The Virgin's Spy (18 page)

“And no doubt the Duc d'Anjou is fully aware of the same,” Walsingham continued. “You must make a decision, Your Majesty. You cannot continue to lead two countries on indefinitely. Her Highness is appealing, but these men have their pride.”

“And I have mine!” she snapped. “England is not so poor that we must beg attention. But by all means, if you wish to please the French before Stewart's arrival, then send the Duc d'Anjou to me. The two of us will talk.”

To his credit, Walsingham looked wary about that plan. Sometimes the man knew her entirely too well for comfort.

Anjou appeared a quarter hour later, neat and suave as though he'd simply been waiting for her summons. Truly, he had proven himself an intelligent and cultured prince as well as a pleasing one. He could debate, he could command, and he could charm. As perfect a prince as could be hoped.

As Elizabeth waved her ladies to the far end of the presence chamber where a lute player entertained, she remembered other moments when she'd sought the illusion of privacy in public spaces. When it had been Robert walking toward her with that assured grace bordering on arrogance that so captivated her. There had never been another like him—and Elizabeth had been feeling that loss keenly this last month. As she'd watched her beautiful and very young daughter captivate Anjou, she had felt moments of pure resentment that she was no longer the most desirable woman in England.

Perhaps, she thought mordantly, that is why my own mother and I had difficulties. Perhaps all mothers and daughters are destined to shipwreck on the shoals of aging and jealousy.

Still, Anabel did not possess the throne of England. Not yet. And thrones, in and of themselves, were very desirable.

“La belle reine,”
Anjou murmured, bending low in greeting. “To what do I owe this great honour?”

“To the tediousness of ruling,” Elizabeth retorted. “Sit, and relieve me of my boredom.”

“How can a queen of such accomplishments ever be bored?” Anjou sat with the kind of graceful ease that did much to compensate for his physical drawbacks. And one could not take exception with his manners. “The court of England draws men of the highest scholarship and adventure, like moths to a flame. You have only to snap your fingers to command whom you wish.”

“And at this moment, I snap my fingers for you. Entertain me with news from France—not the dispassionate accounts of diplomats. Give me rumour and gossip. Truly, how did your mother take the news of Mary Stuart's escape and marriage?”

Anjou laughed, and Elizabeth could swear it was unprompted and genuine. “You do go right to the heart of the matter,” he said. “You have met my mother, yes?”

“I had that honour.” So many years ago that Elizabeth did not care to mention it to Anjou. He'd scarcely been born when she had gone to France as Princess of Wales. No, she would not remind him of that.

“My mother, the Queen Dowager, reacted precisely as you would expect: fury at Spain for not only taking Mary Stuart in but wedding her. And, I'm afraid, a great deal of contempt directed at you for letting her slip away.”

“Then perhaps she should have taken care with your brother's subjects not to let them plot against my daughter! I doubt even Catherine de Medici would lightly sacrifice one of you.” Although, perhaps, maybe she would. Catherine had an excess of children, after all. Unlike herself.

Anjou was quick enough to read Elizabeth, and said smoothly, “My mother and I are hardly a model of agreeing with one another.”

That did make her laugh. “I imagine if Catherine found my release of Mary Stuart contemptible, then the Edict of Beaulieu must continue to drive her to distraction.” For it was Francis, this younger son of whom no one had expected much, who championed the Huguenots and negotiated the peace six years ago that, at least nominally, allowed French Protestants to worship without fear of massacre. A slap at the policies of his brother and the French queen mother who had ordered the St. Bartholomew's Day Massacre.

“Your Majesty,” Anjou went on, his keen eyes unwavering, “surely you know how deep my hopes run to ally with England. We need each other. I know that the Scots envoy will say much the same thing. And I know Esmé Stewart.” Anjou grinned. “He will say it more handsomely than I can manage. But if my face is imperfect, my sincerity is not. I will offer anything within my power to be wed to England.”

Anything in his power? An idea, that had before been but a half-formed dream and shadow, was beginning to take root in Elizabeth's mind. Why should England not have everything it needed? Alliance with France, and union with Scotland. Appease the Catholics and reinforce the Protestant ascendancy on this island. And, not least of all, infuriate both Philip and Mary Stuart in equal measure.

With her most seductive smile, honed all these years on more men than Robert Dudley, Elizabeth briefly touched the back of Anjou's hand with her beautiful long fingers. Her locket ring glinted, less showy than the sapphires and rubies on her other fingers, but it seemed to convey Anne Boleyn's approval. If anyone would have understood finding pleasure while also doing what one must, it would have been the much-maligned Queen Anne.

“Francis,” Elizabeth murmured. “Why make it a contest? I have never been one for doing what others expect me to do. And so I think that perhaps you and I might come to an arrangement that benefits both France and Scotland.”

Anjou was quick and intuitive. If there was a moment's surprise, he covered it neatly as his mind leaped to follow hers. She thought she saw a brief flash of wry regret in his eyes, but he conquered it almost at once as he lifted her hand to kiss it. “I like the way you think, Your Majesty.”

Peter Martin duly arrived in Cahir and, after completing his round of messages and information for the Kavanaughs, had a cursory interview with Stephen. He appeared content to see Stephen's improved standing in the household as work well done for the time. There were no new instructions from England, but Martin was able to tell him a few things thanks to his travels around Ireland.

“Ormond is keeping close to his own lands,” Martin reported. “Resisting calls from England to move on Askeaton. Pelham is facing outbreaks of violence in Dublin and may not be able to move, either.”

“So who is going to Askeaton?”

Martin shrugged. “Not my area. I'm just an itinerant messenger who knows rather more Latin than is good for him. Anything at this end? If you wanted to write to someone, I could get it through.”

Stephen wouldn't risk it. His family knew only the barest bones of where he was, and he had nothing to say to Walsingham. Yet. Besides, Ailis had already offered to send any letters he cared to write. Maisie sent letters by the dozens—she spent hours each day writing copiously to various people in Scotland and received almost as many in reply. No doubt any missive of his would have been read before being sent, but he had an innocuous code and cover for a letter that would mean something only to the spymaster. That he hadn't written was due mostly to his own reluctance.

Martin's last words were a warning, a message from Walsingham. “Our master says there have been a few inquiries about your whereabouts in London. Among the city classes and the foreign merchants. He says to keep your head down in case a lady of your acquaintance might be trying to track you.”

Mary Stuart? Despite her exalted status, Stephen wouldn't put it past the queen to be trying to trace him. Mary had left him in no doubt of her contempt when she'd left England.

Before Martin left Cahir, he spent several hours closeted with Ailis and her chief advisors. There was clearly something in the air—something the Kavanaugh household was waiting upon. Stephen knew it had something to do with Askeaton. He didn't try too hard to find out after being verbally slapped down by Diarmid mac Briain for asking artless questions. Diarmid did not like him in the slightest, but Stephen thought that had as much to do with Ailis as anything. Mac Briain was besotted with her and did not like anything that turned her attention elsewhere.

And these days, her attention was fixed on Stephen. Even Liadan commented on it one afternoon as he watched her riding astride a horse that could easily have crushed her. “Mother must like you very much or she'd never let you near the horses.”

“She lets me near
you
—surely that's a greater sign of trust.”

“No. Because you could use the horses to escape Cahir if that's what you wanted. What could you possibly use
me
for?”

Stephen laughed even as a chill ran down his spine. Before she knew it, Liadan would no longer be a child—and a beautiful woman in Ireland could be put to all sorts of uses by unscrupulous men.

He knew he was well on his way to being besotted himself with Ailis, in a manner he'd never expected. All his previous women—not as many as all that—had been of a more professional nature, the affairs conducted at one remove from his daily life. All save Roisin, whom he carried with him like a little spark of fury to remind him what he most wanted in Ireland. But it meant that he'd never had the experience of being attracted—such a mild word for such a dangerous emotion—to a woman whom he saw every day in all manner of situations.

Before now he'd never guessed that breathless desire could strike so strongly when watching a woman poring over maps or snapping orders to her guards. Half a dozen times a day Stephen had to force himself to stand straight and breathe normally, to not let his eyes follow Ailis like a puppy with a new master. It was an insane, impossible proposition. One he would never, ever make. He could never bed a woman who didn't know his name—and if Ailis knew his name, she would stick a dagger in his chest.

If only she would kiss him first, it might be worth it.

He'd not been this long without a woman since he was eighteen. Ironically, instead of making him hunger for bed, it increased his hunger for any touch. However slight. Even the right kind of sideways glance from Ailis left him dizzy.

He was behaving precisely like a lovestruck girl, alert to her every movement and expression. And there was just enough of intimacy in both to keep him in suspense.

In which state he remained until the first Thursday in August when the household at Cahir erupted in triumphant victory. Stephen, teaching Liadan how to handle a wooden small sword, had watched a dusty outrider exchange terse nods with Diarmid in the courtyard and then the two men vanished inside. Not two minutes later the shouting began, of a cheerful tone that made Maisie, watching from her seat on the steps—a partially written letter on a board across her lap—look up and say, “Well, at least we know it's good news.”

“What is?” Liadan dropped her wooden sword and scampered in the direction of the activity.

Stephen caught at her arm and held her back. “A soldier must always keep focus.”

“I'm not a soldier.”

“But you are learning to handle a sword. That makes you responsible while you hold that weapon. Would your mother go running off at the first excitement?” When Liadan scowled, Stephen promised, “If no one comes to tell us in five minutes, we'll go in together.”

It was only three minutes before Ailis appeared, Diarmid a pace behind at her shoulder. Their shared lineage was obvious in the sharpness of their cheekbones and the fierceness of their dark eyes. Just now, both of them seemed lit up like candles from within.

“Askeaton is fortified,” she called to the three of them, and there was no mistaking the triumph in her voice. “One hundred Spanish soldiers have marched to its relief. The Earl of Desmond has already begun sending raiding parties out to reinforce his borders.”

One hundred Spanish soldiers…so the missing soldiers had finally revealed themselves. Stephen spared a moment in considering Walsingham's dismay at the news, but then Ailis came closer. “Will you ride with me, Stephen? This news brings forward some of the plans we have spoken of.” She kindled like a flame, and Stephen felt his blood pulse to meet her.

“Ride?” he repeated, at the same moment as a furious Diarmid fumed, “You can't be serious!”

“I'm always serious,” Ailis replied serenely. “I think it's time I show Stephen the Rock of Cashel. Alone. If we are not back by dark, by all means send a scouting party after us.”

She stared at her captain, daring him to openly disobey her. But the success at Askeaton gave her enough sway for Diarmid to mutteringly agree.

Stephen mounted a horse and followed Ailis, for the first time since his arrival, outside the walls of Cahir Castle.

With Stephen riding at her side, Ailis felt the tension of the last months—all that time hoping the Spanish soldiers would remain concealed and their plan unnoticed—slip away like the scudding clouds overhead. It was little more than ten miles to the Rock of Cashel, and during their leisurely ride Ailis told the Englishman stories about the spot. From St. Patrick banishing the devil—thus blasting the entire enormous rock to its present location—to the Irish abbot in Germany who sent two of his carpenters to help build Cormac's Chapel.

Stephen said little, but he appeared to be listening closely. And as they approached the limestone plateau rising sharply against the level landscape, he whistled in appreciation.

They were allowed through the walls that encircled the plateau and found a boy to watch their horses for an Irish shilling. Then Ailis led Stephen around the complex of chapel, cathedral, castle, and graveyard.

“St. Patrick came here?” Stephen asked. “After he blasted the devil, I mean.”

“Converted the King of Munster on this spot. The buildings are mostly from the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. Cormac's Chapel is quite beautiful. We could attend service, if you like?” she teased.

He answered in kind, with a smile that only just tipped up the corners of his mouth. “I quite like worshipping God outdoors. With you.”