The Virgin's Spy (Tudor Legacy #2)(44)
Maisie managed to apologize without backtracking, a rare feat. “I think you notice everything and everyone. I only thought I might be useful in this. As far as the rest of your tasks are concerned, I suspect only you could accomplish them half so well. If I could ease your mind about Liadan’s education—and even some of the domestic details of the household—then you would be freer to use your talents where they will have the greatest effect.”
“How much do you know of the effects I intend?”
“Finian was my husband. If it was not precisely a marriage of true minds, he did speak to me a little. Mostly of you, and always with admiration. I know something of the Spanish soldiers, and something less of how you intend to use them. As I say, I doubt I could be helpful in those plans. But why not use the talents I do have to make your life easier?”
“Why?” Ailis asked abruptly. “Why do you care to make my life easier? Why do you care to stay in Ireland at all? How do I know I won’t turn over Liadan’s education to you, only to have you decide on a whim to return to Scotland? My daughter is exceedingly fond of you. I would not encourage that attachment if it will only lead to her disappointment when you leave.”
“It is my intention for the foreseeable future, certainly for the next year, to remain in Ireland. My brother would not welcome my return to Scotland. If I were to return, he would no doubt once more arrange to marry me off to the first convenient suitor. I would prefer to make my own choices for now. I had thought that was a viewpoint you might understand.”
Ailis stared at Maisie, who stared right back without a trace of being flustered. She was such a small thing, and young. Ten years younger than herself. But there was, as Ailis had noted from the beginning, a steadiness in her eyes and a diamond-sharp quality to her mind that belied her appearance. If she were to be completely honest, she would have admitted that part of her wanted Maisie to stay merely for the company. There were so few she had trusted since she was younger than Maisie.
With the smile that she used as one of her finely honed assets, Ailis put out her hands to Maisie and said, “Liadan will be beside herself with joy to have you stay. And indeed, the household would be the poorer without you.”
“Then I shall gladly make myself as useful as I am able. With whatever you care to entrust me.”
“For now, that is Liadan. Sharpen that mind of hers so that she might grow up to do honour to our clan.”
Everything that sharpened Liadan made her more valuable…and more useful. Ailis knew how to deploy every one of her advantages. And finally, after ten long years, her revenge was beginning to be in sight.
—
Despite his own wariness, Philip discovered that he actually enjoyed having the English visitors at his court. Usually the only English that came to Spain were professionals—diplomats and ambassadors and cautious churchmen of the heretical variety—all of whom came primarily as Elizabeth’s messengers and were not interested in anything other than their own points of view.
The Courtenays were a different matter. Philip had known them fairly well during his stays in England and found the Duke of Exeter to be a man of good sense, if little patience. His wife, of course, would have been worth cultivating by any measure, as she was undoubtedly Elizabeth’s closest personal friend. The Duchess of Exeter could get away with saying things to the English queen that no one else could, not even Philip when he’d been her husband. But Minuette Courtenay made it a pleasure to cultivate her, for she was warm and witty and effortlessly charming.
Philip’s present queen did not like her at all.
But Philip’s truest interest among the guests were the children: Christopher and Philippa, whom his daughter, Anne, seemed to consider as siblings. A less intelligent observer might think, as Mary said to him the third night after the party’s arrival, that he was “wasting his time and efforts with those too young to be influential.”
Those observers would be missing the longer view. Elizabeth was a remarkable woman, but even she could not live forever. When their daughter inherited England, it was her friends who would wield influence. And that meant paying them attention while they were young.
Besides, whatever his other purposes, Philip was always a father. If he could not have Anne in Spain, then her friends were the next best thing. Philip craved their stories of Anne, and he hoped they would return to her with good impressions of him and his kingdom.
After five days of lavish feasts and receptions in Madrid, the royal party escorted their English guests to Philip’s pride and joy, the royal complex at El Escorial. Situated at the foot of Mount Abantos thirty miles from the capital, the monastery and royal residence had been begun twenty years ago as a burial place for his father. Charles V had added a codicil to his will to establish a religious foundation in which he could be buried with his wife and Philip’s mother, Isabella of Portugal.
Philip had overseen every step of the design and decoration of the complex himself and, though only the chapel and monastery were completely finished, he felt an almost unholy sense of pride at its appearance. To bring the Courtenays here was a way to highlight his artistic, spiritual side as opposed to merely his formal religious opinions.
They toured the basilica, two stories high at the facade, the interior with its Greek cross originally modeled on St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome. To the south of the church were the austerely decorated royal apartments. The Patio de los Mascarones, surrounded on three sides by a gallery, led to the queen’s apartments, in which, for this visit, the Courtenay family would be quartered. They seemed appropriately impressed with their surroundings, though none of them were given to lavish praise.