The Virgin's Spy (Tudor Legacy #2)(36)
In the spring, the Irish clans would begin to send out strike forces against English targets. While they kept the English busy riding hither and yon to deal with their gallowglass—the hired soldiers who were the backbone of the disorganized Irish military—the Spanish would march to the relief of Askeaton. Gerald FitzGerald, Earl of Desmond, had been holed up in his last remaining stronghold for many long months now. The Spanish troops would free him up to venture beyond reach of Askeaton and once more harry the west of Munster.
And a year from now, just before next winter closed the seas, at a time when Elizabeth would have difficulty finding more men to send after a season’s campaigning, Spanish ships would land troops in force. With five thousand Spanish troops, the Irish rebels would be able to press against the English as never before. Drive them back into the Pale, perhaps all the way to Dublin. Manage to lay hands on one or two of Elizabeth’s loyal earls—Thomas Butler, for choice—and the initiative would swing all the way to the Catholics.
And as figurehead of the Catholic peoples? The second son of their Most Catholic Majesties, Philip and Mary. Their firstborn, Prince Charles, would one day follow his father as King of Spain. But by the time the four-month-old twins were talking, Philip intended to give Prince Alexander a country of his own to rule as well.
—
It was the longest, coldest, hardest winter of Stephen Courtenay’s life, but by the time the first flowers began to bud, he had been rebuilt. Not to who he was before, for that innocence could never be reclaimed, but as someone who could cope without strong drink. Someone who could sleep most nights. Someone darker, yes, but also stronger.
Lucette and Julien remained until late March. He wasn’t sure what Lucie did with all her time—she had always been busy with books and ledgers and equations and long letters back and forth with scholars—but Julien made it his business to mold Stephen into a fighter of his own kind. Quick, unconventional, solitary. The lessons bled into more than just his weapons training. Julien had operated for eight years in enemy territory—his adversaries might have been his fellow Frenchmen, but they would have killed him in a heartbeat if they’d known what he was doing—and he couldn’t help but teach Stephen how to rely on himself, how to trust his instincts for peril, how to hold onto the essence of who he was through the masks of secrecy and lies.
Only near the end did Stephen acknowledge what he was training for.
The day before Lucette’s departure, she claimed her brother for a stroll through the box-hedge garden. Between the squares of evergreen, bright crocuses and sunny narcissus braved the chilly air. Stephen allowed Lucette to take his arm and waited for her to say what she’d kept inside all winter.
He expected questions or gentle reproofs or inquiries as to his future. Instead, she said, “I was thinking about the time you and I ran away from home. Do you remember?”
For the first time since Ireland, laughter bubbled out of Stephen. He remembered, all right. They had taken their ponies from the Tiverton stable and headed northeast. For some reason, lost to the mists of time, their parents had gone to Wynfield Mote without them and Lucette decided to take matters into her own hands.
“It was your fault,” Stephen said, recalling. “I was simply following my grown-up sister.”
“I was ten,” Lucette pointed out caustically.
“To an eight-year-old, that’s very grown up. I suppose it’s surprising we got as far as we did.”
“Do you think so? I think we were humoured. Harrington followed us, Stephen, without hurting our pride by letting us know it. He let us ride for three hours and only when it began to rain did he intervene to bring us back.”
Stephen’s breath caught in his throat at Harrington’s name. But after a moment he realized it did not hurt as bitterly as he’d braced for. There was pain, yes, but mellowed by memories of love and care. Lucette let him walk in silence for a time, her fingers tightening a little on his arm.
At last Stephen said, “Thank you, Lucie. I can’t imagine you wanted to spend your first winter with your husband stuck out here.”
“Make it worth my while, Stephen. Don’t slip back, don’t hide, don’t run away. Make the amends you feel necessary, and then move on. Your life is not wholly your own; it belongs to those who love you as well. Do you hear me?”
Stephen stopped walking and turned his sister to face him. She looked fierce and vulnerable at the same time, with those blue eyes that she alone of the Courtenays possessed. “Lucie,” he said softly. “I swear that I will not give you cause to save me again.” Then he hugged her.
Lucette and Julien departed the next day. One week later, Stephen also left Farleigh Hungerford. He packed thoughtfully but not extravagantly. He held long meetings with his steward setting forth plans and then delegating to him responsibility for at least a year. Then he traveled to London.
His family was at Whitehall. He met with his parents first, alone, and told them the whole of what had happened in Ireland—from the massacre at Carrigafoyle, to the dispute over the prisoners, to the slaughter near Kilkenny. He told them where he’d been and with whom and that Harrington’s last words to him were a warning against misbehaviour.
When he was finished, his mother said, “When you are ready, it is something you should tell Carrie. For your own sake, as much as hers.”
His father said, “You are not the first man, nor the last, to take to bed the wrong woman at the wrong time. Try not to do it again.”