The Virgin's Spy (Tudor Legacy #2)(94)
Dane and I are both commanded to the queen’s presence in London. For once in my life, I am desperately glad to bear my family’s name. I will make every use I can wring out of it to see Dane executed for his crimes.
I have loved you, Ailis. Among all my regrets, that will never be one of them. May your life to come have more of joy than pain in it.
Stephen Courtenay
Ailis had hardly finished that achingly poignant letter when Maisie entered. “He is gone, then?” she asked. No need to specify who.
“He is.”
“And the English queen has traded a castle for Liadan’s life.”
“It is a better trade than any other dead Irish child has been offered.”
“I know. I’m sorry, it’s just…” Maisie, usually so self-possessed, circled the council chamber restlessly. “What are you going to do now?” she asked Ailis.
“Ride in triumph to take possession of Blackcastle. And then, I suppose, offer our services to the Earl of Desmond. With Dane out of Ireland, my vendetta is done. I must move forward, so that Oliver Dane is followed in his retreat by the rest of his countrymen.”
Ailis looked at Maisie and realized she was no longer wearing full mourning. Her gown was dark gray, but beneath the overskirt her kirtle showed pale blue. With dawning comprehension, Ailis said, “You mean to leave Ireland as well.”
Maisie stopped pacing. “I stayed for Liadan. You must know that.”
“I do. I suppose you will take your mercenary company with you?”
“A matter of business,” Maisie said slowly. “I feel my investment will be more profitable elsewhere.”
Ailis hadn’t expected different. Uneasy as Scots relations were with England, it would be folly for Maisie to sacrifice a trained company to Irish fighting. But she found that it was not the practical loss that concerned her. It was losing Maisie herself.
“You will return to Scotland?” Ailis asked.
“Not just yet. I mean to evade my brother’s plans to marry me off again as long as possible. I still have friends in France. And some business arrangements that would be greatly forwarded by my presence.”
Ailis shook her head, a smile of respect wrung from her without meaning to. “For all my life, I shall remember not to underestimate anyone who crosses my path. Who would have guessed the formidable mind behind the child face?”
“Not such a child,” Maisie said. “Not any longer.”
There passed between them, almost as though Ailis could see it through Maisie’s eyes, the image of Liadan falling beneath Dane’s dagger. Ailis swallowed and turned away. In truth, her admiration and even liking for Maisie had been slightly tainted by the fact that the girl had been with Liadan at the end. Worse, that in the months before, it was Maisie whom Liadan had turned to over and over again.
“Safe travels,” Ailis said with finality. “I expect I will hear of you from time to time.”
“It is never too late to be happy,” Maisie replied. “Think about it, Ailis.”
There was nothing to think about. Ailis had never expected happiness—just successful vengeance. She hadn’t expected it to feel so hollow.
23 September 1582
Anabel,
This may not reach you before we do, but I wanted you to know from my own hand that all is well. That is, I took only minor injuries and so did Stephen—and those we mostly inflicted on each other. He is in something of a temper; it’s quite refreshing, actually, to find myself the reasonable one.
Love to my sisters, if they are still with you. Your raven is winging his way back as soon as can be.
Kit
Kit’s letter found Anabel still convalescing at Syon House, though her health had improved enough for her to appear publicly twice a week. She had made charming farewells to both the Duc d’Anjou and Esmé Stewart, and was grateful for the discretion that prevailed among them all. No one had mentioned any topic so delicate as marriage, and so she was able to enjoy their last hours and thank them for the time they had spent in England.
No doubt the men had watched her narrowly for any lingering signs of illness, but she had always been able to perform well under pressure. And her mother’s wig makers had provided her with a number of options that looked, if not quite as lovely as her own hair, at least adequate to the task. By spring her hair should be regrown enough to leave off wigs entirely.
Anabel was rereading Kit’s letter for a third time when Madalena appeared in her privy chamber to announce that Brandon Dudley had requested an audience.
“Were we expecting the Earl of Leicester?” Anabel asked. She knew they hadn’t.
“He says he hesitates to intrude, but has a personal favour to ask. He looks…” Madalena paused, then said, “He looks a tiny bit desperate.”
Brandon Dudley, desperate? That was a sight worth seeing. Anabel laid aside the letter and said, “Bring him through.”
She remained in her lovely privy chamber with its abundance of light, even in autumn, and the pale colours that so soothed her restless mind. Though not dressed for public audience, Anabel wore a presentable enough gown in the Spanish style she often chose when less formal. The stiff satin of peacock blue and gold helped disguise the loss of weight she had not yet fully regained.