The Virgin's Spy Page 7

  Unless…what if he simply let them all go? They were far from Carrigafoyle, but no doubt they could slip away into the stones and hills of Ireland and make their way wherever they could. Some provisions from his stock—his men would do as ordered. And it would ease his conscience about tonight’s lapse.

  He slipped on a shirt and simple breeches and knelt down to touch Roisin on the shoulder. Even as he opened his mouth to wake her gently, there was an eruption of screams and hooves and the clash of arms.

  Stephen jerked up, a swift moment of shock giving way to well-honed instinct. “Stay here,” he commanded Roisin, who had sat up, eyes wide, and then he grabbed both sword and dagger on his way out of the tent.

  The camp was engulfed with men on horseback, clothed in dark, rough fabric such as could be seen all over Ireland. They wore half masks to conceal their eyes, and the rain did the rest to cloak them effectively. Stephen’s own men were as swift as he was, on their feet and armed, but they bore all the disadvantage of being surprised and on the ground against horses.

  Harrington stood tall above the rest, but they were being forced away from the tents that held the prisoners. Was that the attackers’ purpose—to free the women and boys? More power to them. If Stephen could have identified a leader, he would have told him to take them and go.

  But whoever they were, they meant to shed blood. He saw two of his men fall and then a horseman was bearing down on him. He sidestepped at the last second, only to realize the man hadn’t been riding for him. Roisin had come out of the tent behind him, dressed in only her shift, her hair darkened with rain. She put up her hands, in protest or surrender, but it didn’t matter. The horseman ran her through with a sword, barely slowing to tug the weapon free.

  Without awareness of having moved, Stephen was next to her where she’d fallen. The sword had been driven clean enough through her heart, and there was a bewildered expression on her face. Swearing, propelled by rage, Stephen launched himself into the fight.

  The English stood no chance. The attackers had one very clear goal—to keep any aid from reaching the prisoners. It was like no fight Stephen had ever been in—messy, dirty, chaotic—with his men herded in one direction and prisoners in the other.

  They fell one after another, the twelve remaining women and two boys, helpless before their killers. Stephen tried to get to them, but he was herded back and away without ever being allowed to come to grips with the enemy.

  When the prisoners were all dead, the ring of horsemen broke away and began to retreat. Stephen lunged at the only one in his reach and managed to knock the man’s horse sufficiently to jar the rider off. But the man was good and kicked himself free so that he landed on his feet facing Stephen, sword drawn.

  “Want to die here, English lordling? I’ll be happy to oblige.” The voice was Irish, the words English, the venom unmistakable.

  Stephen parried the man’s first blow and ducked beneath the second. But barefooted, he slipped in the churned-up mud and stumbled as the man’s sword point drove straight at him.

  As Stephen’s leg wrenched beneath him, Harrington slammed the Irishman with all his weight. But he, too, was off balance, and the man stepped out of it and then, terribly, thrust a dagger that seemed to come from nowhere up and under Harrington’s half-laced brigandine.

  Stephen’s eyes had misted over, from pain and blood and water, but he could just make out the Irishman’s outline as he leaned over and spat into the mud. “Remember this, lordling, and don’t play games out of your depth again.”

  He raised his sword and Stephen waited for death. But it was the hilt, not the blade, that met Stephen’s arm. He heard the crack of bone and then, mercifully, everything went white.

  —

  In his six weeks in Ireland, Kit had spent nearly as much time at Kilkenny as in Dublin. He would never have agreed to be the Earl of Leicester’s secretary if he’d known how often it would throw him into social situations that he despised. Being at the English court was one thing—the endless protocols and rituals and social lies were all made bearable by Pippa and Anabel, as well as the usual outlets afforded a young man of good family. He was an outstanding rider, an excellent huntsman, and skilled in all forms of sport.

  Ireland was not much for sport, unless killing one another counted. And having to play gracious courtier to Eleanor Percy was nothing short of galling. She stayed at Kilkenny as though expecting Stephen to arrive any day. Barring that, she seemed prepared to charm Ormond, though Kit still couldn’t decide if it was for her daughter’s sake or her own. Surely the Earl of Ormond, old as he was, would require a second wife able to bear him children. Then again, perhaps Eleanor wasn’t interested in marriage. Her morals had proved to be elastic from an early age, when she had borne her daughter to the king.

  The worst part of this latest visit at Kilkenny Castle was the absence of both Nora Percy and Brandon Dudley. Nora had received a personal invitation from Anabel—who was, after all, her cousin—to attend the investiture at Ludlow, and as Dudley had also been invited, he escorted her back to England. It was painful for Kit to watch them go. Anabel had not sent for him. Never mind that he had told her not to—it still stung.

  Ormond was a man worth cultivating, at least, and one with a certain sense of humour and practicality that Kit found refreshing. The earl was not afraid of Elizabeth, having known her since childhood, and was thus not particularly impressed by Kit’s connection to her and her court. And Kit was prepared to listen and learn from the older man.

  He and Ormond were in the courtyard in late August, headed for a morning’s ride along the River Nore, when the earl’s men alerted them to riders approaching. Wariness was the order of the day when unexpected strangers appeared in Ireland, and Ormond took to the tower battlements to view for himself.

  Just steps behind Ormond, Kit spotted the fairly sizable group moving with ragged slowness. Unusually, there were more horses than riders. As they drew nearer, Kit could make out that several of the riderless horses bore what looked like bodies draped over them. He felt a chill like hailstones striking the back of his neck, sudden and sharp, even before he saw the raised standard.

  Quartered in gold and azure, with the torteaux and lions of their father, stars for their mother, and storks representing due filial piety from the eldest son—the arms of Stephen Courtenay, Earl of Somerset.

  He was down the stone stairs and at the gatehouse before Ormond could stop him. The earl was quick enough to put together the signs; when he followed, he said simply, “Lord Somerset’s men. Do you see your brother with them?”

  Kit shook his head once, praying silently with a fervor that shocked him. Of course Stephen was all right. Stephen was the heir—blessed, adored, showered with all the gifts of a gracious creator. Nothing bad could ever happen to Stephen. Even when, as an oft-jealous child, Kit might have wished it.

  He did not know the man who rode ahead of the small company, for Kit had hardly ever set foot on Stephen’s Somerset lands. But the man looked as though he knew what he was about, early thirties with a lined face that spoke of experience. And also, Kit realized as he approached and dismounted, anger and grief.

  “Lord Ormond,” the man said, identifying Thomas Butler by his distinctive size and coloring.

  Kit pushed his way forward. “Where’s my brother?” he demanded.

  A moment of confusion, then understanding. “You’re Christopher. He said you might be at Kilkenny.”

  “Where’s Stephen?”

  “He’s alive, but injured.” He gestured to one of the horses bearing the less upright.

  Kit took a step forward but Ormond’s men were already moving, bearing down on those clattering up to the gatehouse.

  “What happened?” Ormond demanded, though it looked rather clear to Kit.

  “Set upon in the night. We had prisoners with us, women and children taken from Carrigafoyle, we were bringing them here. We thought at first they’d come to free the prisoners, but it was blood they
wanted. Every last one of the prisoners, cut down. And four of our own men who tried to prevent it.”

  That was all Kit waited to hear. He’d had a good look at Stephen at last, unconscious and bruised spectacularly. One arm was strapped to his chest. Several grooms carefully eased him from the horse onto the ground. Already litters were appearing in the courtyard.

  But Stephen was the only wounded man. The other four horses carried the bodies of the dead. Kit stumbled when he caught sight of a familiar, enormous form carefully strapped to the largest horse.

  “Oh, no,” Kit stuttered and prayed, “oh, God, please no.”

  But there was no man on earth who could be mistaken for Harrington. The Duke of Exeter’s aide, steward, friend. As fiercely loyal a man as Dominic, and as fiercely loving of his own wife, Carrie. What on earth would the Courtenays do without Harrington?

  Stephen was carried still unconscious to a spacious chamber and physicians summoned. Unable to do anything for his brother, Kit threw himself into doing what needed to be done for Stephen’s men. The slightly injured were treated, then baths and food and beds. Kit spoke further with the sergeant, a sturdy man named Lewis, and with Ormond’s permission sent a contingent of Kilkenny men to the campsite. “We covered the prisoners decently as we could, but didn’t dare delay to bury them,” Lewis had explained.

  Kit wanted to see the site for himself, but knew that Ormond’s men would be much better equipped to identify anomalies and evidence of the attackers. And there was one duty he could not delegate.

  Harrington could not be allowed to lie in Irish ground. He must be taken home—and so must Stephen’s other men. That meant embalming and coffins, carefully sealed and treated, and Ormond’s own chaplain to speak over them in these first hours of their deaths. For all his careless, reckless attitude, Kit knew precisely what should be done and with what respect.

  It was some hours later, afternoon squalls dimming what light there was, when Stephen awoke. Kit had been sitting in the chamber, waiting, and was on his feet at once when Stephen groaned.

  His brother looked awful, and Kit was only too glad to tell him so. “I should let Eleanor Percy in here,” he said lightly. “One look at you like this and she might finally give up on trying to catch you for Nora.”

  Stephen’s eyelids fluttered shut, then opened again as though it pained him. It probably did, judging from the damage to his face. “Kilkenny,” he rasped. “My men?”

  “Safely here. And Ormond sent a company after those still marching. They’ll be all right now.”

  “Not all of them.”

  “No.”

  “How many, Kit?”

  “What do you remember?” Why was he hedging? He hated it when others did it to him—just tell him and be done with it. But he had never imagined his perfect older brother looking so…damaged. So vulnerable.

  “I know Harrington is dead.” If anything could have made Kit more anxious, it was the complete absence of emotion in Stephen’s voice. As though his brother couldn’t bear for that to matter and so nothing must matter ever again. “How many others?”

  “Three.” Without being asked, Kit recited the names the sergeant had given him.

  Stephen did not close his eyes, but he didn’t look at Kit, either. He seemed focused on some point outside the walls of the castle, a point that fixed and pained him at the same time.

  “Your arm is broken in two places, and several ribs as well. Looks like you were kicked once you were down. And your face, of course. Ormond’s physician says you should recover.”

  “Recover?” Only then did Stephen look at him, with a depth of resentment and rage Kit could never have imagined from his brother. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  Elizabeth’s journey to Ludlow was an exquisitely judged measure of pomp and practicality. She had welcomed Jehan de Simier, personal envoy of the Duc d’Anjou, at Hampton Court Palace, where they’d spent three days in semiformal affairs before setting out northwest to the Welsh border. Simier, Anjou’s Master of Wardrobe, had something of a dubious reputation, but how could she not be impressed with a man who brought her twelve thousand crowns’ worth of jewels?

  Actually, Elizabeth found herself quite taken by Simier as they traveled; by the end of the first day on the road she had taken to calling him “my monkey” as a play on the Latin allusion of his surname. He had the qualities she most appreciated: intelligence, education, and wit. And he knew how to flatter, which she would never admit to craving. So adept was he at keeping her entertained as they traveled to Ludlow that a suspicious Walsingham murmured one night, “One would think the whoreson has come to court England for himself and not his master.”

  Dominic and Minuette joined the royal party as they passed near Wynfield Mote, but they kept to themselves for the most part. That was the general condition for their presence at any royal event: do not force us to take part formally or use us against others, and we will be there. In this case, they were attending for Anabel’s sake, not Elizabeth’s. She tried not to take it personally.

  The last night was spent at another Hampton Court, this one the medieval home of the Coningsby family. The quadrangular, castellated manor presented a pretty aspect with square towers echoing the shape of the three-story gatehouse. A pleasant spot and home, and as it had borne its name long before Elizabeth’s palace was built, she refrained from comment on the matter. They were only fifteen miles from Ludlow, which allowed for a gentle pace tomorrow and a celebratory arrival into the town and castle by early afternoon. There were messengers awaiting her, and Elizabeth summoned Walsingham and Burghley. When she realized that one of them bore news from Ireland, she sent a courteous note to Dominic and Minuette asking if they would care for firsthand news of their sons.

  She had dealt with the other reports—the questioning of Jesuit Edmund Campion in the Tower, a polite letter from Anabel reporting her arrival at Ludlow—by the time her friends appeared. Always their reverences would be different from those of others, their bows and curtsies more familiar, and Elizabeth quickly motioned them to sit. Then she nodded to Walsingham to report.

  “Carrigafoyle has fallen,” he said bluntly. “After several days of bombardment from our ships, Pelham and Dane led the assault on the tower. The Earl of Somerset”—a brief nod to Stephen’s parents—“and his men were tasked with rounding up those who fled. No losses in his company, and only minor losses to the other English troops.”

  “The Irish and Spanish?” Burghley asked.

  Walsingham did not blink. “We did not take prisoners.”

  Burghley raised a disapproving eyebrow. “A hundred or so Irish and five hundred Spaniards killed?”

  “As for the numbers of Spanish…it seems not all of those who landed in Ireland were at Carrigafoyle. Pelham reports there are a hundred Spanish soldiers unaccounted for.”

  Elizabeth tapped her fingers on the arm of her chair. “Slipped away to meet the Earl of Desmond at Askeaton?” she pondered.

  “Perhaps. You understand, this report was sent the very evening of Carrigafoyle’s fall. More news will make its way to us quickly now.”

  Minuette rose without waiting to be dismissed. “But Stephen and his men were untouched in battle?”

  “Yes.”

  She nodded. “Then we shall retire and leave you to your strategies and plans. You have no need of us for that.”

  Elizabeth’s jaw tightened. “You are the best judge of what the Queen of England needs?”

  Dominic rose with his wife. “Thank you, Your Majesty, for including us in the immediate report. We are grateful for Stephen’s safety, and for the success of the English troops. If you have further need of us, you will command us as you choose.”

  When had Dominic learned to speak in fluent innuendos? Command as you choose, he meant, but we will serve as we choose.

  Now was not the time for displays of temper. She would keep that weapon honed for its greatest need. And they were her friends, not adversaries. Perhaps she had t
aken their desire for independence too literally. Perhaps Minuette was simply exasperated with her.

  “You are dismissed,” she said. But then, in almost the same casual tone, she added, “Would you care to breakfast with me in the morning, Minuette?”

  This time, when her friend curtsied, there was a teasing warmth in her smile. “With pleasure.”

  When the next morning came, it was indeed a true pleasure to sit alone with Minuette over a table with the most tempting foods the manor house could provide and simply talk. If the Coningsbys were at all put out at not being included, they were too wise to show it.

  “I am glad that Stephen came out of this campaign well and whole,” Elizabeth began honestly. “If only because I would like to continue to have him serve the crown and I do not put it past you to spirit your son out of my reach if you are unhappy with what I demand.”

  “As if I could!” Minuette laughed. “Stephen is no child to be told where to go or what to do by his mother.”

  That wrung an answering laugh, tinged with cynicism, from Elizabeth. “Well spoken. Were we ever so hard to be persuaded when we were young?”

  “I am certain both Queen Anne and Lord Rochford thought us the most stubborn of creatures. Now that I am older, I find that I have more sympathy with their point of view.”

  “I shall look forward to hearing directly from Stephen about Ireland. Your son has a good grasp of essentials for one so young.”

  “As does your daughter. We have had nothing but excellent reports about her conduct and reception along her way through Wales. Pippa may be fond of her, but she is not given to flattery. Anabel does you proud.”

  “Has she written to you? Anabel, I mean, not Philippa.” Elizabeth fingered one of the heavy tassels at the edge of the damask table linen, reluctant to look at her friend as she asked.

  There was a slight pause, as though Minuette were assessing and interpreting the question. “She has. It is kind of her.”