The Virgin's Spy (Tudor Legacy #2)(98)
Elizabeth waved a single hand in Dane’s direction. “You may return to Ireland to serve us, Captain Dane. For the immediate future, you will be under the close command of the Earl of Ormond. I do not care to hear of further…irregularities in your relationships with the Irish. Prove yourself faithful, and perhaps you will regain an independent command.”
Stephen felt all the blood leave his face and nearly swayed on his feet as, next to him, Dane bowed low. “Thank you, Your Majesty. You are truly wise and gracious. I will endeavour to serve you well.”
“See that you do.” Elizabeth turned those remote, penetrating eyes on Stephen. “As for you, Lord Somerset, you will return to Farleigh Hungerford and remain on your estates until recalled. We are displeased with your actions, but trust that you will serve us better in future.”
He couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, could hardly even breathe. Stephen felt Kit touch him gently on the back of his shoulder as though prodding him, and he managed to swallow. There was nothing else he could do. Stephen jerked his head in perfunctory acknowledgment. “As you say, Your Majesty.”
Elizabeth narrowed her eyes at his obvious reluctance, but dismissed them all with an impatient gesture.
This is not happening. Stephen felt as though he were sleepwalking. He had come prepared to be arrested, to be publicly chastised, to be stripped of all his honours and wealth…but he had not prepared for this. After everything, Oliver Dane had won.
Kit knew better than to try and engage his brother, but the Earl of Ormond tried, speaking low and urgently at Stephen’s side. “She had no choice, boy, you must see that. With the latest victories by Desmond, our forces in Ireland are dangerously vulnerable. There are still a hundred Spanish soldiers on the ground and the threat of worse. Dane is despicable, but he is a key piece in keeping Ireland quiet.”
“By sweeping away every last Irish man, woman, and child by whatever means possible? How is that English justice?”
“Justice?” The voice was Dane’s, smooth and amused. He came up on Stephen’s other side so that Stephen was flanked by these two men of Elizabeth’s Irish service. Ormond, born and bred generations back in Ireland, but still fundamentally English. And Dane, a cynic out for his own good no matter who he had to destroy to achieve it.
“Don’t fret, English lordling,” Dane continued. “I doubt our paths will cross again. You have proved you cannot be trusted in Ireland—the queen will not risk you there a third time. And I have no plans to return to England. Give thanks to see the last of me and put Ireland out of your mind.”
Stephen clenched his jaw. Ireland was the only thing on his mind, mostly the faces of those he’d come to know flickering behind his eyes in rapid succession: Father Byrne, upright and warm beneath the weight of his duties; Diarmid mac Briain, who led his men honourably and well; Liadan, all kinds of clever and loving, and in the end broken; Ailis, who had lost her childhood and then her daughter to this man now openly mocking the sins he’d committed.
“Perhaps,” Dane mused, “I’ll see if that Scots widow is still available. The queen wouldn’t mind having her money available for England’s use. And though she is a little older than my usual preference, she looks young enough. I’d get a few good years of pleasure out of her. And I’ve heard the Scots are nearly as wild as the Irish. Maisie, wasn’t that her name?”
Mariota, we have to go. Blood on her hands and dress, keening over a small body, weeping alone for a child who had been nothing but a friend…
When Stephen moved, it was with the purpose and clarity of long-planned battle tactics. He saw every move a half second before he made it, his body in perfect alignment with his intentions. Ormond was to his left, his jewel-hilted ceremonial dagger affixed to his close-fitted velvet jerkin. One move for Stephen to swivel and snatch it with his right hand. The next move to plant his other foot and pivot back, then grab Dane’s coat with his left hand. For symmetry’s sake, Stephen would have preferred to cut his throat, but there wasn’t time. Instead, in the manner Julien had taught him, the dagger slid expertly up and under Dane’s ribs, to angle into the heart.
There was a wash of blood over Stephen’s fingers and a froth of bloody spume from Dane’s mouth as he fell. Even as the guards lunged forward, Stephen raised his hands in surrender, the dagger still in Dane’s chest.
The guards had one job—to ensure the Queen of England’s safety. They didn’t care who Stephen was. They forced him down with a kick to his knees and then they were on him, striking and kicking even though he made no move to fight back.
He could hear Kit shouting at the guards to stop, trying to get to Stephen through them all. One of the guards struck Kit in the side of the head. “Leave it!” Stephen called. “It’s no matter, Kit. It’s fine. I’m fine.”
And he was. For the first time since Liadan’s murder—no, from before that, from the moment Roisin and the other prisoners had fallen near Kilkenny—Stephen felt as though he could breathe.
The guards—brought to rough order by Ormond’s commanding presence, with more men pouring toward them and even Lord Burghley in the distance, hastening to see the commotion—jerked Stephen to his feet. As they twisted his arms behind in order to march him away, he sent a thought winging west to Ireland.
He’s dead, Liadan. You can rest now, sweet lass.