro stated.

Anabel turned on him the false smile and steely gaze learned at her mother's knee. “This council is not called upon to trust him. Dublin is the queen's concern.”

“And your concern?” Give Navarro credit—he had no fear of plain speaking.

“The security and unity of the North.” Anabel paused for effect, for not everyone on her council had heard the news that followed next. “Which is why I will be meeting with Her Majesty at Kenilworth in November. To impress upon her the value of the work we have been doing here. And to remind her that no part of her kingdom can be safely ignored.”

It was for far more than that, of course. Those few who knew the entirety of the ambitious plan hatched almost three years ago knew that this was a precious opportunity for mother and daughter to consult in privacy and adjust their plans as necessary. News passed through ciphers and at second- or thirdhand could not replace two quick minds working in concert.

There was a murmur from her council, not distinct enough for words or loud enough for excitement, but Anabel was reasonably pleased. “In the next weeks before we leave Middleham, I expect every detail of our work in the North to be documented in perfect order. Matthew,” she nodded at her treasurer, “and Lady Philippa will be making the rounds of the great houses and towns to remind everyone of our commitments—and theirs. And to note any concerns we should bring before Her Majesty.”

“Will the members of this council be invited to Kenilworth Castle?” Philip Howard wanted to know. It was only the second time the Earl of Arundel had come north since accepting a place on Anabel's council. And she still found it difficult to read him.

“But of course.”

“All of your council members?”

“Do say, Lord Arundel, if you are not happy with the idea.”

He could almost match her for sardonic smiles—then again, he was a Howard. “I can conceive of no greater pleasure.”

I'll bet, she thought grimly. Arundel was going to take a great deal of pleasure in facing down her mother. And almost as much pleasure in setting queen and princess against one another.

It was only when the council had dispersed that Anabel was cornered by Pippa. “Will you bring Kit south with you?”

“You have heard what happened at Dumfries,” Anabel replied with resignation.

“I imagine there are peasants in Germany who have by now heard what happened at Dumfries.”

“You're going to tell me not to bring him south.”

Pippa hesitated. “No. I know better than to try and give you orders.”

“I may not take orders from you, my friend, but I will take advice.” Anabel looked wistfully at her. “Pippa, can you not tell me…”

“What?”

“Do I marry James next summer?”

“I don't know, Anabel. There are limits to my knowledge. I cannot see beyond—”

She broke off so suddenly it startled Anabel. “Beyond what?”

Pippa's expression closed off, something rare in her friend. “I can tell you the same thing I told you several years ago—you will marry of your own choice. That is all I know.”

“ ‘All' you know?” Anabel didn't believe that for a moment. But no one ever succeeded in forcing Pippa to share things she didn't want to. So Anabel shrugged and said, “Back to the original issue. Will it be politically devastating to have Kit come south with us in November?”

“It may feed gossip, but so would leaving him behind. People will find the stories they wish to tell. It may not be wise, but it will not break any of your plans.”

The princess smiled. “Then I am willing to be unwise.”

T
he only saving grace of being back in Ireland was that Stephen was kept so busy he hardly had the time or energy to fret about it. Partly it was his own doing—he drove his men harder than ever, throwing the company into sorties designed to push back the ever-encroaching rebels. There were Spanish soldiers aplenty around Dublin, in numbers that argued they might be thin on the ground elsewhere in Ireland.

It was a fact confirmed by Thomas Butler when the Earl of Ormond took to the sea to slip into Dublin by water. The earl stayed at Dublin Castle, where Stephen was also officially quartered with the Lord Deputy. Unofficially, he spent most of his time with his officers and men quartered outside the city, as he disliked the official attention being paid him merely because of his family name.

But Ormond was worth coming to the castle for. If for no other reason than that Stephen owed the man both thanks and apology for the last time they had seen one another. When Stephen had used the earl's dagger to kill a man in Queen Elizabeth's own palace.

Ormond waved the apology away. “You were young and passionate. Those are things we well understand in Ireland. I must say, though, I did not expect to ever see you here again.”

“You and me both.”

“You've come with good men, at least. The Lord Deputy is grateful.”

Stephen merely grunted. Sir John Perrot was an entertaining man, but what little time Stephen had that was not spent in the field or training, he preferred to spend with Maisie. Perrot was not his first choice for company.

Ormond laughed and said, “If Dublin is not to your liking, how about returning to Leinster with me? It's where the rest of the Spanish are concentrated—trying to push me into the sea.”

“My orders are Dublin and the Pale,” Stephen said woodenly.

“And you have always shown yourself so quick to follow orders.” It was said without malice. “Well, I can't say I'm surprised. And as long as you're pushing back the Pale up here, you're keeping troops from being used against me. If we hold them this winter, I doubt they'll have the stomach for another push. Especially not with my dear cousin, the queen, practically daring King Philip to come against England itself.”

Maisie invited the earl to dinner before he left Dublin, and Stephen was relieved to have Tom Butler's attention turned on someone other than himself. She had taken a house and kept up a constant flow of business matters with the aid of her Flemish secretary, Pieter Andries. Though Stephen had been initially surprised at her insistence on coming to Ireland with him, he was grateful. It helped to have a touchstone whenever a scent or a storm or an accent pulled at his memories.

At dinner, Maisie controlled the conversation effortlessly, telling stories of her travels and making Ormond laugh. Then he managed to edge in a reminiscence of his own.

“Such a slip of girl you were, the first time I saw you. I thought a mistake had been made, and a child had been sent to wed old Finian Kavanaugh.”

The name made Stephen flinch, and even Maisie seemed momentarily shocked. She managed to redirect the earl—who appeared to know exactly what she was doing but humoured her—and the rest of the evening passed without further awkwardness.

Stephen was just letting out a sigh of relief after Ormond's departure when Maisie said abruptly to him, “We should talk about it.”

“About what?” Though he knew perfectly well. He had learned to understand the way her mind worked, to a degree. And he had been expecting this ever since Queen Elizabeth had made her uncomfortable demand.

Maisie seated herself with the kind of elegant flourish familiar to Stephen from a lifetime of highborn women. But her face was fierce and focused. “Have you made inquiries about Ailis since we arrived?”

It was the first time her name had been spoken between them in three years. The air shivered, and when Stephen blinked, he had the sudden sense of seeing everything more clearly.

“No. Have you?”

“Yes.”

The breath caught in his throat. “And I suppose you want to tell me?”

She merely regarded him, the candlelight sliding across the angles of her face, her grey eyes alternately bright and shadowed.

Stephen sat down abruptly and dropped his head into his hands. “Tell me.”

“Diarmid mac Briain changed his name to Kavanaugh when he married Ailis three years ago. For the sake of the clan.” That, of course, Stephen had already known. Maisie herself had delivered the news when visiting him in the Tower of London after his arrest. Even then it had been no surprise. From the first week in Ailis's household, Stephen had known that the captain of the guard was in love with her. No, Diarmid would have had no qualms in changing his name if it brought him Ailis.

Maisie continued with more recent news. “The Kavanaughs continue to operate against those English left in Munster, primarily from Blackcastle. Ailis is the recognized strategist. The Earl of Desmond has trusted them in large part to hold the west while he and his men push against the coasts and the Pale.”

He knew Maisie so well that he caught the slight undercurrent of reluctance in her recital. “What else?”

She did not look at him as she answered. “Diarmid and Ailis have children. A two-year-old son and one-year-old daughter.”

Behind Stephen's closed eyes images swam. Ailis leaning in to kiss him, black hair against her bare shoulders. Diarmid backhanding the English spy across the face in disgust. Ailis's daughter, Liadan—inquisitive and generous and clever and brave and young. So very, very young.

And dead.

He felt hands against his, gently tugging, and he allowed Maisie to pull them away from his face. She knelt at his feet, her usually neutral expression wiped away by a distress equal to his.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered. “I'm sorry you came back here. I'm sorry I didn't do more to stop it. I'm sorry you have to be reminded of what you've lost. Stephen, I'm so dreadfully sorry.”

He said nothing; her rare vulnerability had touched another chord in him. A memory of an awful night. They had ridden miles, the two of them, carrying Liadan's little, broken body back to her mother. Stephen had found Maisie later that evening, weeping alone on the floor for a girl she had loved like her own. Her hair had been loose, a flood of silver-gilt fairness that lit up the darkness as surely as her irrepressibly brilliant mind.

And just like that, as Stephen recalled that night of sorrows, something deep within his soul clicked and tumbled loose.

For three years he had been celibate in mind as well as body. Ailis had broken his heart as thoroughly as he had ruined her life. After Ailis, Stephen would not take thoughtless comfort any longer, and a banished and disinherited nobleman was hardly a good catch on the marriage market. If he'd cared to contemplate marriage.

Maisie had been the perfect harbor. A relationship entirely intellectual that revived his interest in the world without encroaching on any of the painful memories of physical desire. For three years she had not been entirely real.

But in this moment there was nothing more real in the world than this girl—woman—so near to him that he could see the beat of blood beneath the fragile skin of her throat. Stephen had a nearly overwhelming urge to press his lips to that spot.

He sat back so hastily that Maisie almost fell over. He caught her and, apologizing, raised them both to standing. In that position he had to look quite a ways down to see her face. Her hands were still in his.

She looked wary. “If you would like to write to Ailis, I could find a way to get a letter to her.”

Ailis had momentarily fled his mind. “That would be disastrous,” he said, with less melancholy than he'd felt a moment before. “The best I can offer Ailis is to stay well away from her. We both understood that when we parted.”

She withdrew her hands and he let his own drop, feeling foolish and oddly lonely.

“Mariota.” It was the name he almost always called her, ever since he'd had to use it to break through her despair and save her life. She'd told him then that no one except her grandfather had ever called her Mariota.

Stephen didn't feel much like her grandfather tonight.

He cleared his throat and tried again, aware that he should retreat and clear his head, not frighten the poor, unsuspecting woman with incoherent babbling. “You do not have to worry about me. In this, the queen was quite right—though I probably won't tell her so. I needed to return to Ireland. I think you did, too. And I think we will both be the better for it once we are allowed to leave here and return to our lives.”

Her expression had settled into wry forbearance. “As to that, I have had word from London that our company may depart Dublin on or after November fifteenth. At least, that is when we will cease to be paid, and I have no interest in remaining here voluntarily. Have you?”

He shook his head. He had no interest in being anywhere that Maisie wasn't. But how could he possibly tell her that? She considered him a friend, a trusted employee, almost a brother. He would simply have to learn to swallow down this sudden impulse to throw himself at her feet and declare his love.

24 October 1585

Julien,

The princess heads south soon in advance of her meeting with the queen. She does not require me for counsel at Kenilworth—not while she has Kit, Pippa, and Matthew—so I may as well come home.

Lucette

P.S. That sounds dreadfully cold and awkward, doesn't it? I'm sorry. I do want to see you. I want to see you so badly I have a hard time thinking straight. It's a little irritating, actually. When have people ever had to repeat themselves to me? When have I not been the quickest mind in the conversation? Never, that's when. But now I do spend all day distracted and all night restless. I have lost the trick of sleeping alone.

Am I still your Lucie mine?

29 October 1585

If you have to ask, then I have failed you. Lucie mine—my heart, my love, my light—wherever you are is home. I will count the hours until we are together again.

Julien

Lucette refused her siblings' offers to ride with her to Compton Wynyates. But she could not refuse Anabel's insistence on a detachment of guards to accompany her, so it was with three dozen armed men that Lucette returned to the home of her married life. There was perhaps no prettier aspect in England than the one revealed as she crested the hill and looked down at her home. Red brick, tall chimneys, dormer windows, and decorative castellations—she had not realized how attached she had grown to this spot until now.

An outrider had gone ahead to warn the house, so it was not a surprise to find people waiting as she rode through the arched entry into the courtyard. She would always notice her husband first—most people would, for he was taller than almost anyone she'd ever met and he was far too attractive for his own good. He was already moving when she saw him, and by the time she reined in her horse, Julien stood ready at her side.

“Welcome home, Lucie mine,” he said softly enough that only she could hear. She reached for his waiting hands, and he not so much lifted her down as pulled her into his arms.

The reprieve lasted only a moment, for there were others watching. Most noticeably Felix. Who wasn't watching so much as glowering. Though the boy did not much resemble his uncle, the forbidding expression he turned on her now was one with which Lucette had grown familiar during the months she fell in love with Julien.

She didn't think Felix's glowering betokened the same end.

Julien dropped his hands and allowed Lucette to walk ahead of him to the boy, who now topped her by more than an inch. “Felix, how is it possible that you have grown again in so short a space?” she asked.

His face was blankly polite. “Madame.”

At her side, Julien asked sharply, “Is that how you speak to your aunt?”