The Virgin's Spy (4 page)

The company rode out on the first day of August. When they left Stephen's castle at Farleigh Hungerford, it was with laughter and teasing from those left behind, a sense of adventure among those marching, and Stephen was confident in the abilities of his 150 soldiers and glad to be finally on his way.

His father had appeared at Farleigh Hungerford the last day, asking if he might ride with them to Bristol. In another man it might have been awkward and caused Stephen's force a sense of split loyalties. But no one knew better than Dominic Courtenay how authority could be as much a matter of expectation as ability, and he would never interfere in his son's command. At least not publicly.

In the end, Stephen discovered, his father's topic of discussion had little to do with military matters. They reached Bristol the afternoon of August first, with a ship prepared to take them on board the very next day. Stephen allowed his men to disperse with orders to be returned to their encampment by dark. Then he walked with his father along the Severn Estuary.

“Any last words of advice?” Stephen was quick to ask. Better than having it offered without asking.

“Be careful with Oliver Dane. He's an old Irish hand who dislikes English interlopers as much as he does the Irish rebels. As long as you make clear you are not interested in encroaching on his Irish lands or rights, you should be all right.”

Stephen huffed a laugh. “I hardly feel I deserve what I have in England—I shall make clear to Captain Dane that Ireland is not in my ambitions.”

“What are your ambitions?”

“Personally or professionally?”

“There is little difference between them for a belted earl. Since you were twelve we've received many overtures of interest from good families with daughters.”

“You're not planning to marry me off already, are you?”

“And if we were? I must confess, Stephen, I haven't the slightest idea how you would take it if I announced one day that I had secured you a marriage.”

How
would
he take it? Stephen wondered. He hadn't spent a lot of time thinking of marriage—twenty-one was indeed young. “I suppose I would thank you for your concern.”

“Don't look so stricken, son. Surely you don't seriously expect your mother and me to arrange you a marriage without your knowledge or consent.”

No, he supposed not. Other sons of dukes would expect to be dutifully wed wherever their family required. But the children of the Duke and Duchess of Exeter were, first and foremost, the children of a love match, one that had defied royalty and endured prison. They would not balk at the thought of love—after all, Lucie had married her French Catholic spy against all good sense. But his sister had also walked through a valley of pain and sorrow to get there. Stephen wasn't sure it was worth it.

“Honestly, Father, it might be simpler if you chose for me. And don't tell me Mother doesn't have some very specific ideas of her own,” he teased.

“It's not marriage we're concerned with at the moment, Stephen. It's the women that you will encounter in Ireland. I have campaigned more than once in my lifetime. I know what happens in the camps of soldiers.”

How on earth was he supposed to respond to that?
Do tell, Father, what were you like on campaign?
Surely there had been women before his mother—she was five years younger than her husband, after all. But Stephen didn't want to know, he didn't even want to guess. Why on earth bring it up?

As though he could read his son's embarrassment, Dominic asked wryly, “Would you prefer to have had this discussion with your mother? If I hadn't promised to address the matter myself, she would have taken it in hand.”

Stephen choked. “In that case, say what you must.”

“It might not be what you fear, Stephen. I simply want you to consider this—never take what is not freely offered, and then only if you are certain you will not leave pain behind. That is poor payment for any woman, whoever she may be.”

“No virgins, no wives, and no force? I remember. I promise not to shame myself or you, Father.” To lighten the subject, and because he was feeling unfairly singled out, he added, “I presume Kit has already been given the same lecture for his time in Dublin?”

With hooded eyes, his father said simply, “Kit's lectures will never be the same as yours.”

Because you are the eldest,
ran the unspoken words,
and my heir. Because your life and honour must be impeccable if you ever hope to live up to me.

There were times when Stephen envied his younger brother so much that he could hardly see straight.

In all her years as queen, Elizabeth had never met so subtle and capable a negotiator as her own daughter. Though Anabel was only nineteen, she possessed her father's certainty and her mother's stubbornness, traits that she ably employed in negotiating her immediate future as Princess of Wales.

“In addition to Ludlow, I need a home rather closer to London,” Anabel said. Not for the first time.

Elizabeth had been admittedly dragging her feet on the issue, not so much because she disagreed as because she wanted to remind her daughter that there was only one queen in England. But when even Burghley backed the princess, Elizabeth knew her daughter was in the right.

That didn't mean she would make it easy. “And which palace would you like your queen to abandon?” she asked tartly. “Windsor? St. James? Perhaps I should simply move out of Whitehall and pass the seat of government into your hands.”

Anabel didn't—quite—roll her eyes. “The point of me being near but somewhat independent is to learn from you, Your Majesty, and to learn how to run my own royal household in a controlled environment where I cannot do too much damage. Of course I do not want to run England. Not for many long years.”

Sometimes, it was like speaking to herself, Elizabeth thought. Other times, it was like speaking to Anne Boleyn. And every now and then, just for a flash, it was like speaking to William.

With a heavy sigh meant to convey giving in with weariness (though Anabel would correctly read it as assumed), Elizabeth capitulated with the decision that had already been taken in her privy council more than a fortnight ago. “In addition to Ludlow Castle, you will also be given Syon House and Charterhouse. Does that meet with your approval?”

How could it not? Syon House would not come as a great surprise, for Anabel herself had suggested it months ago. Once an abbey, Elizabeth's father had granted the lands to John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland. Upon his execution in 1556, the land and beautiful house Northumberland had built had passed back to crown control. But Elizabeth never made use of the house that had once been a prison for her half sister, Mary Tudor. Because Syon House came with ghosts, and one of those was Northumberland's fifth son, Robert.

Situated very near Richmond Palace, it would make a gracious home for the Princess of Wales when she wished to be more central than the Welsh borderlands could afford. And when she wished to be at the very heart of things? No place better than Charterhouse.

Just a mile from Whitehall (itself the largest palace complex in Europe), Charterhouse had been the London home of Elizabeth's uncle, George Boleyn. As Duke of Rochford and both regent and chancellor in his time, he had commanded more power than any man in England, save the king. Charterhouse had been witness to ambassadors and foreign royals, to negotiations and threats and careful deploying of English power. Charterhouse was also the site of Lord Rochford's assassination. In the twenty-five years since, it had been used primarily as a temporary residence for visiting dignitaries and those wealthy Continental merchants whom England needed to impress.

Anabel looked suitably surprised, which pleased Elizabeth enough for her to add graciously, “If you want to learn how to rule, nowhere better than in my uncle's home. I expect the very walls are soaked in Lord Rochford's genius.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Then, after a moment, Anabel added, “Mother.”

“Now,” Elizabeth continued briskly, “more important than the physical residence is the makeup of your own household. Philippa Courtenay, naturally, will be chief of your ladies, but you need an older, more experienced woman to take charge.”

“I can think of no one better than Lady Leighton as the public face. Of course, Madalena will take care of the details, as she always has.”

Madalena Arias had been a gift to Anabel from her father, a lady-in-waiting who had come to England at the age of ten and firmly attached herself to the five years' younger princess. Her grandmother had been a
converso
Moor, making Madalena darker than the usual Spaniard and, Elizabeth conceded, extremely attractive. She served Anabel faithfully, though Elizabeth was always watchful, afraid of Philip using any tactic against his daughter.

“I approve your chaplain and steward. That leaves you two posts to fill—Master of the Horse and household treasurer.” Elizabeth spoke casually, knowing how insulted her daughter had been by Kit Courtenay's refusal to accept the former post.

But, like her mother, she had mastered the art of moving on, and if not feeling indifference, at least feigning it well. “What do you think of Robert Cecil for Master of the Horse? Lord Burghley might be pleased to have his son expand his experience in public service.”

It was an astute choice. “He'll do very well. And treasurer?”

For the first time, Anabel looked a touch defiant, as though anticipating a refusal. “I should like Matthew Harrington.”

She had sense enough not to say more, for Elizabeth knew perfectly well who Matthew was. His parents had been Minuette and Dominic's loyal companions through their disgrace and exile, and their only son had been rewarded with an education to match that of the Courtenay sons. Matthew had studied law and, for the last year, been part of Lord Burghley's staff in his role as Lord High Treasurer.

Young, yes, but so was Anabel. And Pippa. As Elizabeth had once been young, with Minuette and Dominic and Will…Youth had its faults, but also its strengths. And with his bloodline and upbringing, Matthew Harrington would be the most faithful of servants.

She nodded once. “I think Matthew is quite a good choice. Provided you can persuade Lord Burghley to part with both his son and his protégé.”

Her daughter's smile was blindingly confident. “Pippa says Lord Burghley has been training Matthew specifically for my household. He will be glad to have him with me.”

“And Philippa would know,” Elizabeth retorted wryly. “Very well. We shall make all the necessary arrangements and announcements before leaving for Wales next week.”

Where Anabel would be formally invested as Princess of Wales and begin her public tasks, meant to bind the hearts of England as firmly to herself as to her mother.

And where she would meet for the first time the French representatives of Francis, the Duc d'Anjou, and begin the delicate formal dance of possible betrothal.

6 August 1581

Dearest Lucie,

We arrived in Chester earlier today. It has been more than two weeks since we left London, in slow procession north and west to this town once so precariously held by the English on the very doorstep of Wales. Now, of course, the divide is cultural rather than political and it is from here that Anabel takes center stage. Over the next two weeks we will travel through northern Wales, freely crisscrossing what was once such a hotly contested border, making our way as far west as Caernarfon and thus onto Wrexham, Oswestry, and Shrewsbury before riding in triumph into Ludlow, where Anabel will be formally invested as Princess of Wales.

She has made me study Welsh with her, though her language talents far outstrip mine. I might just be able to ask for a loaf of bread if left alone, but Anabel is capable of conducting quite broad conversations. She is rightly proud of her talents, and of the work she has put into them. I think the Welsh will be celebratory enough to please even her.

The queen will meet us in Ludlow. I suspect it is not easy for her to launch Anabel on her own, but what makes her such a good ruler is that she does not put personal feelings above the good of the realm. England needs Anabel.

And Anabel needs me. For now, at least.

You are coming to Ludlow, aren't you, Lucie? Or has joy—and newlywed nights—turned your mind enough that you have decided to live in York forever?

Pippa

11 August 1581

Pippa,

Julien and I returned to Compton Wynyates two weeks ago, as you know perfectly well since that is where you directed your letter. I still don't feel I can call it home—I suspect that will always be Wynfield Mote—but I am not one to take against a perfectly good house and land merely because it's new. Besides, the queen would be insulted. Yes, I know, Compton Wynyates was Father's gift to us, but I also know that it was the queen who made the suggestion to him and might even, I suspect, have paid for some of it. How could I not be touched? Both by her unexpected parting with money, as well as the even more unexpected humility in doing so in secret.

And don't lecture me about what I owe her. The queen and I understand each other perfectly well since last summer.

Do you miss Kit very much? It is hardly fair that you should be caught between him and Anabel. Now that one of them has been enlightened, how long before the other follows? Queen Elizabeth may have had her Robert Dudley (though we have only stories of their love), but I do not imagine she will remember that if ever she is forced to deal with a defiant daughter in love.

How very glad I am to be out of all that uncertainty! And yet, despite my perfect happiness, we will indeed be in Ludlow for the investiture. Julien and I can only stay locked away for so long before it becomes a scandal, even if we are married.

I wish you well in managing your absent twin and temperamental princess.

Lucie

After just one week in Ireland, Stephen was good and ready to take a ship straight back to England. Except he couldn't, because they were well into the interior by now. His company had landed in Waterford on the fourth of August and marched out again just forty-eight hours later, for rumours of Spanish troops along the west coast were rampant and Sir William Pelham and Captain Oliver Dane needed as many men in the field as fast as they could get them.

It wasn't especially fast. Waterford was an English town, but its hold on the coast was tenuous, and within five miles the landscape itself seemed to turn against the English soldiers. There had been no recent fighting, but the countryside could hardly be called easy. They were shadowed along their way—Stephen could feel the watching eyes even when he had no idea where the watchers were hiding. He and Harrington marched the men at a pitch of wary preparedness that was exhausting. He knew ambushes were the favoured method of the Irish fighters and wondered how he was supposed to avoid them. It would take him years to learn the land half as well as those born in it, which left all the momentum in the rebels' favour.

From tension and exhaustion, everyone in the company was in a foul mood by the time they met up with Oliver Dane's troops. Stephen left his men settling under Harrington's direction and went directly to Dane's tent.

It was serviceable and stripped down, the tent of a man accustomed to rough campaigning and who had little use for ornament. By reputation, Captain Dane also had little use for idle noblemen who came to Ireland simply for the sport of it.

In appearance, Oliver Dane seemed a man designed not to stand out. Of medium height and build, he had brown hair shorn close to his skull and was as clean-shaven as could be managed in a military encampment. Other than the red and gold boar badge that marked his jerkin, his clothes were as serviceable as the rest of him.

He had maps spread before him on a table, and after a quick glance in Stephen's direction when he was introduced, kept his eyes on his work.

But it was clear whom he was addressing. “How are your men?”

“Wet and hungry, but fit enough.”

Dane grunted. “Can't control the weather, and supply lines are a bitch throughout Munster. Fields and crops are nonexistent here and that old biddy of a queen won't loosen her purse strings sufficient to feed us as she should.”

Stephen guessed that Dane wanted to see how he'd react to the offensive remarks about Queen Elizabeth. Of course, Dane would know the Courtenay family's ties to the throne. He was trying to goad Stephen into a display of temper that he would no doubt slap down as hard as he could. Stephen might be a titled earl, but in the field he answered to a commanding officer.

Fortunately, the queen needed no defense from him. Stephen had never known a woman more able to look after herself than Elizabeth Tudor—except possibly his own mother. So his tone was level when he replied. “We've brought our own supplies along, and used them sparingly on the road. We will not be an additional burden to your forces.”

Finally, Dane straightened from the maps and, crossing his arms on his sturdy chest, studied Stephen. His eyes were an icy blue that seemed designed for no emotion warmer than contempt. “Not completely useless, then. Good to know. But bloody hell, boy, I hope not all your men are as wet behind the ears as you. What are you—sixteen?”

Another offensive strike, for Dane would know perfectly well his age. “Looks can be deceiving. I am twenty-one, and yes, that makes me considerably younger than most of the men of my company.”

With a twist to his mouth that might have been amusement or grudging respect, Dane replied, “Well said, Courtenay. Which is what I'll be calling you, mind, at least as long as we're marching. I have no patience to coddle English lordlings when every day might be your last—or, more importantly, my last. I've been in Ireland twenty years now and I know my job. Your job is to obey. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly clear.”

Dane flicked his hand in dismissal. “Take an hour to see your men are settled and your camp in order. Then come back and we'll talk strategy while we eat.”

Stephen nodded once and turned.

“And Courtenay? I've a rough tongue but that doesn't mean I'm not glad enough to have you and your men. Any son of Dominic Courtenay is always welcome as a fighting man.”

And that was perhaps the most offensive thing Dane had said yet, though no doubt the man had meant it as a compliment. How was he to guess that Stephen was growing awfully tired of being known simply as Dominic's son and heir?

“How many men?” Elizabeth asked Walsingham. The Lord Secretary had just brought her the unwelcome—if not entirely unexpected—news that Spanish ships were headed for the west coast of Ireland.

“Not more than five hundred,” Walsingham answered, and he looked almost unhappy about the small number. If only Philip would commit once and for all in Ireland, then Walsingham might get the support he needed to wage wholesale war and crush the Irish. But Philip was nearly as cautious as Elizabeth. The Spanish king probably wanted war in the far-flung island as little as she did.

Burghley, at least, was relieved. “Enough to cause increased trouble in Munster, but not enough to reach beyond. And there's no indication that Desmond himself is committing to join them.”

Gerald FitzGerald, rebellious Earl of Desmond, had been proclaimed traitor by Elizabeth's government in Dublin two years earlier. And he deserved it, for he had offered aid and comfort to the rebels in his county and never turned out with troops or support for Elizabeth's army. But nor had he fired upon English soldiers, and in her most contemplative moments Elizabeth knew that Desmond was in a desperately difficult position. Besides, wasn't it she herself who had pointed out to Pelham the idiocy of publicly proclaiming Desmond a traitor before they had managed to lay hands on him? As she had predicted, the proclamation served only to drive the earl further into rebellion.

Walsingham had never been hesitant to push his Irish policy. “Pelham and Dane are on the move to Carrigafoyle. The Spanish will not break out from the coast. And when Carrigafoyle is taken, Your Majesty, your soldiers should move against Askeaton.”

Her refusal was swift and uncompromising. “No.”

“As long as Desmond remains in Askeaton, he will continue to be the center of resistance in Munster. And as long as Munster is in open rebellion, all our Irish holdings are at risk. Before we know it, the Pale will shrink to merely the streets of Dublin itself. Are you so certain of the Earl of Ormond that you cannot envision him taking advantage of an English retreat to consolidate his own power?”

“The Earl of Ormond,” Elizabeth said chillily, “is to be trusted. He has shown it often and I will not suspect my own kinsman of so lightly moving against our throne.”

“It is imperative that you suspect
everyone
!”

Being shouted at was not a common experience for a queen—in the handful of times it had happened in the last few years, it was certain to be either Walsingham or Anabel doing the shouting.

And when Walsingham shouted, it was almost always about Ireland. Or Spain. Catholics, at least.

There were two ways to deal with it—shout back or cloak herself in royal hauteur. Elizabeth chose the latter this time. “Perhaps I should suspect
you
of wanting to bleed England dry of both money and men in advance of a concerted Spanish attack, so that we are vulnerable when the ships are pointing at our island rather than Ireland.”

Burghley, always and ever the mediator, spoke swiftly into the appalled silence. “The point is to avoid matters coming to such a head. Which is why we must pursue negotiation.”

“You mean conciliation,” Walsingham spat.

“If necessary. We can afford, to some degree, Ireland in turmoil. We cannot afford that same turmoil to strike our own shores. What if it were the Midlands scorched to the ground, her people starving? What if it were the Earl of Arundel pressing his newfound Catholic conversion in open defiance? We have just arrested Lady Stonor and her son for harboring Jesuits!” Burghley pressed his lips together and made an effort to control himself. At last, he said firmly, “England must have peace.”

“At what cost?”

“Enough!” Elizabeth used the most impressive of her public voices, the one that mingled Henry VIII's righteousness with Anne Boleyn's pride. With just that word, Burghley and Walsingham were brought to heel. For the moment.

“Pelham and Dane will deal with the Spanish landing at Carrigafoyle,” Elizabeth stated. “They have our leave to crush anyone in their reach at that time. The Spanish must not break out—and just as critically, neither must any of their supplies. Weaken the Irish with hunger this winter and perhaps they will be more amenable in the spring. But by no means are our troops to launch headlong against Askeaton. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Burghley answered for both men, probably because Walsingham was still fuming at her restraint.