The Virgin's Spy (Tudor Legacy #2)(17)

“I’ve done what needed doing,” Dane said calmly, but the slightest twitch around his left eye showed that he hadn’t missed Stephen’s insubordination. “Don’t come into my country telling me how to win a war, English lordling. Ireland is not like anywhere else.”

“And that justifies butchering unarmed men who have surrendered? Like they were nothing more than cattle? Do you have any idea the folly you have wrought?”

“Killing my enemies? That is no folly.”

“You haven’t destroyed your enemies today, Dane. You have strengthened them a hundredfold. Have you ever met King Philip of Spain? I have.” Stephen felt the recklessness seize hold of his tongue and made no effort to restrain it. Damned with being controlled and sensible and cautious. “And I spent six months last year in close quarters with Mary Stuart. There is no pride like their Catholic righteousness, and I tell you that what you have done today has single-handedly ensured that Spain’s support of the Irish rebels will no longer be halfhearted. Philip will send an army now—his wife will see to it—and what is left of Ireland will be razed to the ground. You stupid, stupid man.”

Dane’s fist didn’t connect as hard as it might have, just hard enough to rock Stephen back several steps. “I don’t like English lordlings,” Dane spat at him, “and I don’t like boys half my age telling me what to do. I’ve no more need of you now that Carrigafoyle has fallen. Take your men and go crawling back to that bitch of a queen. Tell her to leave us alone to bring the Irish to heel.”

Stephen spun around, head ringing from the blow but his temper still burning bright enough to keep him moving without showing sign of it. Then Dane called after him, “I’ll send guards for the prisoners you rounded up.”

With foreboding, Stephen half turned back. “What will you do with them?”

“Don’t worry, boy. I don’t intend to run through a bunch of women with my sword.”

Before Stephen could decide if he believed him, Dane added with a mocking edge to his tone, “I plan to hang the lot of them.”





20 August 1581


Lucie,

I suppose I hardly need bother to write, as this letter will scarcely reach you before you are here. But habits are hard to break, and without Kit to talk to I need to spill out my thoughts in words of some sort.

We arrived in Ludlow in great state this morning. Sir Henry Sidney, newly appointed President of the Council of the Marches, spared no expense in welcoming the princess, who is, in some sense, displacing him. Sidney has built comfortable family apartments here, which they will continue to occupy, but whenever Anabel chooses, Ludlow will be first and foremost her home.

Fortunately for the Sidneys, Anabel is eminently reasonable. When she chooses to be. She has nothing to gain from being difficult at Ludlow, and everything to lose. So we swept into the town and castle with a flurry of graciousness and gratitude. All eyes were on Anabel, thanks to the queen’s decision not to arrive until just before the investiture, and I think Anabel quite reveled in being the center of attention. She does it so well.

The Sidneys, while welcoming to Anabel, are less than excited about the prospect of a possible French marriage. I was politely cornered after dinner by Philip, their oldest son. In the gentlest, warmest manner possible, he grilled me about Anabel’s wishes. Could the princess be brought to oppose the queen in the matter of the Duc d’Anjou?

Observers might have suspected Philip Sidney of having his own designs on Anabel—he is, after all, Robert Dudley’s nephew and thus a favourite of the queen. Or they might have thought him interested in me. Even Anabel eyed me mischievously. She should know better. All the world knows that Philip is desperately in love with young Penelope Devereux—I say young, although she is only a year younger than I—but that is nine years younger than Philip, and with her father’s death it does not seem likely a marriage will be ever made.

No, Philip’s interest in me is only in how I am connected to Anabel. The Sidneys, nearly Puritan in their religious sentiments, are adamantly opposed to allying with France. Of course they will be, of necessity, polite to Anjou’s personal representative while he is at Ludlow with the queen, but Philip at last asked me quite bluntly, “Can the princess be persuaded to look elsewhere for a husband?”

“Where would you suggest?” I asked, with my best impression of wide-eyed innocence. “Scotland? Rest assured that James’s court will also be well represented at the investiture. Beyond that, I would never presume to oppose the royal family in matters of matrimony.”

With a shrewd grin, Philip said, “Oh no, the Courtenays would never oppose the royals in such matters.”

I’ve always liked Philip. But beneath his charm and his family’s warmth is a stern conviction of their own righteousness. There are many in England who echo that. Puritans and militant Catholics—sometimes I think there is nothing to choose between them.

At least I am not Anabel, having to balance all those prying people wanting a say in my most intimate future.

Love,

Pippa





23 August 1851


Pippa,

This letter may not reach you until I do myself—but if you want to write, I have no objections. So Philip Sidney was flirting with you for information? How very wicked of him! If Kit were there, he’d never have been allowed to, so enjoy the experience while you can. Our brothers seem to believe our intelligence flies out the window the first time a good-looking man turns his attention our way.