The Virgin's Spy
Authors: Laura Andersen
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.
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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)âISBN 978-0-8041-7939-3 (eBook)
1. Elizabeth I, Queen of England, 1533â1603âFiction. 2. QueensâGreat BritainâFiction. 3. Inheritance and successionâFiction. 4. Great BritainâKings and rulersâSuccessionâFiction. 5. Great BritainâHistoryâTudors, 1485â1603âFiction. I. Title.
PS3601.N437V58 2015
813
'
.6âdc23
2015022848
eBook ISBNâ9780804179393
Book design by Caroline Cunningham, adapted for eBook
Cover design: Susan Zucker
Cover photo: ©Jeff Cottenden
v4.1
ep
“H
ow 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 launched 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 vengeanceâthat 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.