The Virgin's Spy (Tudor Legacy #2)(21)
Ireland was not much for sport, unless killing one another counted. And having to play gracious courtier to Eleanor Percy was nothing short of galling. She stayed at Kilkenny as though expecting Stephen to arrive any day. Barring that, she seemed prepared to charm Ormond, though Kit still couldn’t decide if it was for her daughter’s sake or her own. Surely the Earl of Ormond, old as he was, would require a second wife able to bear him children. Then again, perhaps Eleanor wasn’t interested in marriage. Her morals had proved to be elastic from an early age, when she had borne her daughter to the king.
The worst part of this latest visit at Kilkenny Castle was the absence of both Nora Percy and Brandon Dudley. Nora had received a personal invitation from Anabel—who was, after all, her cousin—to attend the investiture at Ludlow, and as Dudley had also been invited, he escorted her back to England. It was painful for Kit to watch them go. Anabel had not sent for him. Never mind that he had told her not to—it still stung.
Ormond was a man worth cultivating, at least, and one with a certain sense of humour and practicality that Kit found refreshing. The earl was not afraid of Elizabeth, having known her since childhood, and was thus not particularly impressed by Kit’s connection to her and her court. And Kit was prepared to listen and learn from the older man.
He and Ormond were in the courtyard in late August, headed for a morning’s ride along the River Nore, when the earl’s men alerted them to riders approaching. Wariness was the order of the day when unexpected strangers appeared in Ireland, and Ormond took to the tower battlements to view for himself.
Just steps behind Ormond, Kit spotted the fairly sizable group moving with ragged slowness. Unusually, there were more horses than riders. As they drew nearer, Kit could make out that several of the riderless horses bore what looked like bodies draped over them. He felt a chill like hailstones striking the back of his neck, sudden and sharp, even before he saw the raised standard.
Quartered in gold and azure, with the torteaux and lions of their father, stars for their mother, and storks representing due filial piety from the eldest son—the arms of Stephen Courtenay, Earl of Somerset.
He was down the stone stairs and at the gatehouse before Ormond could stop him. The earl was quick enough to put together the signs; when he followed, he said simply, “Lord Somerset’s men. Do you see your brother with them?”
Kit shook his head once, praying silently with a fervor that shocked him. Of course Stephen was all right. Stephen was the heir—blessed, adored, showered with all the gifts of a gracious creator. Nothing bad could ever happen to Stephen. Even when, as an oft-jealous child, Kit might have wished it.
He did not know the man who rode ahead of the small company, for Kit had hardly ever set foot on Stephen’s Somerset lands. But the man looked as though he knew what he was about, early thirties with a lined face that spoke of experience. And also, Kit realized as he approached and dismounted, anger and grief.
“Lord Ormond,” the man said, identifying Thomas Butler by his distinctive size and coloring.
Kit pushed his way forward. “Where’s my brother?” he demanded.
A moment of confusion, then understanding. “You’re Christopher. He said you might be at Kilkenny.”
“Where’s Stephen?”
“He’s alive, but injured.” He gestured to one of the horses bearing the less upright.
Kit took a step forward but Ormond’s men were already moving, bearing down on those clattering up to the gatehouse.
“What happened?” Ormond demanded, though it looked rather clear to Kit.
“Set upon in the night. We had prisoners with us, women and children taken from Carrigafoyle, we were bringing them here. We thought at first they’d come to free the prisoners, but it was blood they wanted. Every last one of the prisoners, cut down. And four of our own men who tried to prevent it.”
That was all Kit waited to hear. He’d had a good look at Stephen at last, unconscious and bruised spectacularly. One arm was strapped to his chest. Several grooms carefully eased him from the horse onto the ground. Already litters were appearing in the courtyard.
But Stephen was the only wounded man. The other four horses carried the bodies of the dead. Kit stumbled when he caught sight of a familiar, enormous form carefully strapped to the largest horse.
“Oh, no,” Kit stuttered and prayed, “oh, God, please no.”
But there was no man on earth who could be mistaken for Harrington. The Duke of Exeter’s aide, steward, friend. As fiercely loyal a man as Dominic, and as fiercely loving of his own wife, Carrie. What on earth would the Courtenays do without Harrington?
Stephen was carried still unconscious to a spacious chamber and physicians summoned. Unable to do anything for his brother, Kit threw himself into doing what needed to be done for Stephen’s men. The slightly injured were treated, then baths and food and beds. Kit spoke further with the sergeant, a sturdy man named Lewis, and with Ormond’s permission sent a contingent of Kilkenny men to the campsite. “We covered the prisoners decently as we could, but didn’t dare delay to bury them,” Lewis had explained.
Kit wanted to see the site for himself, but knew that Ormond’s men would be much better equipped to identify anomalies and evidence of the attackers. And there was one duty he could not delegate.
Harrington could not be allowed to lie in Irish ground. He must be taken home—and so must Stephen’s other men. That meant embalming and coffins, carefully sealed and treated, and Ormond’s own chaplain to speak over them in these first hours of their deaths. For all his careless, reckless attitude, Kit knew precisely what should be done and with what respect.