The Virgin's War (14 page)

This time she did smile. The practiced court smile that would not fool her brother for an instant, but put an effective end to his prying. “Why worry about winter when we have so few days at present to enjoy one another's company? Come along, and you can tell me about Scotland and how on earth you came to be commanding a mercenary company belonging to a girl younger than even Kit and Pippa.”

She managed to keep herself bright and attentive and closed off for the rest of the day. But when she escaped to the chamber she shared with Pippa (thankfully alone just now, for Pippa continued to circle between Anabel and Matthew every waking hour), she found a letter from her husband waiting for her.

Lucie mine,

Am I permitted to call you that with the barrier of two hundred miles between us? I am sure you will let me know if not.

Help, Lucie. I need you. Felix needs you—or at least, he needs someone or something other than me. I do not know what to do for him. He is angry and confused and does not seem certain of who he is anymore. You and I have both had to come to terms with having our pasts shaken up and rearranged into a new picture—but you did it when you were much nearer Felix's age. I was already an adult when I had to face the past…and I had you to help me.

I know that you are needed in the North. I have no wish to supersede the claims of your family and your princess. But might you come home for a little? Or might I come north with Felix? Not to the princess's household—but near enough to see you?

What a melancholy note I have struck in this letter! It is not as bad as all that. Nothing can be wholly catastrophic as long as you breathe on this earth. That will very nearly be joy enough for me to the end of my days.

Though I would not mind being asked to kiss you again someday…

Julien

James Stuart might not have been the most physically prepossessing man of Anabel's acquaintance, but in person she quickly warmed to the deep intellect and scholarly interests that had previously been confined to his letters. If she had only to deal with his conversation, they might do very well.

Fortunately, James did not seem terribly interested in her person—certainly not as much as he was in her kingdom. That made their conferences slightly less awkward.

But only slightly.

“Your Highness,” prodded the king's secretary, John Maitland, “is it your intention to continue to promote the cause of Papists at your court and in your policies?”

“It is my intention to serve and defend the people of England. All of them.”

“Your mother has learned necessary caution concerning Papists over her lifetime, seeing as every assassin who has attempted her life has been Catholic.”

“A logical fallacy, my lord. That every assassin has been Catholic does not mean that every Catholic is an assassin.”

It was interesting that in the most charged moments, James always conceded the field of argument to Maitland. Anabel refused to be thus put off, so she spoke directly to James. “Surely Your Majesty would protest any attempt on my part to dictate Scottish policy. I am not clear why it should be Scotland's prerogative to instruct me on how to govern my council and household.”

Intelligence, and possibly wry amusement, flickered in his normally flat eyes. “I expect the prerogative springs from our future marriage.”

“As I understand the terms of the betrothal, the question of union is between the two of us personally, not our crowns. A union of country would fall to any child we might have in future.”

“And that might work, if we were monarchs of distant countries—like England and Spain, say? But Scotland is quite rightly concerned about being swallowed up by English interests. We are a Protestant nation, Your Highness. I will only wed a woman of the same sentiments.”

Did he have any idea how tempting that implied offer was? What would he do if she took him at his word and promptly became Catholic simply to avoid marrying him?

She smiled with deadly sweetness. “England is not a Catholic nation. But as long as there are English Catholics, I will not suffer their rights of life and liberty to be forfeited to their conscience. As my mother once wisely said—I will not make windows into men's souls.”

James did not have the requisite sense of humour to parry her strokes lightly. His face darkened, but he managed civility at least. “I imagine this is a subject we will return to more than once in the next year. Perhaps we should leave it for now in the hands of our capable diplomats.”

The next year.
For that had been the purpose of this border meeting—to finally set a wedding date. Both sides had at last agreed to August 30, just over a year from now. Anabel had tried to push for two more years, but the tide was against her. She was already twenty-three. James's advisors wanted her wedded and bedded and with child as soon as possible, for then the alliance would be unbreakable without the kind of violence with which Spain now threatened England.

Tomás Navarro was displeased, as he was bound to be. Anabel wondered to what lengths Spain's displeasure would push them. Far enough, one hoped, to provide England an edge in the coming war. Keep them unbalanced and guessing about her intentions, and Spain might be caught the slightest bit unprepared.

But the priest confined his immediate queries to Ireland in a private conference with Anabel. “Do I understand that you will not ask Scotland for aid against the Irish Catholics and Spanish soldiers supporting them?”

“I will not.” Because there was no point. James would never agree.

“That is good. I am certain that Your Highness desires peace. But it will not be to anyone's benefit to have a peaceful earthly life spent in heresy, only to be in torment eternally. I trust Your Highness keeps ever in mind the souls of your people.”

“They are not my people, not wholly,” she reminded him. “That belongs to my mother.”

“Only so long as the people wish it.”

It was the most dangerous thing Navarro had said yet. Anabel allowed him to leave without further discussion, but his warning echoed as she spent the next two hours riding with Kit and several of James's household. The king himself had declined the invitation, preferring to pore over some manuscripts brought here from Oxford for his pleasure.

When they returned, James was waiting in the outer bailey to greet her. Anabel did not see him at first. Only when Kit had swung her down from her horse, his hands lingering ever so slightly at her waist, did she realize they were being watched. She stepped neatly out of Kit's touch, intending to approach James, but the king merely bowed his head in acknowledgment and walked away.

That last evening there was music and dancing and wine enough to soften even the sternest border faces who had been bred from their cradles to be enemies. Not too much wine, though, for the Scots party still needed to cross the border before they slept. Anabel was careful to dance with Kit only once, moving from him to Stephen to a reluctant Matthew Harrington, and at last to James.

When the dance ended, James asked softly, “Might I seek a moment of privacy to speak to you? It is unlikely we shall meet again until our wedding.”

“Yes, of course.” Anabel felt all eyes on them as they left the hall for a quiet chamber nearby with painted ceiling and a wealth of Turkish carpets beneath their feet. No doubt both her council and James's were quietly fretting at the thought of these two royals conducting their own negotiations, but so be it. One could not run a marriage entirely at one remove.

But it was not negotiation James had in mind. She briefly wondered if he meant to kiss her, to begin to approach the intimacy required of husband and wife. But if nothing else, James was not an especially sensual man. Unique to a Scots king by the name of James, he had no bastard children and possibly was as much a virgin as Anabel.

He did not kiss her. Instead, he asked, “What precisely is the nature of your relationship with Lord Christopher Courtenay?”

Immediately she wanted to snap at him in affronted dignity, but she could not allow him even that much sign of personal displeasure. If she had been a woman only, then she could have indulged in any sort of temper. But she was a princess, walking a dangerous path between competing powers that would tear her to pieces the instant she slipped.

Striking what she hoped was the perfect balance of innocence and hauteur, Anabel said, “He is Lieutenant General of the Marches.”

“An appointment properly belonging to the queen. And yet she does not object—or at least, not loudly enough to insist on his removal. Why, I wonder?”

“Because he will fulfill the task admirably.”

“Because he is a Courtenay,” James said flatly. “That, I imagine, is why your mother has not insisted on removing him. She has her own Courtenays to worry about in the South. And surely that is why you have appointed him. Not because of his talents, but because of his close connection to yourself.”

“I am hardly likely to surround myself entirely with strangers. No more than you are. I remember Esmé Stewart.”

His face darkened at the reference to his onetime favorite, disgraced and dead two years ago from the attacks of nobles who had not liked the French-born favorite. James himself had been imprisoned for a time in that upheaval. But he would not be deflected. “I am not given, I hope, to irrational jealousy. But nor will I be insulted. You must step carefully, Your Highness. Women are apt to prize passion over prudence—a lesson I learned before I could even talk. Do not make my mother's mistakes.”

Almost she asked him if those mistakes included Mary Stuart's disastrous marriage to James's father, Lord Darnley. But she bit her tongue. He had more likely been referring to the even more disastrous and ill-considered elopement with Bothwell that had led directly to Mary's abdication and imprisonment in England.

She softened her response. “I would be ashamed to think evil of Your Majesty's friendships. And would hope that the man who trusts me with marriage might offer the same courtesy.”

“So long as the loyalty of spouses remains paramount.”

He was clever, this Stuart king. He would not shout or rail or even directly say what he meant. But that didn't make it any less clear.
I will be watching,
he meant.
I may not care for your heart, but that does not leave it free. The moment you cross the line with Christopher Courtenay, you will find yourself friendless in Scotland.

If Robert Dudley had lived, she wondered, would Philip of Spain have delivered something of the same message to Elizabeth?

But Robert had not lived. And if her mother had always cared more for a dead man than her living husband, she had managed her marriage successfully enough so that when it broke down, it was for reasons of policy and not personalities.

Anabel knew she would have to learn to do the same. Unless…

Unless she got very lucky and fortune took a hand in the future that was still so rocky.

O
n Thursday, 19 August 1585, Philippa Courtenay and Matthew Harrington were married in Carlisle Cathedral, beneath the barrel-vaulted ceiling and the gorgeous East Window shining coloured light through its ornamental tracery. Anabel had forced Pippa into an elaborate gown of the princess's own: apricot silk velvet and damask decorated with golden beads along the shoulders and narrow cuffs. Her radiant face was framed by a lace collar stiffened high behind her honey-gold hair, the distinctive black streak twisted back and highlighted by an ivory comb set with moonstones. Matthew's stalwart frame and subdued finery, by contrast, acted like an anchor to keep his otherworldly bride tethered to the earth.

Despite the elaborate backdrop, the wedding was a quiet affair. Other than Anabel's chaplain, who performed the service, only the Princess of Wales and Pippa's three siblings were in attendance.

“Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife…” intoned Edwin Littlefield. “Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour and keep her, in sickness and in health?”

Despite her best intentions, Anabel found her gaze focused on Kit. Can I really do it? she asked herself. Can I stand before a priest next year and make these vows to a king I have no intention of loving?

“And forsaking all others, keep thee only to her, so long as you both shall live?”

Kit's eyes flickered to hers.
Forsaking all others.
His face was stripped of its usual good humour. For a heartbeat, Carlisle Cathedral melted away and she could see nothing but the man she must forsake for England.

As Littlefield pronounced the benediction, Anabel echoed the words as a silent prayer of her own for this man who loved her:
God the Father, God the Son, God the Holy Ghost, bless, preserve, and keep you, the Lord mercifully with his favour look upon you.

Robert Cecil and Madalena Arias had organized a fine supper for after the wedding in the Warden's Tower of Carlisle Castle. The members of Anabel's privy council and her ladies, all of whom had cause to like and respect both Pippa and Matthew, attended and offered toasts of congratulations. Lord Scrope attended as well, with the chief of his March command.

Pippa sat securely between her husband and her twin. With her left hand clasped in Matthew's, she turned to Kit and asked, “Well?”

He grinned. “Very well, from what I can see. Your frantic edge has gone.”

It had indeed, something that surprised Pippa a little—and almost made her sad. What if she hadn't been so afraid all this time? Could she have had this peace much earlier? Even her body had responded. The coughing fits had eased this last week, so that she almost felt healthy.

Matthew leaned in and whispered in her ear, “Why were you so insistent on having Maisie Sinclair at this supper?”

Pippa turned quick enough to catch her cheek against his rough jaw and was momentarily distracted by the sensation. Attuned to her responses, Matthew held her there for a moment. She gave a breathy laugh and answered. “Cannot you guess why I wanted Maisie here—not just tonight, but in Carlisle itself? I thought you understood me better than anyone.”

Matthew shifted a bit to look into her eyes. His were dancing in a manner that made Pippa giddy. “I just wanted to know if you would admit to matchmaking.”

Reluctantly, she tore her gaze away from her husband to where Maisie Sinclair sat next to Stephen in close conversation. “Matchmaking would imply I set things in motion. They have done that themselves—I only want to help them recognize it.”

Stephen and Maisie were close, she judged. Close to recognizing that what they had was not mere friendship.

How could she not want that for all the world? Now that her own friendship had turned the corner to the love she'd always been afraid of, Pippa thought everyone should be as happy.

She was not afraid anymore. Once she made a decision, she did not look back. She was Matthew's wife, for however long God gave them. As Matthew had said, that was all anyone could hope for. And she meant to revel in every moment given her.

Fortunately, Anabel was kind enough to retire early from the feast, freeing the newlyweds to retreat before their desire overcame their manners.

Pippa had asked Lucette alone to attend her. As the sisters left the Warden's Tower, Pippa noted Kit moving next to Matthew. Her twin had an unusually forbidding expression on his face. “What do you think he's saying?”

Lucette rolled her eyes. “Some variation of what Stephen said to Julien—‘Hurt my sister and I'll kill you,' that sort of thing.”

“You
have
been hurt,” Pippa noted. Even on the edge of her wedding night, she could not turn off the impulse to help.

“But not by Julien,” Lucette answered slowly. “It is only that he is the nearest to me, so he is the one to absorb my hurt.”

Then they were at the bedchamber set aside for the newlyweds, and Pippa allowed herself to be absorbed in the process of removing the elaborate and heavy gown Anabel had insisted upon and changing into a whisper-fine cambric chemise with blackwork at the cuffs and neckline and a thin silk robe tied with ribbons. Lucette unpinned her sister's hair and brushed it until it lay in a heavy golden weight around her shoulders.

Pippa grasped Lucette's hand, resting on her shoulder. She could see her sister's face in the mirror. “ ‘A fine cambric shift. And a bed.' You recommended the state to me, as I recall. Were you at all uncertain?”

“I'm afraid I am far too earthly a woman to indulge in hesitation. I wanted Julien every bit as much as he wanted me.” Lucette bent and kissed the top of Pippa's head. “But if you are hesitant, no one safer to take your worries to than Matthew.”

But when her sister had gone and her husband entered, Pippa discovered she had no thought of nerves. Only the wish to be in his arms and never, ever to leave them.

Maisie Sinclair had been somewhat surprised when the Scots left the border and she remained in England. She was even more surprised that Stephen agreed to remain as well. Of course, Stephen would hardly miss his sister's wedding. And it was flattering to be asked to join the wedding supper, except that Maisie didn't believe in wasting time being flattered. Better by far to know why things were being done.

She thought she understood Lady Philippa Courtenay—now Philippa Harrington—to some degree. It had been there in her teasing remarks to Maisie when they'd met again at Carlisle Castle.

I was also right in that conversation, Maisie Sinclair. Do you remember what I said to you
?

Maisie never forget anything. Philippa had said:
There is more to Stephen than duty, and a heart with room for more than one love. I do not think passion has finished with him quite yet.

So Philippa was matchmaking. Why? Maisie wondered. And how could his sister imagine that Stephen would ever look twice at a plain Scotswoman when he had the memory of Ailis Kavanaugh in his heart? Stephen had walked away from Ailis, but that didn't mean he wouldn't be searching for another gorgeous beauty, all fire and passion, to match him.

Of course, Philippa had never met Ailis. Perhaps the woman thought Stephen's work in Scotland had something more personal to it than professional. Even clever women can be wrong on occasion, Maisie mused.

Stephen kept her entertained throughout supper. It had been a less profitable visit than Maisie might have hoped, seeing that the Princess of Wales was engaged with the king and Matthew Harrington could hardly take his eyes off Philippa. She had been accorded a meeting with Robert Cecil, the princess's secretary, and met several times with Madalena Arias. Maisie had also spent one illuminating afternoon with Stephen's older sister, Lucette. The dark-haired beauty—with the blue eyes, some said, of the late English king—was not as unsettling as Philippa, but she had a formidable intelligence. Though her studies had been largely academic, Lucette was quick to question Maisie about her business, and not only followed the discussion but asked some truly insightful questions.

When the sisters withdrew from the hall at the end of the wedding banquet, Maisie tracked Stephen's gaze to where his brother sat in close conversation with Matthew. Stephen chuckled softly.

“What?” she asked.

“Matthew is being subjected to various warnings. It was my task with Lucie's husband, Julien. Now it's Kit's turn. It's what brothers do.”

“Not my brother.”

Stephen's sharp eyes turned to her. “Your brother never even met Finian Kavanaugh, did he?”

She shook her head. “Even if he had cared to—which he never would have—I can't imagine that Robert would have intimidated a man forty years older than himself. Especially an Irishman. Luckily for me, Finian was kind enough.”

“Kind enough that you do not find the thought of marrying again distasteful?”

“Why would I marry again? As a wealthy widow, I control my own future.”

“Mariota, you will always control your own future. Of that I have no doubt.”

Every time he called her by her given name, it made uncomfortable things happen to her heartbeat. Fortunately for her peace, a page appeared behind the two of them and, bowing, presented a message to Stephen.

The seal was unmistakably royal.

Stephen broke it open where they sat and after a moment said, surprisingly, “It's for both of us.” He handed it to Maisie to read herself.

13 August 1585

Whitehall Palace

Lord Stephen Courtenay is commanded to Her Majesty's presence at court as soon as can be arranged. He is to bring with him Mariota Sinclair of Edinburgh. We have business to discuss between the three of us.

HRH Elizabeth

Maisie raised her eyebrows in surprised query. Stephen was wearing his particularly blank face that told most people so little. But she was not most people. Maisie had learned to read the tiny twitches of jawline and eye that revealed his uneasiness.

“I would wager,” she said brightly, “that it will take your queen less than five minutes to offer to buy my military company for England's use. Well, probably not buy it. Probably she will want it for nothing. Do you think you are likely to be swayed by her patriotic arguments?”

His lips twitched with definite amusement. “It doesn't matter, does it? The company is yours. I will do what you tell me.”

And there was that damned irregular heartbeat again.
Stop it,
Maisie scolded herself.
Confine yourself to the things you do well and leave romance to the beauties.

When news reached London of Philippa Courtenay's precipitate marriage to a man whose birth could only be considered less exalted than hers, the rumours began flying of how soon a baby would be born. Elizabeth stopped what she could in her own circle by freezing disapproval. Minuette seemed untroubled by the gossip, though Elizabeth thought Dominic was likely furious at such idle discussions of his daughter's virtue. But despite Minuette's acceptance of the marriage, and their sincere approval of Matthew, Elizabeth knew how much her friend was hurt and surprised that they had not been told beforehand.

So when Stephen Courtenay reached London, Elizabeth allowed him to spend an entire day with his parents in their house on the Strand before summoning him to court. Let him tell stories of Pippa and Matthew to ease his parents' concern. But once Stephen arrived at Whitehall, she ensured that the pageantry was fully in place. She received Stephen and Mistress Sinclair in the throne room, made more impressive by the absence of a crowd. Only Burghley was with her. She had not even considered bringing Walsingham into this meeting—Stephen had little cause to feel fondly about her spymaster. And vice versa. In fact, Walsingham had opposed this particular idea of hers from the beginning.

Stephen entered with the kind of indifferent grace his father possessed in spades. He made the appropriate genuflections, as did the woman at his side. Elizabeth studied Mariota Sinclair in the time it took the two of them to advance the length of the room. Dressed exquisitely in a silver and black brocade that Elizabeth envied, the slender girl carried herself well despite her lack of height. She was obviously fair, though her hair was severely parted and almost entirely contained in a black velvet hood. As young as Maisie Sinclair was, Elizabeth recognized a kindred spark of intelligence and self-possession in her face.