The Virgin's Spy (Tudor Legacy #2)(109)
“As did the Fitzgeralds,” Elizabeth pointed out waspishly. “Not all that many generations ago.”
“Long enough ago that we have earned the right to govern our own lands.”
“If you believe the Spanish will allow you that, then you are being willfully blind. It is just possible that King Philip is willing to commit troops on principle’s sake—though I doubt it—but Mary Stuart wants much more. Surely you have heard the rumors that her youngest son will be proclaimed Prince of Ireland in the coming year.”
“The boy is two years old. We are not afraid of a child. Not the way we are afraid of men who have determined the best way to rule Ireland is to murder every last Irish soul, thus leaving a clean slate for the English.”
Elizabeth waved a hand in disdain. “I am not impressed by melodramatic statements based on hysteria. If you want the fighting in Ireland to stop, the answer is simple: evict the Spanish. When you have done that, then England and Ireland will have something to say to one another. Until then, go back to your husband and tell him I have no place for traitors at my court. You will be escorted back to your ship tomorrow.”
She almost thought the woman would respond, for she had a very Irish glint to her eyes, but protocol won. When Eleanor Fitzgerald had left, Elizabeth looked at the one man in her government sure to have even more disdain for the countess than she herself. Francis Walsingham despised Catholics and the Spanish in equal measure. Long an advocate of a swift, harsh end to Ireland’s rebellions, he was even more fiery now that they were supported by Philip’s troops.
“Well?” she asked pointedly.
Those hooded eyes had never grown easier to interpret. “The Spanish won’t go. Not until they’ve made a serious play for Dublin.”
“Dublin will never fall.”
“Perhaps not, but it might be starved into submission. If the Spanish decide to blockade the port—”
“Then they will be committing to open warfare against all our forces,” Elizabeth snapped. “Philip isn’t prepared for that.”
“Yet.” Walsingham let the syllable hang ominously, but said no more.
Elizabeth would like to have believed that her Lord Secretary had learned discretion during his banishment from her court two years ago, but she doubted it. Walsingham was who he was and she valued him for it. Even if sometimes she wanted to kill him as well.
Of the two of them, Walsingham did not hold grudges. And though Elizabeth did, she knew the difference between wisdom and vanity. He had hurt her pride with his opposition to the French marriage, but she could swallow that for the greater good. Especially since there was no chance of the fight resuming, for Francis, the Duc d’Anjou, had died earlier this year of a tertian fever. It was just as well Elizabeth had thought to take Anjou for herself and tied Anabel to James of Scotland, or else England would be doing some rapid maneuvering at this point.
“Keep an eye on the Netherlands,” Elizabeth reminded Walsingham unnecessarily. “If Philip begins removing troops from the Low Countries, then we can begin to worry about Dublin and our own shores. For now, he is stretched thin on the ground.”
Lord Burghley cleared his throat.
“Yes?” she prompted.
“Sir Walter Raleigh has been making quiet inquiries into the Somerset estates. He would be most willing to buy Farleigh Hungerford from the crown. If the crown has decided to sell, that is.”
“The crown has not so decided.”
A long silence. “As long as it remains in crown control, Your Majesty, there are those who expect Stephen Courtenay will be reinstated to his titles.”
“They can expect whatever they like. But I promise you one thing—as long as I live, Stephen Courtenay will never again be the Earl of Somerset. Spread that news, if you like.”
It hurt her to say it, but not because she had second thoughts. Stephen had committed treason. Any other man in her kingdom would have paid for those crimes with his head. But Stephen was Minuette’s son. So he lived—but without title or lands or even his home. He had been in France for nineteen months now. As far as she was concerned, he could stay there indefinitely.
And if he helped keep his brother, Kit, out of England as well? All the better.
—
Maisie Sinclair had never been to Yorkshire before. Indeed, she had never been in England at all until a week ago. Despite her birth and childhood in Edinburgh, so close to the border that there always seemed to be alarms about whether the English were coming, Maisie’s travels had taken her seemingly everywhere save her nearest neighbor. After her short-lived Irish marriage, she had turned to the Continent. Since 1582 she had spent time in Antwerp, Bruges, Germany, Italy, and France. Now, at last, she was on her way home. Three and a half years after sailing from Scotland as the fifteen-year-old bride of an Irishman she’d never met, Maisie was prepared to make her play in Edinburgh.
But first, this visit to Yorkshire. Amidst her voluminous business correspondents was the household treasurer for Her Royal Highness Anne Isabella, Princess of Wales. Maisie’s small but successful business interests had profited the princess in her investments, and the treasurer had issued an invitation to meet with him in person in the cathedral city of York. She had considered for ten seconds—six seconds longer than it usually took her to make a decision—before agreeing to sail to Hull and riding the remainder of the way north.