The Virgin's Spy (Tudor Legacy #2)(14)
As Kit strode through the noisy, busy courtyard in search of the Earl of Leicester’s men, a closed carriage clattered in through the gates. In the immediate absence of Ormond, Kilkenny’s steward—in his red Butler badge marked with three gold cups—hurried to greet the new visitors.
“Who is it?” Kit asked curiously of one of the clerks who looked slightly less frantic than the others in sight.
“Scots girl, granddaughter of William Sinclair in Edinburgh.”
Kit nodded, for everyone knew the name. William Sinclair owned one of the largest banking and merchant concerns in Europe and was at least twice as wealthy as Queen Elizabeth. Or he had been—for the old man died earlier that year.
“What’s she doing in Kilkenny?”
“On her way to marry old Finian Kavanaugh. Lord Ormond is to remind her that Scots money best not be used to finance Irish rebels. No worry, really. Her brother gave her a dowry, but not enough to tempt Kavanaugh into open fighting. He’ll get sons on her and that’s all.”
The steward handed out a lady from the interior of the carriage. She was small, almost a child in size, and she looked up at the steward with a tilt to her head that had something of a child’s curiosity in it. After greeting the steward, she cast a glance around the courtyard and faltered slightly at seeing Kit.
Seeing her hesitation, the steward must have decided it indicated interest, for he at once led her toward Kit.
“Lord Christopher Courtenay,” he said to the girl as they neared. “Youngest son of the Duke of Exeter, here briefly from Dublin in the company of the Earl of Leicester. Mistress Mariota Sinclair.”
“Maisie,” she corrected. “What an illustrious guest list I have come upon! I am quite abashed.”
Kit bowed to the girl, who must have been nearly a child in age, as well as size. If she was more than fourteen he’d be surprised. Not a beauty, either, though she had good cheekbones and arched brows over wide-set gray eyes. There was a glint of fair hair from beneath her hood. And despite her words, she did not look at all abashed.
After a few banal words of welcome, Kit made his escape, determined more than ever to keep with the men tonight. Better to eat in the stables than sit at a table with ambitious earls and cunning women and child-brides.
Poor child. He wouldn’t wish an Irish marriage on any girl outside this island. He spared a moment’s pity for Maisie Sinclair, then cleared his head of her with a shake and followed the clerk to the lodgings set aside for Brandon’s men.
By August 17 the combined forces of Oliver Dane and Stephen Courtenay had arrived in Shannon and they could see Carrigafoyle standing defiantly on the small rock in the estuary. They made separate but adjoining encampments several miles off to await orders from Pelham. They’d had reports as they marched that two Spanish ships had landed five hundred men a week ago who were now in the fortress along with the local Irish. Including women and children—a development Stephen did not like at all.
But Dane merely grunted at the news. “Don’t get squeamish on me. Irish women are not like ours. They’ll cut your throat as soon as look at you. It’s the women they send to torture their prisoners. If they’re holed up with their men—well, that’s their choice and they must stand by it.”
In Stephen’s opinion their choices had been few, for he had traveled through a wasteland to reach here. The earth looked as though it had been salted and burned, to ensure that no crops could grow this year or any year in the near future. The few Irish they’d seen were gaunt and hollow-cheeked with hunger.
Dane noted Stephen’s unease and seemed equal parts surprised and amused by it. “Don’t get me wrong, Courtenay. Before she slits your throat, she will give you pleasure you’ve never dreamed of. Bed an Irish girl—the right Irish girl—and you’ll never be contented with a polite Englishwoman again. But in the end, best kill her before she kills you.”
It was getting harder and harder to respect the man from whom he must take orders. Stephen jerked his head in what could charitably be called a nod and stalked off to his own tent. Only the tiny part of him that still responded to every situation with mordant humour noted that perhaps part of his irritation was actually the lack of women. Not necessarily to take to bed—though he wouldn’t have said no, whatever his father’s counsel—but simply as part of his life. Raised by an involved and clever mother, with two sisters who could rival any woman in Europe for wit and learning, accustomed to a court ruled by a queen of uncommon intelligence and strength…well, slogging through the razed fields and sullen populace of Ireland was only made worse by the lack of feminine company.
His mood did not improve the next morning when summoned for a meeting with Dane and William Pelham, Lord Justice of Ireland. Pelham had been tempered by Ireland, a rigid man made harder by previous failure and the impossible task he’d now been given. His high forehead sloped back to close-cropped hair, his fierce mustache and beard bristling with restrained nerves.
“English ships under Admiral Winter’s command sailed into the estuary yesterday. If Spain were serious about supporting the rebels, they’d never have drawn off their own ships. But they have, and with Winter on the water, Carrigafoyle will not last more than three days.”
“Bombardment begins tomorrow?” Dane asked, as casually as if inquiring about dinner.