The Virgin's Spy Read online

  The Virgin’s Spy is a work of historical fiction. Apart from the well-known actual people, events, and locales that figure in the narrative, all names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to current events or locales, or to living persons, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 by Laura Andersen

  Reading group guide copyright © 2015 by Penguin Random House LLC

  Excerpt from The Virgin’s War by Laura Andersen copyright © 2015 by Laura Andersen

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  BALLANTINE and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  RANDOM HOUSE READER’S CIRCLE & Design is a registered trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book The Virgin’s War by Laura Andersen. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Andersen, Laura.

  The virgin’s spy : a Tudor legacy novel / Laura Andersen.

  pages ; cm

  ISBN 978-0-8041-7938-6 (hardcover : alk. paper)—ISBN 978-0-8041-7939-3 (eBook)

  1. Elizabeth I, Queen of England, 1533–1603—Fiction. 2. Queens—Great Britain—Fiction. 3. Inheritance and succession—Fiction. 4. Great Britain—Kings and rulers—Succession—Fiction. 5. Great Britain—History—Tudors, 1485–1603—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3601.N437V58 2015

  813'.6—dc23

  2015022848

  eBook ISBN 9780804179393

  randomhousebooks.com

  randomhousereaderscircle.com

  Book design by Caroline Cunningham, adapted for eBook

  Cover design: Susan Zucker

  Cover photo: ©Jeff Cottenden

  v4.1

  ep

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prelude

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Interlude

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  By Laura Andersen

  About the Author

  Reading Group Guide

  Questions and Topics for Discussion

  Excerpt from The Virgin’s War

  “How in the name of heaven above did FitzMaurice take Kilmallock with only one hundred and twenty men?”

  Elizabeth, Queen of England and Ireland (that last clearly in some doubt in the minds of her Irish subjects), whirled furiously on Walsingham and Burghley, the only two men in England whom she would allow to see the touch of fear in her fury.

  Lord Burghley might be her Secretary of State and principal advisor, but he was also a man who had known her since she was a girl. In all those years, he had learned when to speak gently. “The rebels were aided from within the town itself. Humphrey Gilbert did not endear himself to those he lived among. I’m afraid his policy of instilling fear into the populace was useful only so long as he was in residence. Since he returned to England last month?” Burghley shrugged. “The Irish were only too willing to turn on the English garrison.”

  “Now what?” the queen demanded. Oh, but she was tired of Ireland. The land sucked up men and arms and money and spat back nothing but rebellion and ingratitude. “FitzMaurice will not keep still long enough for us to catch him.”

  Indeed, the rebel leader of what was rapidly becoming known as the Desmond War had so begrudged losing the critical town of Kilmallock to the English once already that this time he had not stayed longer than three days, stripping the town of all valuables before burning it to the ground. Now he was back in the forests of Aherlow, unreachable and infuriating.

  Burghley, as was his nature, pleaded caution. “Your Majesty, we must consider negotiation. James FitzMaurice is not without reason. As long as he keeps to the forests and mountains, his small forces can strike and move on before our troops can come to grips with them. It is a losing proposition for England.”

  “Not with enough men and money,” Walsingham disagreed. His official position was somewhat fluid, being most often called upon to act as Elizabeth’s chief intelligencer. “Your Majesty must accept that the Irish rebellion is not crushed, but in fact growing. Ireland must be brought to heel before the Spanish seize the chance to exploit the rebels for their own ends.”

  Elizabeth had long mastered the art of the quizzical eyebrow. “You believe King Philip would actively oppose the forces of his own wife?” she asked acidly.

  “I believe that Spain is exceedingly interested in supplanting religious reformation in your kingdom by any means necessary. Ireland is easily manipulated. King Philip may not involve himself personally, but no doubt any number of Spanish nobles and Church officers scent Protestant blood. They will eagerly aid in shedding more of it.”

  Walsingham had never approved of Elizabeth’s pragmatic marriage to the King of Spain nearly ten years ago. Burghley, however, both understood and continued to approve. “Her Majesty will of course write to King Philip in sharp protest. But threat of Catholic support from Spain only underscores the need for negotiations.”

  “Enough!” Elizabeth let the two men settle into silence before pronouncing the last word. For now. “Send for Sir John Perrot. Pull him away from his Pembrokeshire estates and tell him the queen has need of him.”

  “Perrot?” Walsingham said skeptically. “He is too old for active campaigning.”

  “And too fat,” Elizabeth added. “But neither will stop him. And unlike Humphrey Gilbert, he will not scorch Ireland to the ground simply on principle. At least with Perrot I will have both loyalty and an honest assessment of the situation.”

  She looked at each man pointedly. “Does that answer, gentlemen?”

  What could they say? The kingdom was hers. Walsingham could not bring himself to gladly agree, but he bowed grudgingly as Burghley said, “It will be done, Your Majesty. Kilmallock’s destruction is a loss, but one we can afford. We will not lose you Ireland.”

  —

  James FitzMaurice, Captain of Desmond, groaned inwardly when told one of the Kavanaughs demanded to see him. Tired, filthy, living on the run for months now, FitzMaurice would have sent the man away if he could. But a captain could only command while men obeyed, and governing people’s petty squabbles and complaints was a necessary component of his command.

  “Five minutes,” he told his guard. “That’s all the time he has.”

  No one had mentioned the girl.

  She came in at Finian Kavanaugh’s side, cloaked and hooded and head bowed so nothing of her could be seen except a lock of black hair fallen free from beneath her gray hood.

  Finian, a broad and bristle-bearded man nearing fifty, had a voice that sounded suspicious no matter the topic. “What’s to be done about the lass, that’s what I want to know,” he launc
hed in at once, as though FitzMaurice knew what he was talking about.

  “Why should anything be done?” FitzMaurice asked. “I don’t even know who she is.”

  The girl kept her head down, as though she weren’t the topic of this strange discussion.

  “In Kilmallock, she was,” Finian announced, “my niece. My brother wasn’t quick enough to send her away when the English came. He died in the attack, but she survived. Been there all these months of the English garrison. My men found her just before you put the town to flames.”

  “I am sorry for your troubles,” FitzMaurice said gently to the silent figure.

  The girl raised her head, and two things struck him: first, that she was very young, and second, that she viewed him with cool disinterest. Whoever expected recompense for any harm done her, it was not this girl herself.

  “What is your name, child?”

  “Ailis.” Her voice was soft but distinct.

  “How old are you, Ailis?”

  “Fourteen.”

  She and FitzMaurice studied each other in equal measure, until he blinked first. Then, to Finian, he said gruffly, “Surely any help the girl requires can be handled within your family and clan?”

  “Help, aye. But vengeance—that will take more than just the men of our clan.”

  “Vengeance for what?”

  When Finian reached for her cloak, Ailis made a single convulsive gesture of protest, but she stood still enough as her uncle swept off the enveloping garment and revealed her pregnancy for all Irish eyes to see and understand.

  FitzMaurice narrowed his eyes. “Who?” he demanded of her. “Gilbert himself?”

  Finian answered for her. “One of the English dogs under his command. She won’t say.”

  “Why not?” FitzMaurice demanded. “You know who I am, girl. The Captain of Desmond. I would see your shame avenged.”

  With those clear, uncompromising eyes, Ailis answered, “Vengeance belongs to me.”

  With a shake of his head, but a grudging respect, FitzMaurice conceded. “If my men had half your focus, Ailis Kavanaugh, we should put the English to rout in a month’s time. Go then, and seek your vengeance. If you find you would like my aid at any time, you have only to ask.”

  When she smiled, cold as it was, FitzMaurice could see the great beauty that she would one day become. “I can destroy one Englishman without any man’s aid,” she promised.

  FitzMaurice believed her.

  Elizabeth loved weddings. At least those weddings in which she could appear the benign good fairy, generously bestowing her favour upon a couple and, as always, claiming the spotlight for herself. Most families fortunate enough to draw the queen’s attention to such an occasion fell over themselves to get out of her way and let her run things in the manner she wanted them.

  Not the Courtenay family.

  At this wedding, Elizabeth was little more than a guest. For one thing, she had wanted the wedding to take place in London. As the bride was both the eldest daughter of the Duke of Exeter and Elizabeth’s own goddaughter, the queen had graciously offered any number of royal chapels for the ceremony, from private ones such as Hampton Court to more public parishes like St. Margaret’s at Westminster.

  But Lucette Courtenay had her mother’s stubbornness when her own wishes were at stake, and so Elizabeth herself had to travel northwest to participate in the wedding of the English lady and her French Catholic spy.

  Elizabeth did not stay at Wynfield Mote with the Courtenay family, but in Warwick Castle ten miles northeast. After the castle’s forfeit to the crown upon the Duke of Northumberland’s death, Elizabeth had bestowed it upon one of the duke’s surviving sons, Ambrose Dudley. In gratitude for the queen’s generosity, Ambrose gave her the run of the castle whenever she wished. A queen had no release from ruling, so Elizabeth filled hours of each day with letters and papers and in meeting with the men who rode back and forth between the monarch and Walsingham in London. Though her Lord Secretary (and chief spymaster) had once used both the bride and groom in his intelligence web, Walsingham had not been invited to the wedding.

  The ceremony itself went off beautifully. Conducted at Holy Trinity Church in Stratford-upon-Avon—and in the language of the Prayer Book issued by Elizabeth’s government in the first year of her reign—Lucette Courtenay and Julien LeClerc pledged themselves to love and honour, to worship with their bodies, and remain loyal to their deaths. Elizabeth herself had not been married to quite those words. Indeed, the working out of her marriage more than twenty years ago to Philip of Spain had required nearly a month of exhaustive debates on how precisely to balance their vows as Catholic and Protestant. But as Julien LeClerc had willingly adopted the Protestant faith for his bride, there was no trouble about words today.

  They at least allowed the queen to host a banquet for them afterward at Warwick Castle. Elizabeth had rather hoped that Lucette would wear the Tudor rose necklace she had once given her, but the dark-haired bride was adorned instead with another necklace familiar to the queen: pearls and sapphires, with a single filigree star pendant.

  When the bride’s mother joined her, Elizabeth said acerbically, “Don’t tell me you have handed over your prized possession, Minuette. Whatever does Dominic say?”

  Though nearly forty-five, Minuette Courtenay was recognizably still the young woman who had once captured the King of England’s heart. If there were strands of gray in her honey-gold hair, they did not show, and her gown of leaf-green damask fit as neatly as when she was young. There were times, looking at her friend, when Elizabeth could almost believe the last twenty-five years a dream.

  Minuette returned her to the subject of the necklace. “It is only lent for now,” she replied with equal tartness. “And Dominic would say that we ourselves are our prized possessions, not any material goods.”

  “Do you never tire of your husband’s practical perfection?” Not that there wasn’t a grain of envy in Elizabeth’s soul at her friend’s long-lived and loving marriage.

  Minuette turned the conversation with the ease of a woman who had known her queen since childhood—indeed, still knew her rather better than made Elizabeth comfortable. “Anabel tells us you intend to invest her formally as Princess of Wales. She is very proud—and, to your credit, taking the responsibility seriously. Dominic says her spoken Welsh has become quite good.”

  Instinctively, Elizabeth darted a look to where her only child sat in merry companionship with Minuette’s twins. Kit and Pippa Courtenay were on either side of the princess, their matching honey-gold heads (like their mother’s) bent inward as the three of them talked in no doubt scurrilous terms about the guests. The tableau tugged painfully at long-ago memories. “The Holy Quartet,” Robert Dudley had called them: Dominic, Minuette, Elizabeth…and her brother, William. She could only hope there was less pain in these young ones’ futures.

  “The investiture,” Elizabeth acknowledged. “Of course it is only a formality. A ritual I never had. But it will be useful just now to remind the Welsh of our power. That is why I have chosen Ludlow Castle for the investiture, rather than simply doing it before Parliament. Anabel will make a charming figure to the Welsh.”

  “She says the council has invited a representative from the Duc d’Anjou to attend the investiture.”

  “As well as an envoy from Scotland. France is prepared to give us a large measure of what we want now that Mary Stuart has wed Philip. I will see what I can get from them, but it is Scotland that is most desperate for an alliance.”

  “What is Anabel’s preference?”

  Elizabeth huffed in exasperation. “You know better than that, Minuette. With my divorce from Philip and his recent marriage to Mary Stuart, all Europe is on edge. Mary wants Scotland back, make no mistake, and if she can persuade my former husband to give her Spanish troops, then our island is in serious danger. If Anabel were at all prone to romance—and I’m not certain that she is—she would have to give over for hard, cold reality. England and Scotland must
stand together or we will fall separately to the Catholics.”

  Minuette held her silence almost to the point of discomfort, but finally said, “I wasn’t criticizing, Elizabeth. Not intentionally. It is only that you were my friend before you were my queen, and at times I wish you unencumbered by the burdens of ruling. You and Anabel both.”

  It was my choice to rule, Elizabeth thought, but would never say. I just didn’t have a clear idea of what it would mean, the years of weariness and care and doubt. And always, the waiting for the next crisis.

  She didn’t have long to wait. Before the wedding party had quite broken up, a courier arrived from London with a curt message written in Walsingham’s hand, the message Elizabeth had been fearing since the Scots queen had escaped her English imprisonment last year and then married the King of Spain.

  Mary Stuart is four months gone with child.

  —

  The morning after his sister’s wedding, Stephen Courtenay woke late and for nearly the first time in his life was reluctant to leave his bed. (His empty bed, at least, and at home it was always empty.) But with Lucie’s wedding out of the way, he couldn’t put off what came next. The queen had offered him a command, and would not long await an answer.

  Command was one thing—he had been raised to expect it. Command in Ireland was something else entirely. And convincing his parents to accept it when he himself was ambivalent? No wonder he’d rather stay in bed.

  But he was twenty-one years old and could hardly hide from trouble. So he flung himself out of bed and dressed in record time in the belief that he might as well get unpleasant things done quickly. If he were Kit, he would dawdle his way through, putting it off as long as he could, but irresponsibility was not a trait an eldest son and heir could afford. That was the province of younger brothers.