The Virgin's Spy (Tudor Legacy #2)(38)
22 April 1582
My dear Lucie,
I had my suspicions when I saw how many trunks Father loaded for our travels to Spain. I kept waiting for someone to say something…but it seems the secret was well kept until now. When it is too late for a furious queen to interfere.
Mother is coming to Spain with us.
She wrote four letters tonight, carefully sealed with her signature star badge, and gave them into the hands of Lord Burghley’s son, Robert Cecil, who rode with us to Portsmouth. We have been here two nights, but the weather is perfect and we set sail tomorrow morning in the great galley built during the days of the last king, the Elizabeth Rose. The Duke and Duchess of Exeter, and their two younger children—I wonder what the Spanish king will make of that. I wouldn’t put it past Mother to task Philip to his face with taking you and Anabel hostage at Wynfield Mote.
Poor Robert Cecil. He was no match for Mother. She smiled at him warmly and said, “Don’t fret—no one will have expected this. Just deliver my letters.”
One for you, of course, and one for Stephen. One for Carrie at Wynfield Mote…and one for the queen. It is that last one I wish I could read!
Pippa
22 April 1582
Dear Elizabeth,
Yes, I address you as my friend rather than my queen. Because my friend will understand why I am doing this rather better than the queen will. You have always been prone to quick offense, Elizabeth, but you know me too well to let resentment linger.
I did not ask your permission to go to Spain because I knew you would not give it. But I made a vow all those years ago, when I returned from France and then learned Dominic had survived. I vowed that I would never again cross the sea without him. And he feels the same. I know your arguments—that we should not trust so many of our family to a single ship, that illness could lay waste to all of us…I don’t care. Where Dominic goes, I go, at least when it involves oceans and months of separation.
We will be fine! I promise to hold my tongue in front of Philip and Mary—though if I am given a private audience with the Scots queen, I may possibly find a few things to say. Somehow, I do not think you would mind that.
Promise me that, if anything does happen to us against my blithe belief in my indestructibility, that you will care for my Lucette and Stephen. As I have always cared for your Anabel.
Your most loving, impetuous friend,
Minuette Courtenay
The last thing Stephen did before abandoning his name and title in favour of going undercover to Ireland was to visit Wynfield Mote. It looked its best in the late April sun, showing its outer face of mellow stone to the world. But the true beauty of Wynfield was hidden—it only revealed itself fully once one crossed the moat and passed through the gatehouse. The house had been rebuilt to its original medieval design, around a central courtyard, and as he dismounted, Carrie appeared at the entrance to the hall.
Stephen swallowed once, then handed over his horse to a waiting groom and went straight to Carrie. He didn’t quite know how he was going to greet her—With formality? Begging forgiveness at her feet?—but she took the matter into her own hands. As he reached the top of the steps, she pulled him into an embrace. He might have been a child again, going to Carrie for both comfort and dry wisdom. For only the second time since Kilkenny, Stephen felt the relief of tears.
Her own eyes were damp when she dropped her arms, but her expression was a familiar mix of affection and forbearance.
“It took you long enough,” she said tartly. “I nearly came to Farleigh Hungerford myself to shake you out of it.”
“Out of what?”
“Out of feeling sorry for yourself.”
“That wasn’t…I didn’t mean…” he stuttered.
“Hush, now.” She put a hand to his cheek and smiled. “Come inside and rest. You can tell me all about it over food.”
As when he was a child, Stephen did precisely as Carrie said. He rested and changed and joined her in the painted breakfast chamber for a meal of spinach pie and toasted cheese. And then he told her all of it—not even leaving out Roisin and his own poor judgment—and when he was finished, they sat in silence for some minutes.
“And so,” she said finally. “Have you spent all this time away afraid to ask for my forgiveness, Stephen?”
“I…yes, I suppose I have.”
“Then you are a fool, for I would have offered it long since. Even supposing it were a matter for forgiveness, which it is not. It sounds to me as though it was simply the fortunes of war. And those are not your responsibility.”
He drew a deep breath and let it out, a little shakily. “Thank you, Carrie.”
“Now that we’ve settled that—you are leaving England for a time.”
“I am.”
“Somewhere you don’t want people asking questions about. Well, I won’t ask, either. I will only say to be careful. It would be poor repayment of my husband’s life to lose yours in the bargain. Do you hear me?”
Stephen smiled, and it was the truest smile he’d offered in almost a year. “I hear you. I will come back, Carrie.”
She sniffed. “See that you do.”
—
When Elizabeth learned that Minuette had boarded the ship for Spain with her family, she was incandescent with rage. If she could have gotten her hands on any member of that rebellious, proud family, she might well have locked them up in the Tower purely for spite. But Lucette and Stephen were well out of her reach, and so, as usual, it was Walsingham and Burghley who bore the brunt of her temper.