The Virgin's Spy (Tudor Legacy #2)(22)
It was some hours later, afternoon squalls dimming what light there was, when Stephen awoke. Kit had been sitting in the chamber, waiting, and was on his feet at once when Stephen groaned.
His brother looked awful, and Kit was only too glad to tell him so. “I should let Eleanor Percy in here,” he said lightly. “One look at you like this and she might finally give up on trying to catch you for Nora.”
Stephen’s eyelids fluttered shut, then opened again as though it pained him. It probably did, judging from the damage to his face. “Kilkenny,” he rasped. “My men?”
“Safely here. And Ormond sent a company after those still marching. They’ll be all right now.”
“Not all of them.”
“No.”
“How many, Kit?”
“What do you remember?” Why was he hedging? He hated it when others did it to him—just tell him and be done with it. But he had never imagined his perfect older brother looking so…damaged. So vulnerable.
“I know Harrington is dead.” If anything could have made Kit more anxious, it was the complete absence of emotion in Stephen’s voice. As though his brother couldn’t bear for that to matter and so nothing must matter ever again. “How many others?”
“Three.” Without being asked, Kit recited the names the sergeant had given him.
Stephen did not close his eyes, but he didn’t look at Kit, either. He seemed focused on some point outside the walls of the castle, a point that fixed and pained him at the same time.
“Your arm is broken in two places, and several ribs as well. Looks like you were kicked once you were down. And your face, of course. Ormond’s physician says you should recover.”
“Recover?” Only then did Stephen look at him, with a depth of resentment and rage Kit could never have imagined from his brother. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Elizabeth’s journey to Ludlow was an exquisitely judged measure of pomp and practicality. She had welcomed Jehan de Simier, personal envoy of the Duc d’Anjou, at Hampton Court Palace, where they’d spent three days in semiformal affairs before setting out northwest to the Welsh border. Simier, Anjou’s Master of Wardrobe, had something of a dubious reputation, but how could she not be impressed with a man who brought her twelve thousand crowns’ worth of jewels?
Actually, Elizabeth found herself quite taken by Simier as they traveled; by the end of the first day on the road she had taken to calling him “my monkey” as a play on the Latin allusion of his surname. He had the qualities she most appreciated: intelligence, education, and wit. And he knew how to flatter, which she would never admit to craving. So adept was he at keeping her entertained as they traveled to Ludlow that a suspicious Walsingham murmured one night, “One would think the whoreson has come to court England for himself and not his master.”
Dominic and Minuette joined the royal party as they passed near Wynfield Mote, but they kept to themselves for the most part. That was the general condition for their presence at any royal event: do not force us to take part formally or use us against others, and we will be there. In this case, they were attending for Anabel’s sake, not Elizabeth’s. She tried not to take it personally.
The last night was spent at another Hampton Court, this one the medieval home of the Coningsby family. The quadrangular, castellated manor presented a pretty aspect with square towers echoing the shape of the three-story gatehouse. A pleasant spot and home, and as it had borne its name long before Elizabeth’s palace was built, she refrained from comment on the matter. They were only fifteen miles from Ludlow, which allowed for a gentle pace tomorrow and a celebratory arrival into the town and castle by early afternoon. There were messengers awaiting her, and Elizabeth summoned Walsingham and Burghley. When she realized that one of them bore news from Ireland, she sent a courteous note to Dominic and Minuette asking if they would care for firsthand news of their sons.
She had dealt with the other reports—the questioning of Jesuit Edmund Campion in the Tower, a polite letter from Anabel reporting her arrival at Ludlow—by the time her friends appeared. Always their reverences would be different from those of others, their bows and curtsies more familiar, and Elizabeth quickly motioned them to sit. Then she nodded to Walsingham to report.
“Carrigafoyle has fallen,” he said bluntly. “After several days of bombardment from our ships, Pelham and Dane led the assault on the tower. The Earl of Somerset”—a brief nod to Stephen’s parents—“and his men were tasked with rounding up those who fled. No losses in his company, and only minor losses to the other English troops.”
“The Irish and Spanish?” Burghley asked.
Walsingham did not blink. “We did not take prisoners.”
Burghley raised a disapproving eyebrow. “A hundred or so Irish and five hundred Spaniards killed?”
“As for the numbers of Spanish…it seems not all of those who landed in Ireland were at Carrigafoyle. Pelham reports there are a hundred Spanish soldiers unaccounted for.”
Elizabeth tapped her fingers on the arm of her chair. “Slipped away to meet the Earl of Desmond at Askeaton?” she pondered.
“Perhaps. You understand, this report was sent the very evening of Carrigafoyle’s fall. More news will make its way to us quickly now.”