The Virgin's Spy (Tudor Legacy #2)(93)



“I understand there has been a crime committed against your clan by Captain Dane. The murder of a young girl.”

Diarmid spat. “His own daughter.”

“An Irish whore’s brat—”

It was Stephen who drove the words back into Dane’s throat with a punch that slipped past Ormond’s dagger. Kit threw himself on his brother and dragged him back.

“Is everyone here mad?” Ormond shouted. Then, to Diarmid mac Briain, “I am authorized to offer compensation for that crime. The tenancy of Blackcastle itself.”

There was stunned silence, then Dane shouting, “The castle is mine!”

“On lease from me,” Ormond said. “The castle and land are rightly the Butlers, and I offer them to the Kavanaughs—including all stores of food inside—if they will clear the field without further bloodshed.”

“And the stores of weapons?” Diarmid asked shrewdly.

Ormond shook his head. “You know better. The weapons come with me. But along with the castle, you have my word I will not try to take it back. The lass should not have been so treated.”

“And you think a castle worth Liadan’s life?” It was, surprisingly, Stephen who objected so furiously. “An eye for an eye—we want Dane’s head.”

“The best you can hope for is what I’m offering,” Ormond said. “Queen Elizabeth has also authorized me to bring Dane to England. You can both go before her and argue your rights.”

Dane barked a laugh. “The Courtenays are Elizabeth’s lapdogs. I have little chance of being heard.”

“If I cut your throat on this battlefield, you have no chance at all.”

Dane’s colour had gone down and he was clearly weighing options. Finally, he conceded Ormond was right. “Fine,” he ground out. “I’ll call off my men.”

“Call them off, and prepare to march them out so the Kavanaugh men can march in. Your soldiers will come to Kilkenny, where my men will watch them while we are in England.” Slowly, Ormond lowered his dagger.

“You’re going to England as well?” Dane was surprised into asking.

“To keep the two of you from killing each other along the way? Of course I’m coming. If only to watch the spectacle you make at the queen’s court.”

Stephen had said nothing since his protest about the girl. Kit stepped in front of his brother as the parley broke up. “I’m sorry,” he said. “There was no other way. If I hadn’t agreed to come, Elizabeth would have let Dane kill you in the field.”

“I’m not that easily defeated.”

“She will listen to you, Stephen. Make Dane pay for his crimes.”

Stephen didn’t look at him but into the horizon as though seeing something—or someone—else. “She had better.”





Diarmid himself rode to Cahir with news of the stunning and unexpected reversal that had put Blackcastle into Kavanaugh hands—at the cost of putting Oliver Dane himself out of their reach and on his way to England.

“It seemed best,” Diarmid said defensively, and Ailis realized he was afraid of her anger. “The mercenaries were ordered to fight solely under Courtenay’s command, and we gained more than we’d hoped with only a handful of losses.”

“But not Dane’s head.”

“No.”

Ailis didn’t know how she felt. It was rather an absence of feeling—which after the weeks of sharp grief followed by manic preparation was almost pleasure in itself. “It is good for the clan,” she found herself saying, and meaning it. “Blackcastle and Templemore have been a thorn in the Earl of Desmond’s side for too long. Many will be pleased at what we have achieved.”

“Are you pleased?” Diarmid asked bluntly. Are you pleased with me? he meant. Did I do the right thing? Will you ever look beyond my services to what else I can offer you?

“My daughter is dead. I do not expect to be anything more than mildly satisfied again in my lifetime. But I am not ungrateful.”

His face darkened, and she could see the struggle in his eyes. Then, abruptly, he pulled a letter from inside his battle-stained jerkin and tossed it on the table before her. “He asked me to give you this.” Then he turned on his heel and left. No further explanation was forthcoming—or necessary.

Ailis,

I refrain from addressing you with an endearment not because I do not feel it, but because I doubt it would be welcome. If I am wrong, then imagine how fervently I am whispering “dearest, darling, sweetheart” to you as I write this.

By the time you read this, I shall be well on my way to leaving Ireland. Not of my own choice, but I suspect for the best nonetheless. I am sorry not to see you once more, and most sorry of all not to be bringing you Oliver Dane’s head as my farewell gift.

For it was always going to be farewell for us, wasn’t it? From the moment I uttered my first lie to you, our fate was sealed. And yet, if I had not lied, I should never have known you—and that, for me, would be worse. I dare not presume to expect the same regrets from you. I am English and an interloper and could never have been more than tolerated in an Irish household. Save that Liadan liked me. And you? I don’t know if I hope that you are happy to see the last of me, or are touched by regret. My pride says the latter, but my better nature the former. My father told me once that to leave pain behind was the worst sort of repayment I could make to a woman. I have paid you in more than pain, and I will feel it to the end of my days.

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