The Virgin's Spy by Laura Andersen

Stephen, sword drawn.
    “Want to die here, English lordling? I’ll be happy to oblige.” The voice was Irish, the words English, the venom unmistakable.
    Stephen parried the man’s first blow and ducked beneath the second. But barefooted, he slipped in the churned-up mud and stumbled as the man’s sword point drove straight at him.
    As Stephen’s leg wrenched beneath him, Harrington slammed the Irishman with all his weight. But he, too, was off balance, and the man stepped out of it and then, terribly, thrust a dagger that seemed to come from nowhere up and under Harrington’s half-laced brigandine.
    Stephen’s eyes had misted over, from pain and blood and water, but he could just make out the Irishman’s outline as he leaned over and spat into the mud. “Remember this, lordling, and don’t play games out of your depth again.”
    He raised his sword and Stephen waited for death. But it was the hilt, not the blade, that met Stephen’s arm. He heard the crack of bone and then, mercifully, everything went white.
    —
    In his six weeks in Ireland, Kit had spent nearly as much time at Kilkenny as in Dublin. He would never have agreed to be the Earl of Leicester’s secretary if he’d known how often it would throw him into social situations that he despised. Being at the English court was one thing—the endless protocols and rituals and social lies were all made bearable by Pippa and Anabel, as well as the usual outlets afforded a young man of good family. He was an outstanding rider, an excellent huntsman, and skilled in all forms of sport.
    Ireland was not much for sport, unless killing one another counted. And having to play gracious courtier to Eleanor Percy was nothing short of galling. She stayed at Kilkenny as though expecting Stephen to arrive any day. Barring that, she seemed prepared to charm Ormond, though Kit still couldn’t decide if it was for her daughter’s sake or her own. Surely the Earl of Ormond, old as he was, would require a second wife able to bear him children. Then again, perhaps Eleanor wasn’t interested in marriage. Her morals had proved to be elastic from an early age, when she had borne her daughter to the king.
    The worst part of this latest visit at Kilkenny Castle was the absence of both Nora Percy and Brandon Dudley. Nora had received a personal invitation from Anabel—who was, after all, her cousin—to attend the investiture at Ludlow, and as Dudley had also been invited, he escorted her back to England. It was painful for Kit to watch them go. Anabel had not sent for him. Never mind that he had told her not to—it still stung.
    Ormond was a man worth cultivating, at least, and one with a certain sense of humour and practicality that Kit found refreshing. The earl was not afraid of Elizabeth, having known her since childhood, and was thus not particularly impressed by Kit’s connection to her and her court. And Kit was prepared to listen and learn from the older man.
    He and Ormond were in the courtyard in late August, headed for a morning’s ride along the River Nore, when the earl’s men alerted them to riders approaching. Wariness was the order of the day when unexpected strangers appeared in Ireland, and Ormond took to the tower battlements to view for himself.
    Just steps behind Ormond, Kit spotted the fairly sizable group moving with ragged slowness. Unusually, there were more horses than riders. As they drew nearer, Kit could make out that several of the riderless horses bore what looked like bodies draped over them. He felt a chill like hailstones striking the back of his neck, sudden and sharp, even before he saw the raised standard.
    Quartered in gold and azure, with the torteaux and lions of their father, stars for their mother, and storks representing due filial piety from the eldest son—the arms of Stephen Courtenay, Earl of Somerset.
    He was down the stone stairs and at the gatehouse before Ormond could stop him. The earl was quick enough to put together the