The Virgin's Spy (Tudor Legacy #2)(12)
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.
Elizabeth turned her back. “That is all.”
Only when they had left did she allow herself to sigh and rub her forehead. Would to God she could solve the Catholic problem. She had been so certain, taking the throne twenty-three years ago, that navigating a middle path between the torrent of religious fanatics on either side was the only way to keep England afloat.
She still believed it was England’s only hope—she just didn’t know if there was any chance of success.
—
Kilkenny Castle was an impressive fortress that had controlled the fording point of the River Nore for more than four hundred years, and the town that had sprung up near its walls was one of the largest in Ireland. Chartered by the Lord of Leinster in 1207, the burghers of the town had long profited from the protection of the Butler family.
Awed, as he was meant to be, Kit approached the walls of Kilkenny with Brandon Dudley and fifty of the Earl of Leicester’s men for a courtesy meeting with the Earl of Ormond. Though Leicester’s assignment was primarily in Dublin, maintaining close ties with Ormond was a very close second.
There was a flurry of building work within the castle’s outer walls. It took only moments to identify Thomas Butler, black-haired and fierce in the midst of a swirl of people from rough-garbed workmen to sober clerks. Kit was hardly a stranger to castles and palaces but had seen few as impressively medieval as Kilkenny Castle. With its four enormous circular towers and massive defensive ditch, it looked like a place prepared to withstand Viking raiders.
With a shout, Black Tom hailed Brandon Dudley. “What’s this, Robert Dudley risen from the dead? For sure, boy, you have your uncle’s very aspect.”
“But not his arrogance, or I’d have something less flattering to say about your own aspect, Ormond.” Brandon swung down from his horse and submitted good-naturedly to his fellow earl’s thumps on the back.
Kit was prepared to be overlooked entirely, but Brandon Dudley pulled him quickly into the circle. “And here’s Lord Exeter’s younger son, Christopher. He’s my secretary while in Ireland.”
“Dominic Courtenay’s boy. But with the look of your mother, all the better for you. The Duchess of Exeter is, as I recall, an uncommonly beautiful woman.”
“She is, my lord.”
“Call me Ormond. We do not stand on ceremony so much in Ireland, save against our fellow landowners. Come.” Ormond gestured to the two men to follow him, leaving the others of their escort in the capable hands of his own men. They followed Ormond into Kilkenny Castle. Though built as a Norman stronghold, it had been more recently opened to the light and air with Tudor windows set into the medieval walls, and the interior was now almost as much elegant manor as military fortress.
Kit found the castle a good backdrop for Black Tom. The earl was fifty years old, the same age as Kit’s father, and like him had retained the figure and bearing of a serving soldier. Ormond’s abundant black hair had less silver to it than Dominic Courtenay’s and there was something definitely, restlessly, Irish to him despite his Norman heritage. He was cousin to Queen Elizabeth from several generations back, for Anne Boleyn’s grandmother, Margaret Butler, had been born in this very castle more than a hundred years ago. There had even been a time in Anne Boleyn’s youth (Pippa had told him these stories) when she was nearly married back into the Irish Butler family. What a change that would have wrought—no Queen Anne to give Henry VIII a son, no Elizabeth Tudor to reign now.