The Virgin's Spy (Tudor Legacy #2)(42)
And a subtle taunt, to the absent English queen who had been divorced half for her religion and half for her age and inability to bear Philip further children.
“I cannot wait for you to meet my sons,” Mary finished triumphantly, thus underscoring her victory. Where Elizabeth had given Philip only a daughter, Mary had given him two perfect male heirs.
Kit had a flash of understanding in that moment, for if Mary were so assured of her triumph, why did she have to underscore it so carefully? No, as far as Mary Stuart was concerned, the battle between the two queens was not over. It had, perhaps, scarcely begun.
—
Stephen’s return to Ireland was effected under much different circumstances than his first visit. Rather than landing in Waterford in open daylight, his men marching serious and disciplined through the English-held town, he came ashore alone out of a fishing boat and was met by a rather dubious character whose speech was nearly unintelligible but who led him straightaway to a small farm.
Where, incongruously, awaited Thomas Butler, Earl of Ormond.
The older earl, dressed inconspicuously beneath a cloak of rough homespun, surveyed Stephen critically from head to foot. “Well, you look better than when last I laid eyes on you. Sure you want to do this? Ireland didn’t treat you so well the last time.”
“That’s precisely why I’m back. To reset the balance.”
“Better you than me,” Ormond grunted. “Don’t know why Walsingham’s taking such a risk.”
“Because I asked him.”
“You know, son, once you’re in—that’s it. You’re on your own. No visits, no messages direct…we can’t risk blowing your cover.”
“I’m quite clear on that, yes. Walsingham went into detail.”
Ormond did not smile at the, admittedly weak, jest. “Does your father know the details as well?”
“It’s none of his business—or yours.”
That did wring a smile from Ormond. “And here I thought you were nothing like your little brother.” He rubbed the back of his neck, arms strong and thick. Ormond was a working earl, as Stephen thought of it. A man of action more comfortable with his men than paying court in softer surroundings. Finally, Ormond nodded. “Fine. You’re off at dawn to meet up with Walsingham’s contact. Don’t ask me who it is—I don’t know. Until dawn, keep your head down in here.”
After an uncomfortable night in the straw, the guide roused Stephen at dawn. Their journey served as a physical progression into his new role. With each mile his title and privileges receded further, until Stephen Courtenay began to seem like an entirely different person. The last time he rode across this landscape, he had been in command, living on the edge of his nerves with the responsibility of prisoners and soldiers. He felt those memories reaching for him—the anxiety and panic threatening to undo his hard-won control—and kept it all at bay by reciting the Catholic prayers he had labored to learn as cover for his new identity.
The guide left him finally in a crofter’s hut a mile up a hill off the rough track that served as a road. Stephen hoped his new contact would make it to him before he finished the last of the bread—nothing in the landscape promised easy access to food.
The contact did make it before the end of the bread, but barely. A day and a half after Stephen arrived at the hut, a man strode up the hill leading a shaggy pony.
In educated English with a hint of Irish melody beneath it, the man greeted him by his new name. “Stephen Wyatt, is it?”
Wyatt had been his mother’s father, a name less laden with aristocratic Norman overtones than Courtenay. Jonathan Wyatt had been a scholar and gentleman farmer, of no particular account or note, ideal for Stephen’s cover.
The man, who was younger than he’d at first looked, said, “I’m Peter Martin.”
“Directly from England?” Stephen asked.
“From France, most recently. I spent two years at the English College in Douai, but stopped short of taking orders.”
The seminary whose primary purpose was training men to go undercover to England to, first, succor English Catholics and, second, topple Queen Elizabeth. Though Stephen knew Walsingham had spies everywhere, just the name of the place made his hands tense. “Right,” he said suspiciously.
Martin read his suspicion rightly and gave a fleeting, grim smile. “I report to Walsingham, same as you. I don’t suppose either one of us cares to explain why—and that’s the last time his name will be spoken between us.”
“Right.” Stephen relaxed slightly.
Tethering the pony, which bore light packs, Martin said, “We’ll leave in the morning. A quick meal now, while I give you the layout of the household and what to expect and to ensure our stories match. And then I’m going to beat you.”
It was Walsingham’s idea: Stephen as an English deserter, a gentleman’s bastard with no love for English authority and a liking for an Irish lass who’d been killed (it was easy to slide his memories of Roisin into that)…in short, an Englishman who’d opened his mouth once too often and was beaten and flung out to starve in the wastelands of Ireland for trying to help the locals. Peter Martin would bear witness to the story.
But none of it would matter if Stephen’s body didn’t bear the marks of his supposed insubordination.