The Virgin's War (Tudor Legacy #3)(77)

She looked over his shoulder, at the Bolton Castle maid attending her, and Matthew understood at once. “You may go,” he told the girl, with an abruptness he hardly ever used.

When they were alone, Pippa answered. “Long enough for me to husband my resources so that I might finish this particular task. And I have. Lord Scrope was our last assignment.”

“And what has it cost? Are you trying to kill yourself out of some misguided notion that dying in Anabel’s service is your fate? Do you want to die, Philippa?”

“How can you ask me that?”

“Because I see no sign of you trying to avoid it!”

She inhaled sharply, and her husband dropped his head into his hands. “I’m sorry,” he said, muffled and broken in a way she’d never heard before.

“You knew this when you married me, Matthew. You told me you understood.”

“Understanding is not quite the same as facing it.”

She sat up and pulled his hands away so he would look at her. “No, it is not.” Her head was heavy with fatigue and her eyes pained from holding back tears. “Do you think I do not care? Do you think me reconciled? I am not. I do not want to die, Matthew! I want to live with you until we are old—I want to have your children—I want to be at peace. But I cannot change what will come. No one can. The only difference is that I can see it coming.”

And then the tears were not simply threatening, but engulfing her. Matthew climbed onto the bed and pulled her into his arms. She wept for some time, and knew he did, too. But he did not fail her, as she had known he would not. When the storm had gentled, her husband was once more prepared to be the rock she needed him to be.

“I do not suppose,” he asked gently, “that you would retire from court life if I asked you to?”

“Are you asking me to?”

He cupped her chin in his large, square hand. For all her life, Matthew’s brown eyes had been one of her favorite sights. Even distressed, they steadied her. “No. I will not make you refuse me. You are right, Philippa, I came into this with my eyes wide open. It is not fair to you to change my mind now. Wherever you are, I will be. Whatever you do, I will help you bear it. On one condition.”

“Which is?”

“You allow me to help you. Tell me what you need. To keep people away from you? To guard your time and privacy so that you can keep your strength for whatever is coming? And Philippa, sweetheart?”

He kept her chin turned to him, staring directly into her eyes. “Do not try to protect me. Whatever it is you fear for me, you must put it aside. Because the only thing I fear is failing you. Promise me.”

Already she could feel the pressure lifting, the constant drag on her body shifting just enough for her to breathe easier than she had in weeks. She leaned forward and kissed her husband, determined to not worry so much about the future that she lost the present. “I promise, husband.”

—

The last day of April an exhausted, sweat-stained courier was, most unusually, brought directly into the queen’s presence, Lord Burghley at his side. The three gold cups on his badge marked him as one of the Earl of Ormond’s men, and Elizabeth shot a sharp look at her treasurer as she took the sealed message. But if Burghley had been apprised beforehand, he gave nothing away.

She broke the seal and read. Ormond, a distant cousin, had addressed her with a greater than usual familiarity even for him. But propriety, or the lack thereof, was the last thing on Elizabeth’s mind when she read his news.

Cork has been retaken. Some of the remaining Spanish soldiers and ships are concentrated in Waterford, clearly intending to gamble on reaching England. The remainder of the ships and men set sail last week, we do not know where. The Irish rebels are rapidly falling back to the lines we held before the Spanish interference.



But even that news was not what caught Elizabeth by the throat, seizing the words so that she had to try twice to read it aloud to Burghley: “?‘Desmond is taken and is in my hands at Kilkenny Castle. I await instructions.’?”

Elizabeth was certainly not one for praying to saints, but just now she felt like blessing St. Brigid herself. With the Earl of Desmond in English custody, the rebellion would collapse. Ireland might be only a side battle of this conflict, but it was important to her and to her people. News of Ormond’s success would bolster confidence in their coming fight with the Spanish.

More practically, Ireland would stop begging her for the men and money she needed here in England.

“Our thanks to my dear cousin,” Elizabeth told the kneeling messenger. “My household will see that you are rested and refreshed from your faithful and difficult travels.” She sent him away with a waiting page and turned jubilantly to Burghley.

“Publish this widely and loudly. And summon Walsingham. He will be delighted at this success.”

Lord Burghley did not look as though he entirely found this a success. He had always been the voice for negotiation and conciliation in Ireland.

“Cheer up,” she told him. “Without Desmond, the rebellion will fall to pieces. We will have the whole of the country by the end of the year.”

He was not mad enough to contradict her at this rare moment of good news, but she read the caution in his eyes and knew the arguments he would make.

Ireland can never be predicted or trusted. Religion plays merry hell with practicality. We cannot depend on logic to believe we have won.