The Virgin's Spy (Tudor Legacy #2)(85)

“Ormond will send men. But if Stephen is fighting with the Irish…no quarter will be given by Dane. I think he would gladly kill Stephen.”

Elizabeth shut her eyes, feeling the beginning of a headache pounding behind her right eye. These were the parts of ruling that she hated—making impossible decisions.

But one did not rule this many years without learning not to linger on regrets. “Send to Syon House for Christopher. I know the Courtenays—they will listen to no one but themselves. If we want Stephen out of Ireland, his family will have to bring him.”

“Why not send Lord Exeter?”

“Dominic? I may not have sons, Walsingham, but one thing I know for certain is that they are not likely to respond well to a disapproving father. Kit is the younger brother. If we’re lucky, Stephen may feel responsible enough for his safety to keep a battle from occurring at all.”

Also, she did not add, just as well to get Kit away from Anabel for a little.





4 September 1582


Lucie,

I write to beg a great favour. If you read Mother’s letter first, you know about Stephen. (If you didn’t read it first, go read it now. I’ll wait.)

The queen intends Kit to drag Stephen out of Ireland. I do not think it will be that simple. Stephen has always been the most difficult of you all to see clearly, but I do know that he does nothing lightly. If he has become entwined in this Irish household, there are deep reasons for it.

So to the begging, sister: Please will you send Julien to Ireland with Kit? He has proved that he can reach Stephen when none of the rest of us can. I do not think Stephen has been hurt—but I think disentangling him from whatever is happening will involve a great deal of pain. He listened to Julien the last time he was drowning—he might do so again. And if not, at least Kit will not be on his own. He would never say so, but he is desperately worried. He worships Stephen—how will he cope if his idol has fallen?

If Julien agrees to go to Ireland, perhaps you would consider returning to Anabel? Mother and Father intend to stay near as well, since it is to court that the first news will come.

Pippa





7 September 1582


Compton Wynyates


Pippa,

I seemed destined not to spend more than two weeks at a time in my new home. Of course Julien will go. He is already packing. And so am I. I will see you at Syon House within a week.

Lucie





Liadan Kavanaugh was buried in the crypt below the private chapel at Cahir Castle. Despite spending two years in a French convent school, Maisie had never attended a Catholic requiem mass; she found it almost unbearably moving. There was no monastic choir to be had, but a young boy was found to sing the Dies Irae, the haunting melody of judgment and salvation.

Stephen was not allowed to attend the requiem. He was under lock and key, enforced by a sternly justified Diarmid mac Briain. Maisie had attempted once to intervene, but Diarmid dismissed her with a wave of his hand. “He’s a liar,” he said brusquely. “He stays jailed until we decide what’s to be done.”

We? Maisie wondered cynically. It will be until Ailis decides. The problem was that Ailis was unreachable in her grief. How long could she stay shut away before the vengeful men of her clan took over?

But the men seemed at a loss. It was as if Liadan had been the talisman for the entire clan, and without her, no one knew what to do next. Well, Maisie finally decided, if the men weren’t going to do anything, she would have to brave Ailis herself.

Maisie knew how to get her way. Getting in to see Ailis involved Bridey, Liadan’s nurse who had known Ailis since she was a child. Maisie listened to the old woman weep, and told her stories of how brave Liadan had been, how proud Bridey would have been of her in her last days.

“You should tell her,” Bridey said finally, wiping her eyes. “Her mother would want to know that.”

“You do not think it will be worse?”

“It cannot be worse. She broods. Give her something good to think about.”

And just like that, Maisie was let in. Ailis looked at her, not blankly, but entirely without interest. Bridey said nothing, just left the women alone.

There was an untouched tray of bread and cheese on a medieval sideboard, and the four-poster bed, though unmade, appeared unslept in. Maisie had never seen Ailis look anything but fiercely pulled together; now she sat in her shift with a cloak of felted wool thrown over. Her hair hung loose, a nest of blackness.

Maisie found a carved bone comb and moved behind Ailis. Working in small sections, she began to comb the bereft woman’s hair. She worked in silence and slowly she could see Ailis’s shoulders loosening.

When her hair lay like a fall of black satin, Ailis finally spoke. “You used to comb her hair. She told me.”

“I did.” Maisie pulled a stool near Ailis and sat.

“She liked you better than me.”

“She loved you. Every bit of her was focused on being like you.”

“I’m almost glad she won’t get the chance.”

Maisie could think of no possible answer to that.

With a great shuddering sigh, as though expelling demons, Ailis closed her eyes. When she opened them again, it was though she had forcibly pulled her former self into being. “When you first came to Ireland, I thought you nothing but a rich girl who would sit in the corner while we spent your money. How wrong I was—and gladly so. It is your mind, and your heart, that is the real wealth.”