The Virgin's Spy (Tudor Legacy #2)(77)

Diarmid glowered at them, then glowered even more heartily at Stephen. “I never liked you.”

“Good to know.”

“Get her back.”

Stephen set his jaw and fell in with Dane’s men. One of them he recognized; he’d last seen him with blood dripping from his sword as he methodically slaughtered prisoners at Carrigafoyle.

They weren’t more than two or three hours behind Dane and the girls—his men must have been patrolling as close to Cahir Castle as they dared. Probably Peter Martin had sent word of what he planned, thus preparing Dane’s men to aid them.

They rode through the kind of darkness that only Ireland produced—as though the air itself were alive and twisting its way inside Stephen’s head. It was a seductive darkness, promising oblivion rather than pleasure, and Stephen had to fight to keep himself focused. No drifting back to regrets, no dwelling on Ailis’s expression when she realized how he’d betrayed her. The only thing in the world that mattered was to get Liadan and Maisie out of Dane’s hands as quickly as could be accomplished.

Blackcastle, as with so much else in this swath of Ireland, had long been owned by the Butler family. This particular property had been leased to Oliver Dane after the destruction of Kilmallock twelve years ago. The eastern sky was lit with the dawn as they approached, and Stephen noted the abbey—or Big Church, as the literal Irish form of Blackcastle translated—to their north. They turned west and there was the castle, looming black and stark against the sky as though untouched since 1450. They had to pass through three sets of armed guards before entering; some of them looked at Stephen with recognition and undisguised interest. They knew who he was—some, he had served with at Carrigafoyle—and Dane must have warned them of his imminent arrival. He wondered how Dane had described him today. Traitor? Coward? English lordling?

Stephen didn’t care. He didn’t give a damn about his reputation or his own well-being. Liadan and Maisie were innocents in this entire affair—he would see them clear of it. No matter the cost.

Clearly Dane was not domestically minded. The medieval lines of the castle looked uncomfortable, as though it knew itself foreign to this land, and there was little to dispel that immediate impression within its walls. All well-ordered, of course, for Dane was a methodical and successful campaigner who knew how to organize men and stores, but also bleak. This was a castle of invaders, who knew themselves to be in hostile territory. It was not where Stephen would have wanted to make his home. But then Dane had no family for which to make a home.

He dismounted in the courtyard and was disappointed, but not terribly surprised, when they did not take him directly to Dane. The man would want to punish him for last night’s interview. So Stephen submitted to being locked in a cell—much less salubrious than the one at Cahir Castle—though at least he wasn’t chained.

Then he waited.

His cell was belowground, with just a slit at the ceiling to give a little bit of light. Stephen dozed in short bursts on the stone floor—the pallet provided was stuffed with rank straw and had a colony of mice living in it—and otherwise watched the changing quality of that light, trying to judge the hours. He guessed it was late afternoon before anyone bothered to come for him.

It was Peter Martin.

Stephen, who had come to his feet when he heard the door being unlocked, subsided slowly onto the stool that was the only object in the cell besides the pallet and the unsavory bucket in the corner that had not been cleaned since the last prisoner. “What do you want?” he asked Martin.

“To make you see sense. Dane did you a favour, pulling you out of Cahir before it was too late.”

“It was only too late because Dane made good and certain to blow my cover.”

“You did that yourself—the moment you allowed Irish concerns to override your judgment.”

“Not your affair.”

“The hell it isn’t!” Martin exploded. “Because of your refusal to act, I’ve blown my own cover. I can’t stay in Ireland after this—because of you, I’ve lost years of work. Walsingham got good intelligence from me. Now what is he left with?”

“He’s left with a man who would throw away the lives of two innocent girls to save one bloody wretched Englishman!” Could he manage to throttle Martin before the guards came running?

Martin blinked. “I didn’t know Dane would take the girls. I had nothing to do with what happened inside the castle. I simply persuaded Father Byrne to release Dane and have him meet me outside the postern gate. I was bloody shocked when he dragged those two out with him!”

“Not shocked enough to force him to leave them behind. Did you even try? Or were they just two more impediments to your service?”

“Dane has not touched them. They are safely confined to the top floor of the castle, with myself the only man who goes up there.”

“And if Dane wanted to go up there…you would stop him?”

Martin’s silence was answer enough.

Stephen shook his head in contempt. “Two men are dead back at Cahir—Dane’s guard, and Father Byrne himself. I imagine the priest, at least, was protesting Dane’s attempt to remove the girls.”

“It’s no matter of mine. Not anymore. Wherever Walsingham sends me after this, I won’t be able to return to Ireland.”

“You’d better hope Walsingham sends you far away from me,” Stephen countered. “Next time we meet, I’ll kill you. Not for doing your job—but for being a coward about it.”