The Virgin's Spy (Tudor Legacy #2)(35)

But Julien kept talking. “I understand your guilt—”

“Every leader loses men,” Stephen interrupted sharply. “Guilt is the price of leadership.”

“That’s not why you feel guilty. This is not the expected guilt of a man who has lost those under his command. This is the corrosive, soul-destroying guilt of absolute personal failure. I know the look and feel of it, believe me. Drinking won’t cure it. Neither will self-destruction. There are only two remedies I know of. The second remedy is appropriate vengeance.”

Despite himself, Stephen asked, “And what is the first remedy?”

“Telling the truth of what happened.”

“Talking won’t change things.”

“It might change you.”

Stephen snorted. “I don’t need to be changed.”

“You don’t deserve to be changed—that’s what you mean. Stephen, I spent eight long years believing that of myself. But it was all based on a lie. If talking won’t change things, neither will punishing yourself.”

Even with his back turned, Stephen supposed that Julien could read the lines of his shoulders and knew how close he was to tears. He had not cried for any of it. He would not start now.

“Stephen, why did you miss the attack on your camp?”

“It was the middle of the night!”

“But you still think it’s your fault,” Julien noted, not without compassion.

“It’s always the commander’s fault.”

“Where were you when they came?”

“In my tent. I’d been asleep.” It was like the words wanted to come out despite his fighting it. Maybe he was just too tired to fight it any longer.

“Had you set up guards and watches through the night?” Julien demanded.

“Of course.”

“Then why do you feel guilty for being in bed? Even a commander must sleep.”

Stephen had no idea what he was going to say until he said it. “My father wouldn’t have been there.”

“In bed? Look, I’m as awed by your father as any man living, believe me, but despite that I’m quite sure the man sleeps. Even in the field.”

“He would not have been there,” Stephen repeated, each word like a hammer to his heart.

A long, thoughtful silence…

Then, as kindly as he’d ever spoken before, Julien asked, “Stephen, who else was in your bed?”





3 January 1582


Mother,

Julien has finally broken through to Stephen. He has not even told me the whole of it, and although I agree that it would be best for Stephen to share as and when he chooses, I’ll admit to being slightly put out at being on the outside. In the last twenty-four hours Stephen has eaten more than he had in the previous ten days and he is sleeping without too much wine. So Julien reports. Yes, I have lent my husband to my brother even at nights—Julien stays on a pallet bed to ensure Stephen is not lost in the dark.

This is why we came. And here we will stay as long as Stephen wants us. Until spring, perhaps? Julien thinks it might be wise. I shall try and get Stephen home after that.

Lucette





When Cardinal Granvelle told him who would be heading the spring visit from England, Philip of Spain had to blink several times before he could speak. “The Duke of Exeter himself? Are you certain?”

“Very certain. It appears the Princess of Wales requested that the delegation include her close friends, Christopher and Philippa Courtenay. Lord Exeter seems to think his personal presence is required to ensure his children’s safety.”

“To be fair,” Philip noted drily, “his children were caught in the Nightingale web. I don’t suppose he trusts my new wife in the slightest. Let them come—but it will make for some interesting dynamics between us all.”

That was an understatement. The Nightingale Plot, which ended with Mary Stuart’s release from her English prison, had also involved a violent hostage situation at the Courtenay home of Wynfield Mote. Philip did not imagine that Dominic Courtenay would have forgotten. He did not know the Duke of Exeter well—he doubted anyone other than his family and Elizabeth knew him well—but Philip respected him for an experienced soldier and an honest man. They would have to be extremely careful while the Courtenays were in Spain not to reveal their Irish plans.

Which meant keeping Mary on a tight leash. When Philip told her that the Courtenays would be chief among the visiting English party, his wife sneered as only a queen can. “As long as it is not Stephen Courtenay. I could not bear to be reminded of his treachery.”

Philip thought that an overreaction. The treachery of reporting on an imprisoned queen’s behaviour and movements to her captor? Stephen Courtenay was English—what had Mary expected? But Philip simply made noncommittal noises she could interpret as agreement if she chose.

Fortunately, Mary’s satisfaction at having produced two princes who continued each week to thrive, and neither of whom showed any incipient signs of the Hapsburg jaw, meant that she was more easily deflected from matters of state. As long as he assured her that Ireland was never far from his mind, she seemed content not to know the details.

Philip himself had designed much of the plan that, thus far, was proceeding without incident. Part one had been the landing of Spanish soldiers at Carrigafoyle. Because not every soldier who landed had remained there—one hundred well-trained and well-equipped men marched away into the interior well in advance of the fighting and were now cloistered in the impassable Wicklow Mountains.