The Virgin's Spy (24 page)

A
fter two weeks of confinement at Hampton Court, Anabel was allowed to depart by barge for the short trip to Syon House. She thought her mother was glad to see her go. The longer the Princess of Wales remained cloistered in her bedchamber, the harder it was to keep up the pretense of a summer cold or a string of sick headaches or even female troubles. And she wasn't ready to step back into court life. She had lost weight and colour during her illness—not to mention her hair; Anabel mourned extravagantly for her beautiful hair and she hated having to wear wigs. And the terror that had seeped into her during the worst of the fever had not entirely dissipated.

The Duc d'Anjou and Esmé Stewart had been sent off to Theobalds to be entertained by Lord Burghley in his beautiful home, and from there a leisurely tour to Cambridge and the Roman city of Colchester. Anabel wondered how long they would stay in England before giving up on seeing her again. She didn't trouble herself overmuch; her mother would handle it.

Syon House was a blessed repose of beauty and quiet. She no longer needed constant nursing, and found herself irritably swatting away the hovering women who tried. At this point she could tolerate only Minuette and Madalena. Lucette had gone home with her husband. Anabel knew that Pippa was at Syon House as well. But now that conversation was possible between them, she was not in a hurry for it.

As for her household, her clerks and secretaries ran things so smoothly she supposed they hardly even missed her. Anabel knew she should care, but it was hard to summon the energy. Though the fever had broken and the rash faded without trace, she was…weary. Lassitude had become her constant companion, and for the first time in her life, she let herself drift without intention or effort.

The only one who brought colour to her days and a curiosity in the world was, not surprisingly, Kit. She knew that his admission to her private chambers was solely at his mother's discretion—another nursemaid would never have allowed the impropriety, now that she was no longer in danger of death. But who could complain when his own mother stayed in sight and hearing of them? Most of the time. If Minuette often drifted discreetly out of sight, who was to know?

Syon House, with all its new décor, was conducive to convalescence. Unlike other, more heavily decorated palaces, her bedchamber and privy chamber were done in a palette of muted blues and greens with liberal amounts of white and touches of silver.

In early September, Kit sat on a folding chair with an intarsia of coloured stones while Anabel reclined on a padded bench with low back and sides. The sunlight came through the unusually wide windows, illuminating Kit's bright eyes and expressive hands as he told her stories of Spain.

“Now you're just teasing me!” she protested, laughter making her throat ache. “There is
not
a woman at my father's court with an eye patch.”

“I swear on my life, Anabel, I am not teasing. Could I imagine such a thing? Doña Ana de Mendoza lost her right eye when she was young, in a duel with her father's page. She's worn an eye patch ever since. And it has not in the least detracted from her great beauty.”

Now he
was
teasing, and Anabel responded by sticking out her tongue. It was like they were ten years old again. “I suppose she was only one of many beautiful Spanish women. How many begged you to bring them to England with you?”

“Not a single one. For once, I was quite pleased to have no title or great wealth to offer. Made it simpler to concentrate on the essentials.”

“Which were?”

He hesitated. “Do you want to do this now?”

“Talk?”

“Talk about essentials.”

“I suppose I can't hide away forever.” Even though the thought was awfully tempting. She sighed. “How did you find Queen Mary?”

“Insufferably pleased with herself. One would think she was the first queen in history to produce sons.”

That wrung a smile from her. “James laments that. He writes that it is as though he has been erased from his mother's memory.”

“James of Scotland. You have been in communication?”

“Esmé Stewart brought a letter for me from his king. It read more as a shared complaint of two children whose parents are bent on humiliating them, rather than a personal suit.”

Kit nodded, and Anabel would have given much to know what he was thinking. But he merely continued with his recital. “King Philip was all that was gracious. And more at ease than I had ever known him to be. Seeing him at home in Spain was a lesson on how uncomfortable he must always have been while in England. I think you would know him better if you saw him there.”

“You know I can't.”

“Yes, and so does he. That does not stop him regretting it. I would guess that everything we were shown was calculated to make its way back to you, an offering of the most beautiful, most cultured aspects of Spain that are your heritage, whether or not you ever claim it.”

“And how does Mary Stuart respond to that?”

He grimaced. “I don't imagine the two of you will ever meet as friends.”

“As she had me held hostage to ensure her escape, I don't imagine we will.” That didn't mean Anabel relished the thought of meeting the Scots queen as an enemy. At the moment, it all seemed like entirely too much work.

Silence fell between them, and as happened with increasing frequency these last days, it was weighted with tension. Anabel knew—had always known, before she even knew why—that it would be up to her to break the silence.

Despite her illness, her unaccustomed lethargy, her heightened state of sensitivity, she would always be her mother's daughter. So when she spoke, it was as direct as she could make it.

“What are we going to do?” she asked.

If nothing else had persuaded her in the last two years of Kit's feelings, the quality of his silence now would have done so. There was an eloquence to the quiet lines of his body, the familiar grace of it tensed ever so slightly in the shoulders and hands—he had his mother's long, narrow hands with fingertips that made her shiver at the thought of his touch. Anabel could not see his eyes until suddenly he raised his head, and then she could not see anything else.

“You are going to get better,” he promised softly. “And when you are, I will do whatever you ask.”

“Including serve in my household?”

“If you ask it of me.”

“But it would not be your first choice.”

She knew his answer by his wry grin. “My first choice? I think attaining my third or fourth choice is the best I can hope for in this life.”

“What would you prefer to do?” Had she ever asked anyone that before? Royalty did not usually trouble with the wishes of those who served them.

“My father has suggested an intensive course of military training. I hate to say it, but though he is your father, King Philip has his eye on war. Both his conscience and his pride cannot abide what he sees as England's heretical defiance. And with Mary at his side determined to wrest Scotland back from her own son if she can…before the decade ends, there will be war. I would rather not wait until it comes to be prepared.”

“Well, even if you are training heavily at Tiverton, I should still see you from time to time.”

There was silence. Then, “I'm not going to train at Tiverton.”

It seemed he was going to make her ask. “Where, then?”

“With Renaud LeClerc. In France,” he added, as though she didn't know that perfectly well.

The illness had not completely obliterated her previous temper—her first instinct was to forbid it. But she held her tongue, determined not to treat him as just another vassal. Dare she be honest?

“But I will miss my raven.”

His eyes softened, and Anabel bit her lip to keep it from trembling. If he didn't move, she was going to have to…

With that swift grace so familiar to her, Kit knelt at her side. “Don't cry,” he said, which was her first indication that she was crying.

“I'm afraid.”

“Of what?”

“The future. Why cannot I just be a girl, Kit?”

“Because if you were just a girl—if you were any girl except yourself—I would not love you.”

“Do you?” she whispered.

“You know I do.”

“Tell me.”

He cupped her face in those beautiful hands of his. “I love you, Anabel. Whatever the future brings, whatever choices you must make for England, always know that I love you.
Mi corazon.
”

My heart.

His right thumb traced the outline of her lips, and Anabel forgot who and what she was. For just this moment she was the girl she longed to be—the simple girl brave enough to lean up and kiss the boy she had loved all her life without knowing it.

Kit stilled, but only for a moment's surprise. Then his hands slipped down her throat and her shoulders to pull her against him as they kissed. As awkward and inexperienced as she was, Anabel was certain nothing could ever feel as glorious as this.

But beneath the glory beat the ever-present question she had uttered earlier:
What are we going to do?

Not until Anabel was safely secured to convalesce at Syon House did Elizabeth attend a full privy council meeting. Dominic had made a preliminary report to both Burghley and Walsingham, condensed into written notes that had only partly penetrated her distraction. Now she could turn her full attention to Spain.

Or nearly her full attention. For the first order of business was how to graciously dispatch the Duc d'Anjou and Esmé Stewart.

“Neither man is stupid,” Walter Mildmay said waspishly. “They know they were not sent away from court because the Princess of Wales had a light summer cold. We're lucky they haven't both bolted for their own countries, carrying with them rumours of her imminent demise.”

Burghley's reply was more temperate than Elizabeth's would have been. Sometimes she thought that, for all she had rewarded him, there was not reward enough in all England for the burdens he carried for her. “Their graces will continue on progress for another four days before meeting the court at Richmond to bid Her Majesty farewell. They will both be invited at that time to make a private visit to Princess Anne at Syon House.”

“And what will be the outcome of these private visits? We must have a decision on a royal marriage as soon as may be. If Spain moves against us before we have allies—”

“If Spain moves against us,” Walsingham broke in sharply, “that will ensure England has a plethora of allies. Do not underestimate King Philip's intelligence. Spain will not move until and unless they are convinced of their overwhelming superiority in numbers.”

“We are not discussing Spain just yet,” Elizabeth added. “Let us deal with the matter of the foreign suitors first.”

“Has either France or Scotland offered formally?” Mildmay asked.

“No. But I believe both are prepared to do so if we leave them with the appropriate encouragement.”

“And which one shall we encourage?” asked Burghley wryly, for the council was split on the matter. If it ever came to a vote—which of course it wouldn't—there would be no clear consensus for either Anjou or James.

There didn't have to be. Elizabeth had crafted her own answer. One she had not discussed with either Burghley or Walsingham, though she thought the former might have guessed something of her intentions.

“The Duke of Lennox,” she announced, “will return to Scotland with our royal encouragement of King James's suit. I expect the formal betrothal to the Princess of Wales can take place this winter.”

There was a slight murmuring but no great surprise.

But Elizabeth wasn't finished yet. “And the Duc d'Anjou will return to France with the understanding that, when he returns to England, it will be as the betrothed husband of my own royal self.”

The murmuring became dead silence, a weight of astonishment that kept Elizabeth's chin high and eyes narrowed. She was prepared to combat dissent.