The Virgin's Spy (Tudor Legacy #2)(11)
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.