The Virgin's Spy (Tudor Legacy #2)(46)
Not a problem, with ruling authorities like Oliver Dane.
That was the only thing Stephen had kept wholly to himself—his certainty that the gallowglass force that attacked them outside Kilkenny had been sent by Oliver Dane. It was the only answer that made sense. Who else had wanted those prisoners dead? Pelham might have hanged them at Carrigafoyle if he’d cared to, but he had made no move to reinforce Dane in trying to wrest them from Stephen’s hands. Pelham, he was quite sure, was essentially law-abiding. Dane, on the other hand, had a malicious streak a mile wide. He was the one who had engineered the massacre at Carrigafoyle after the surrender, the one who had spoken almost casually to Stephen about killing women for nothing more than being Irish. After using them to his satisfaction, no doubt.
And once his head had cleared from the fog of physical pain and emotional turmoil, Stephen remembered one tiny, telling detail from that horrific night: the masked man who, before breaking his arm, had sneered at him. English lordling, the man called him. A phrase Stephen had first been called in Ireland—on the day he met Oliver Dane.
Not absolute, but telling. And a detail Stephen did not intend to share with anyone.
Appropriate vengeance, Julien had counseled. Stephen was in Ireland primarily to keep the Spanish and their new queen from exploiting the situation—but he intended to exploit whatever opportunities came his way for bringing down Oliver Dane. No need to share that with Walsingham, who might not like the thought of removing an important—if sadistic—English landholder from the shaky balance of power. Stephen would not let Ireland fall to Spain if he could help it, but nor would he overlook any opportunity to strike at Dane.
They reached Cahir in a sodden spring rain that had them huddled beneath cloaks and blowing on cramped fingers for warmth. Martin walked, with Stephen on the pony, his hands tied together to complete the picture of a sullen Englishman half refugee, half prisoner. They were stopped at the causeway to Cahir Castle, secure on its little island, challenged by men of sturdy build and sharp eyes. The men knew Peter Martin, of course, but declined to let Stephen enter or even dismount on the cleric’s authority. So Martin went ahead while Stephen shivered in the rain under the scrutiny of the wary Kavanaugh guards.
He expected the thin, ascetic man who returned with Martin and recognized him immediately from description, as well as the priestly robes he wore, as Father Byrne. With Finian Kavanaugh’s death, the priest was the chief voice of male authority in the household.
But Byrne and Martin did not return alone. Walking a little ahead of them was a tall, striking woman with black hair and cheekbones that set off a face of rare beauty. He knew she must be Ailis Kavanaugh, the niece who now ruled by tacit consent, the strategist who had planned her uncle’s small but significant victories of the last five years. Martin had prepared Stephen for Ailis’s authority—he had not prepared him for the intensity of her presence.
Ailis drew near, the guards in protective stances beside her, and tipped her head up to study Stephen. She did not rush to speak, but slowly considered every aspect of his appearance, from wet hair to bruised face to stiff posture indicating discomfort.
“Why are you here, Englishman?” Her voice was as alluring as the rest of her, the kind of voice a siren might use to lure sailors to their deaths.
“It was come with the priest or starve to death. I was left in the wilderness to die by my own people.”
“Why?”
With the touch of insolence that was part of his cover, Stephen replied, “For daring to have an opinion of my own, and the stupidity to voice it. There is nothing you can tell me about English contempt that I do not know for myself.”
Nothing in her exquisite face revealed what she might be thinking. “Martin tells me you might be worth our while. I respect his opinion, but the final decisions are always mine. For your English blood alone I would cheerfully leave you to die, but if there is a possibility of you being useful? I am not vindictive enough to overlook any advantage fate offers.”
Then she addressed the guards. “Take him to Father Byrne’s rooms. Untie his hands and lock him in.”
Looking up at Stephen once more with eyes like violets—particularly sharp and predatory violets—she said, “Consider yourself a prisoner for now. Whether that changes will be up to you. Do you understand?”
Suppressing the surprising lift of relief, Stephen said, “I understand. And I will give you no cause to regret it.”
It was just the first of many lies he would be telling this woman in the months to come.
DIARY OF MINUETTE COURTENAY
27 May 1582
El Escorial, Spain
We have spent the last week at King Philip’s austerely beautiful compound that is half religious house, half royal palace. Like Hampton Court or Richmond, it is set just far enough from the capital city to be both healthful and relaxing. It has the stamp of Philip everywhere I look—I understand that he deliberately restricted the number of artists invited to participate so that there might be unity of theme and effect. It is when I consider such things that I know why Elizabeth married him. Yes, it was a political match. Yes, he offered her a necessary counterweight to stabilize England from within while not having to worry overmuch about threats from abroad.
But the Elizabeth I know might still have found reason to refuse—if there had not been something in Philip that attracted both her heart and her head. I have long recognized her reasons for respecting him. As he now shows us his heart poured out into architecture and devotional worship, I begin to see what caught and held fast her own heart all these years.