The Virgin's War (Tudor Legacy #3)(102)

“No word from Anabel,” I assured her. It is the strictest truth—Anabel herself has not sent word. But the Spanish ships were landing men at Berwick when last I heard, and surely there has been some sort of battle.

And I have had word about the West from Maisie. There were Spanish troops heading for Carlisle when she left it two weeks ago. Stephen will have been in battle by now. I can only pray my son is safe, and that Carlisle holds.





The Battle of Carlisle took place on a late July day of steamy heat and sudden gusts of wind that sent banners changing directions without warning. Stephen and his company were in the van, with Lord Scrope on the right flank and Scrope’s son to the left. It was a near classic battle of thrust and repulse. The English had been able to persuade a few hundred Maxwell men to fight with them, though Stephen did not trust them far. There were more Spanish troops than he’d been expecting, but despite the imbalance of numbers, the English were much fresher, not having had the crossing from Ireland to cope with nor the physical and mental drag of having already fought in a hostile country for months.

Stephen and his men broke the center of the Spanish line in a mere half hour. It was hard to escape the conclusion that the Spanish who came from Ireland, at least, did not have their hearts in this fight. Stephen stood tall in his stirrups to survey what he could see of the rest of the field. To his left, Scrope’s son was engaged in fierce fighting, but looked to be making gains. On the right, Lord Scrope’s flanking attack was in disarray. Stephen left his second-in-command in charge of the van and took a third of his men to aid Scrope against the Spanish.

Except Scrope wasn’t fighting the Spanish—not entirely. The officers might have been King Philip’s men, but even before Stephen could make out the badges or colours of the enemy soldiers, he could hear a distinctive sound that sent shivers through him: men yelling orders, men screaming in defiance, men who did not speak sibilant Spanish.

Gaelic. Spain had recruited soldiers from their Irish allies.

No wonder they were not giving way before Lord Scrope. The Spanish were fighting, perhaps reluctantly, under orders. But the Irish were fighting for vengeance.

Stephen threw his men into the flank with a few commands, then let himself be swept into the violence. There was an almost physical split that happened in battle, he had learned over the years, so that his body operated best without being slowed by thought. He had worked hard to attain the sort of skill that meant he could still command in such a state.

Finally, under the combined assaults of Lord Scrope and Stephen’s mercenaries, the Irish flank shivered and began to splinter. The Spanish officers retreated first, and most of the Irish began to give way as well. But not quite all of them. A tight knot of disciplined fighters held fast, and Stephen set his horse to confront them.

He was nearly upon them, perhaps fifteen men in all, before he recognized the Irish leader. Dark and bristling, the grim face just recognizable despite the blood splashed liberally across it. A face Stephen had last seen on another battlefield, across the sea in Ireland. Cutting through the noise of battle, he heard an echo of the man’s voice from years ago: He is English. No way in hell I’ll trust him…

Diarmid mac Briain Kavanaugh. Ailis’s husband.

Stephen directed his men to surround the group, ordering them not to kill if possible. No doubt Diarmid would gladly have spent his life here, but some of his men were a little less fanatical. Stephen recognized several of their faces as well.

He knew the moment Diarmid recognized him, for the man swore vividly in Gaelic. Still defiant, despite the fact that he was surrounded and could not resist without condemning himself and his men to death, Diarmid spat eloquently.

“At least you’re where you belong this time,” he growled. “And not pretending to be on our side.”

“Go home, Diarmid. This is not Ireland’s fight.”

“The hell it isn’t! If Spain loses here, they pull out of Ireland and we’re left to England’s mercies once more.”

“Spain has lost here, in Carlisle at least. Don’t compound the loss with needless death.”

“If you’re looking to take hostages, you’re a fool. We haven’t the gold to redeem prisoners, you know that. Better you kill me where I stand.”

Stephen dismounted and threw the reins to one of his men. He was not surprised that Diarmid had managed to infuriate him in such short order. Confronting the hostile Irishman, he repeated, “Go home, Diarmid. Our fight is with the Spanish. I have no stomach for killing men I don’t have to.”

“Don’t tell me you don’t have the stomach to kill me. She’s my wife, after all. You’ll gladly kill me for Ailis.”

“Once, maybe. Now?” Stephen shrugged. “Go home to your wife and your children. Take your men and retreat to the ships. If you move fast, you can set sail before anyone here follows.”

He turned away, noting that the other Kavanaugh men had already taken him at his word and were leaving the field in ones and twos.

“Damn you!” Diarmid shouted from behind him. “Did you care so little for her that you can spare me your contempt?”

Stephen did not bother to answer, not aloud. I cared for Ailis more than I’d ever cared for anyone before. I loved her.

Then.

Ailis was his past. Mariota was his present and his future. His love and his hope and the only person he carried with him every moment of the day.