The Virgin's Spy (Tudor Legacy #2)(91)

“No,” he said flatly, turning his horse back toward their own men. “It’s not my father. Did you not mark the bar of cadency that signifies younger sons? It’s my brother, Kit.”

Damn it, Kit, what the hell are you doing here? An Irish battlefield was no place for his little brother. How was he supposed to focus on Dane when part of him would be instinctively watching to make sure Kit wasn’t hurt?

Only one thing to do—throw himself into the fighting so fast and furious that Dane would be swept down before anything else. Then he would have to get Kit somewhere safe, for he had no illusions about Diarmid’s men. Maisie’s mercenary company would follow his orders. But the Kavanaughs? They wanted English blood—and they wouldn’t care whose they spilled. Being Stephen’s brother would not be a shield for Kit; it might actually make him a target.

Stephen swallowed down the peculiar mix of nerves and excitement conjured by the battlefield and offered a silent prayer. Let me kill Dane, and let Kit be safe.

—

Right up to the last moment, Kit hoped against hope that everyone was wrong and Stephen would not be with the Irish. When the alert went up shortly after dawn that the Kavanaugh forces were approaching, he dashed up to the battlements to scan the horizon for himself. The Irish were still too far to see clearly, but two of the men detached themselves from the rest and rode forward to survey the ground. They prudently stayed out of reach of arrows but were close enough for Kit to grind his jaw in frustration. He would have known Stephen anywhere, even if his brother wasn’t flaunting a crudely done version of his coat of arms on a surcoat over half-armor.

Did the idiot want to get himself killed? He was marking himself for Dane, like the red cloaks to the bulls in Spain. Damn, damn, and damn again.

So caught up was Kit in the personal disaster of it all that he hardly had time to realize that he was about to engage in his first battle. Stephen had been in several light engagements against Scottish reivers on the border even before he’d come to Ireland last year, but Kit had been more sheltered. It was hard to disentangle his emotions, but he thought he was mostly furious with Stephen rather than upset about the imminent prospect of killing men.

In the three days he’d been at Blackcastle, Kit had taken his own violent dislike to Dane—no surprise—but also had developed a grudging respect for the quality of his command. He had his men split into three groups, two of which moved out in quick but orderly fashion, while the third had camped outside the walls all night. He had tried to order Ormond and Kit to stay within the castle walls, but he could not force Elizabeth’s most powerful Irish earl to obey him. “We’ll keep our own men out of your way,” Ormond had said gruffly, “but they stay under our command.”

Dane did not come straight out and say that he planned to kill Stephen himself, but he didn’t have to. His contempt was clear. He knew why Kit was here, and Kit would not have been surprised to learn that some of Dane’s men had been told to keep an eye on him and harry him away from Stephen.

But though Kit had not fought in the field, he had been trained by one of the finest commanders in the last thirty years and had learned to ride under the tutelage not only of his father, but the best masters the English royal court could provide for their princess. And he had under his command men from Tiverton who were prepared—because of his name and his childhood among them—to follow where he led. They had their orders, and Kit waited with pounding heart for the clash to begin.

At his side, helmed and lightly armored, Julien said, “Remember, this is not a battle—it is a mission. Your only task is to get to Stephen. Our task is to allow that to happen.”

“If Dane’s men are harrying me too closely,” Kit reminded his brother-in-law, “then Stephen will be your task.”

Julien flashed that quick, Continental smile that Kit supposed his sister found attractive. “Don’t worry. If anyone’s going to knock Stephen’s head in today, it will be the two of us.”

There were more than three times the number of men they’d expected to be facing, a fact that became crushingly apparent within minutes. As did the realization that the bulk of the troops were not Irish, but highly trained and deadly mercenaries. And their objective was obvious—to clear a path to Oliver Dane. Stephen was in their midst, and Kit, in the chaos, saw flashes of beauty in the way his brother was leading them.

Dane’s forces shook under the sheer mass and reckless bravery of the onslaught. They had expected to fight only against swords and axes, but the mercenaries carried guns as well. Kit could not have imagined the noise of battle—clashing steel, grunts of shock, cries suddenly cut off. He set his jaw and his mind on one single purpose, and led his men to the left to come at Stephen from the side.

It was the hardest thing he’d ever done. His envy of his brother had never been based solely on emotion, but also on the simple fact that Stephen was very gifted. If his brother knew that he was there—and he must know, he’d have seen the banner—Stephen ignored him. Which meant, Kit realized, that he was highly likely to get injured if not killed trying to fight through the mercenaries around his brother.

Except he wasn’t. When the third soldier veered his horse away, Kit realized Stephen must have given orders to the men not to touch him. Instantly and irrationally, it made the old jealousy flare up. I don’t need your favours, brother.