The Virgin's War (21 page)

Unfortunately, Minuette Courtenay could see all manner of things for herself. Including her younger daughter's increasingly fragile control. She was wise enough not to confront her directly. Instead, she began by asking Pippa about Anabel's state of mind.

“She is so young,” her mother mused. “It is a dreadful burden Elizabeth has laid on her.”

“I think it was fully as much Anabel's idea as the queen's.”

“But when we are young, we often cannot see the full cost of what we choose.” Minuette hesitated, those hazel eyes nearly identical to Kit's, fixed on Pippa's green ones. “You, of course, are an exception. You see far more than I do. Far more than I would like.”

“If you are asking me if I have seen the outcome—I have not. If John Dee cannot prophesy the end of this war, it is hardly likely that I could.”

“Then what is it you do see, Philippa?” her mother asked gently. “What is it that troubles you enough to put shadows beneath your eyes and lines of care on your face? Why does Matthew track your every move as though afraid you will break—or vanish?”

“I see pain,” Pippa answered unwillingly, picking her way with care over the difficult landscape of this conversation. “But that is hardly a surprise. One cannot have war without pain. Especially not a war within a family. For all her logic and apparent indifference, Anabel hates exploiting her relationship to her father. And she hates even more being exploited by him.”

“My darling girl.” Minuette bit her lip, clearly considering how far to press. “I love Anabel and I love England. But not as I love you. Will you not tell me?”

Pippa looked straight into her mother's face and lied. “There is nothing to tell.”

It was simpler after that to just avoid her family. Pippa thought she had found an isolated section of the vast house—not as large as Tiverton Castle, though enormous compared to Wynfield Mote—but soon found another person who had fled from too much familial intimacy.

“Hello, Felix.” She spoke softly, as one would to a horse about to bolt. She had not forgotten how haunted he'd looked upon his arrival in England last spring. But the expression he turned on her now was, if not that of an entirely lighthearted child, at least considerably eased.

“My lady,” he said in very good English. In the manner of fourteen-year-old boys, he had shot up even more, and was clearly on the way to matching his Uncle Julien's remarkable height. And despite being too thin as yet, his brown hair and eyes were attractive.

“Pippa,” she corrected him. “You look much happier since last I saw you.” Never let it be said that she was afraid to speak bluntly. She was only oblique about her own feelings, not those of others. “You have come to terms with your uncle?”

“Yes.” Felix blinked and cleared his throat. “I suppose I should apologize to you as well. For my father's wickedness in your home.”

“It is not your responsibility, Felix. And what your father wrought did by far the most damage to you. It is I who am sorry, for all of it. I cannot envision living in the world without my parents. And, of course, your grandfather. Renaud LeClerc was a very good man.” She studied the boy, showing in the bones and the eyes and the height a hint of the man he himself would be. “Will you return to France?”

“No. Not this year. We will wait until matters are decided between England and Spain. My uncle and Lucette have said they will travel with me when I wish. But I intend to make this my home until I am old enough to run Blanclair.”

“Good. That is good.” She felt tears prick and blinked rapidly to clear them.

“My lady…Pippa?” Felix said hesitantly. “Why are you sad?”

Because I like this world and I like you and I wish I could see you become a man worthy of Blanclair…

“It is the travel,” she said dismissively. “I think I will rest for a while.”

And though it had been a device to escape, once Pippa retreated to bed, she almost instantly fell asleep.

It didn't take long for word of Kit and Anabel's argument at Kenilworth to make its way to the Marches of England. If Kit had thought it difficult enduring the sidelong glances and whispers that followed when he was in Anabel's good graces, he soon found this was even worse. As though every word of speculation merely confirmed his own misery.

So he threw himself into work—a remedy he'd never considered when he was younger. What had happened to the careless, jealous younger son? The boy who knew he could never be as good as his father or brother, so why even try? It seemed that, after all, his father's streak of duty and honour had been painted across Kit's soul.

There was no shortage of duty along the border. Reivers, for generations a source of mischief on both sides of the national boundary, did not stop their raiding and thieving whatever the formal understanding between England and Scotland. They were a law unto themselves, and the job of the wardens on both sides was to keep disorder from blowing into catastrophe.

Kit had a decent working relationship with the Scottish Lord Maxwell, but halfway through February the man was abruptly released from service and a new Warden of the West March of Scotland appointed—a warden with a superbly trained mercenary force at his command. Kit rode with officers of the Carlisle garrison to meet his brother at Dumfries.

“How on earth did you manage this?” Kit asked Stephen. “Won't the queen protest your service to a foreign power?”

“I'm not serving a foreign power—I am following orders from the woman who commands my service.”

“Your wife,” Kit said flatly. He'd been astonished to hear of Stephen's sudden, surprising marriage to a girl so much younger and so different from the women he'd watched his brother attend to over the years. He'd always sought for beauty, and Maisie Sinclair was not beautiful. Interesting, yes. Clever, no question. And yet Kit was quite certain his brother had not married for the sake of a clever mind.

Stephen refused to elaborate on the subject. “King James had to pull Maxwell off the border because of his noted Catholicism and open sympathy for Mary Stuart. The king's eye is on the longer view—not reivers, not thieves, but Spanish soldiers. With his mother in his hands, he thinks that the Spanish will have nearly as much interest in attacking Scotland as England, and the last thing the king can afford is one of his own wardens joining the Spanish. You and I are meant to prevent that.”

The rest of their time at Dumfries was taken up with official matters. When Kit realized that he was keeping up with his brother in matters of policy and military tactics—that he even gave Stephen pause on occasion—he felt undeniably proud. Even when his older brother said caustically, “It's because of how well I trained you.”

When they walked out together for Kit and the Carlisle men to ride back across the border, Stephen said abruptly, “I am sorry you've had to separate yourself from Anabel. It must hurt, having to lie to everyone about your feelings.”

“How do you know I'm lying?”

Stephen eyed him sidelong. “Please.”

“As long as Anabel can bring herself to believe it.”

“She won't. You know that. Only in the heat of temper would she ever manage to believe you don't love her. But she will play the game as well as you. I'm just sorry it has to be that way.”

“Don't be too sorry. You have your own troubles ahead.”

Stephen grinned. “But at least I have the wife of my choosing.”

“Do you?” Kit asked curiously.

Though his grin widened, still Stephen declined to be provoked. “Keep working hard, little brother. You'll have to, to keep up with me.”

After returning to Carlisle, Kit headed east for his usual rounds of the Middle March. He expected only the normal course of business—low supplies, requisition difficulties, lack of ready money—but upon arriving in Tynedale, he was met with the news that he had a visitor waiting for him from the Princess of Wales.

It couldn't be Pippa, or the man would have said so. But Kit hoped for some kind of personal news.

Unfortunately, it was perhaps the last person he wanted to meet—Tomás Navarro. Kit stopped short on the threshold, then moved warily into the chamber.

“What can I do for you?” Kit asked in Spanish, taking a seat not too close, where he could keep a watchful eye on the priest.

Perhaps the only thing Navarro respected in Kit was his ability to speak Spanish. He answered in the same language. “I come with a message.”

“From Her Highness?” What on earth would Anabel be doing, sending this unfriendly, judgmental Jesuit as a messenger?

“From His Majesty, King Philip.”

That rocked Kit back into his chair. He was surprised enough to have to think carefully about translating his reply into Spanish. “I was not aware His Majesty could have anything to communicate to me.”

“He wishes to express his gratitude for your loyalty and devotion to his daughter. He recognizes the difficulty of your personal position and respects your willingness to serve without reward. Other than to please God and Holy Church, His Majesty has no greater wish than to see his daughter happy in her duty.”

“I have never doubted His Majesty's intentions.” A nicely ambiguous reply for an ambiguous message, though he hardly had the patience for it. In this respect, Kit was very much his father's son. He did not like evasion and dissimulation and all the other subtle attendants of politics. Why could royals and diplomats never speak plainly?

“His Majesty is writing to his daughter with a proposal,” Navarro said delicately. “When she receives it, she will undoubtedly send for you. It would please His Majesty greatly if you would use your influence to persuade her to accept his offer.”

“You're not going to tell me what that offer is?”

“I am not.”

“Do you know?”

“I do.” His face darkened. “And for myself, I do not approve.”

Interesting. “Royal masters do not wait upon our approval.”

Navarro rose. Every now and then, in his controlled and elegant movements, Kit was reminded of the man within the cassock. Early thirties, lithe and fit, a man who would not be out of place on the battlefield. Perhaps the priest saw the Church as just that.

“I will not stay,” Navarro announced. “I expect I will see you before long.”

“It was good of you to trouble yourself on such a disagreeable errand. If it were up to you to counsel Her Highness, I wonder what you would advise?” Kit didn't mind harassing the man. But he was not expecting the violence of his reply.

“I would tell her one or two token Catholic lords on her council are not sufficient,” Navarro spat vehemently. “I would tell her that allowing Mass to be said avails her little if she will not submit her own soul to the sacraments. I would tell her that opposing her mother is not the same as turning to her father. I would tell her to beware a man who appeals to the worst aspects of a woman's character.”

This was more than Kit had bargained for.

Navarro hadn't finished. “And I would tell her that she is harboring more than heretics in her household. ‘Though shalt not suffer a witch to live.' If England is to be cleansed, it must begin at home.”

“I hope you are not implying what I think you are,” Kit said, soft and dangerous. He realized he was gripping his dagger hilt.

Navarro's eyes flicked from that to Kit's face. But he did not back down. “Nothing is more dangerous than a servant of Satan who appears in the guise of a beautiful woman, mingling friendship with heresy.”

“Stay away from my sister. If you threaten her—”

“I am under orders, the same as you. His Majesty, King Philip, is unaccountably fond of both you and your sister. I will not touch either of you.”

Navarro turned away, but not without a parting shot as he walked out: “I will not have to. I trust God will do it for me.”

24 February 1586

El Escorial, Spain

Her Royal Highness Anne Isabella, Infanta of Spain and Princess of Wales,

Mi cielita. How I wish I could speak to you in person. I trust you will believe that, however stiff my words, my heart is poured out in true affection for you.

I am not cruel, whatever the most stiff-necked of the English believe. I am seeking earnestly every day to both do my duty and please my family. As to the duty—you know war is coming. I could not stop it even if I wished to. And I do not wish to. “Spare the rod and spoil the child.” But it need not destroy you. You are young, my daughter, and beloved by your people. Your recent actions have shown your wisdom as well as your tenacity in doing what you feel is right.

I believe the people of England desire a righteous ruler. I have no desire for bloodshed. Far better to cut short violence—something you are in a position to achieve.

I will be plain, mi cielita. With your support in the North of England, the coming war could be considerably shortened. Your people will shed less blood, and your mother may be brought to see wisdom short of her own death. In return for your support of this righteous cause, I will see to it that your marriage will be of your own choice. I think we both know whom that choice would be.

I commend to you Tomás Navarro as a faithful counselor. Trust his guidance and both of us may achieve all that we desire. And trust I am always your loving father.

Philip

Anabel thought herself a subtle and imaginative woman, with a healthy skepticism bestowed by both her clever parents. But never could she have imagined that her father would tempt her to treason by offering Kit Courtenay as her husband.

It was enough to take her breath away. For all of a full minute she allowed herself to consider that future: Queen Anne, young and beloved and wise, with Kit beside her every day and every night.

After that wistful minute of fantasy, Anabel deliberately took those images and folded them away in a tiny corner of her heart as she tore her father's letter to pieces. Then she tidied away the outward evidence of her anger, composed herself to what she needed Spain to see, and summoned Tomás Navarro.

“You know what His Majesty wrote to me, I understand?”

“I do. What shall I tell him?”

“I am quite capable of writing to my father without your aid. That is not why I sent for you. What I need from you are specifics of what is wanted from me.”

He hesitated, as well he might. Navarro was not a stupid man and he had no cause to trust her the way her father did. Anabel knew they were poised on the precipice of the crisis: Had the last two years of studied royal tension been for nothing? Or had she sufficiently played the part of a disaffected daughter ready to be lured away by pretty promises?

The great advantage was that she was royal and Navarro was not. He might have a degree of latitude in his work, being so far from his masters in Spain, but both his mind and his heart demanded obedience to those masters. And they all—king and priests—wanted Anabel on their side.

Navarro leaned in, hands clasped, his handsome face sculpted by good bones and strong opinions. “Neutrality,” he said bluntly. “That is all Spain asks of you. Neutrality to allow Spanish troops to accomplish what must be done quickly. The swifter the battle, the less bloody the costs.”

“And…afterward?” Let him think her hesitant to name her mother, a feminine shrinking from the hard facts of what would happen to Elizabeth Tudor. Navarro might be fanatic enough to believe that England's queen would capitulate short of death—but Philip of Spain knew better than that. Her father knew her mother must die.

Navarro spread his hands wide, as though himself offering her the world. “England has a queen willing to rule in partnership with Holy Church.”

How deluded they all were! And how willfully they misread the tenor of the English. Even the most fanatic Catholics—a fraction of the minority—would hesitate to allow the Pope and Spain to dictate English policy once more.

“If I am to be neutral, then I must know when and where such will be called for. It would hardly do for me to be sitting in the very path of your march and be widely seen to do nothing about it. Few of the English could forgive that. I must appear to be too far away and too weak to offer effective aid. England will only accept me if they believe I have done what was possible to protect them.”

Tell me,
she silently willed.
Tell me when and where your men are landing. Tell me what we need to know to stop you once and for all.

“You will have warning.”

“How much warning?”

“You understand that precise dates will not be decided until shortly before. So much depends on the weather and the tides. You should expect perhaps two weeks' notice.”

“And my…acquiescence will spare the North?”

“There will be some troops landed here. For your safety, of course.”

Anabel had never been so grateful for her training in controlling her reactions. She was as sure as she could be that Navarro saw only her assessing, disinterested gaze. “It goes without saying that not a word of this escapes this room. If it does, I shall know whom to punish.”

He rose and bowed. “As it pleases Your Highness.”

She didn't believe that for a moment. Anabel felt fairly confident that she could defy her father even to his face and he would not hurt her. But Navarro? He would need to be carefully watched without alarming him, and locked away at the last moment to prevent him from wrecking all their hopes.

One thing at least she could be grateful for. If Kit were the lure to bring her to the Spanish trap, then summoning him fulfilled her purposes perfectly. Also, there was an undeniable thrill of nerves at finally being within sight of the end. Spain would have to attack this year. At most, this would all be over in a matter of months.

The King of Scotland was not amused when informed of Mariota Sinclair's wedding. In the end, Maisie was fairly certain that the only reason James Stuart didn't order the dissolution of her marriage was the fact that Stephen Courtenay was a close friend to the Princess of Wales. James needed to tread with care in that direction in order to make his own coming marriage successful.

And it didn't hurt that Maisie owned—and Stephen commanded—a highly trained and deadly force of mercenaries.

With the grudging approval of King James, the condition set for Maisie to keep control of the company had been met. Andrew Boyd greeted the news with real relief. The other board members were warier, waiting to see if she would exact punishment for what might be seen as their betrayal. But Maisie needed only to punish the troublemaker—Robert.

She had declined to take her husband with her to that interview. Actually, it was less an interview and more two people talking at cross-purposes to one another. But Maisie had always had the greater patience and the loudest voice when it counted. She made it plain to Robert that his allowance would continue only so long as he ceased making mischief for her in Edinburgh. He glared at her thunderously as she departed, but she trusted he would drown his anger in wine and brothels rather than risk losing any money.

With that settled, Maisie turned to the trickier business of establishing her marriage in public eyes. Stephen officially moved into the Edinburgh house, but they maintained separate bedrooms. Maisie knew at some point they would have to make the pretense of sharing a bed, but she shied away from that conversation. The last thing she thought she could endure was Stephen taking her for form's sake—or worse, from pity. So she kept him at one remove, and was grateful when the king appointed him to serve as Warden of the West March.

Then came the letter from his parents. One week after the Courtenays' formal congratulations—stiff with surprise behind the kindness—the newlyweds rode for England.

The Duke and Duchess of Exeter came all the way north to Carlisle, both to see Stephen and for a formal accounting of English military readiness in the North. Maisie drew a breath of relief when she and Stephen were able to slip into Carlisle Castle without encountering his parents publicly. The Courtenays excelled at tact.

After seeing her settled, Stephen left to find them. He'd been gone only a few minutes when someone knocked on the door. Maisie opened it to discover Dominic Courtenay.

He wore dark colours over the snowy white cuffs and collar of his shirt, with an obvious indifference to how the blues and blacks suited him. Maisie had met him briefly during her stay in London at the queen's summons, but she'd never had the full force of Lord Exeter's focus turned on her. She had thought Stephen was intense—he was a child compared to his father.

She stood frozen for so long in her tangle of thoughts that he had finally to ask, “May I come in?”

Maisie stepped back hastily and let him enter. He shut the door on the two of them and, clearly grasping her surprise, led her to a seat. He sat across from her, his hand resting lightly in his lap as he leaned forward and studied her. “Welcome to the Courtenay family,” he said, kindly enough.

“Thank you, my lord.”

His faint smile was so like his son's it tugged at her heart. “I have never warmed to titles. Please, call me Dominic.” He hesitated, then added, “Perhaps, someday, Father?”

“That is very generous. I know how we must have pained you. I swear, it was not done with the intention of causing pain. It seemed—”

“Necessary. I understand that. Better than you know. I did not come here for apologies. My wife is scolding Stephen—if there is any blame here, we consider it to be entirely his—but we are both very glad he has chosen so well.”

“That is kind of you.” She had to forcibly stop herself from adding “my lord” to every phrase. “I can hardly be what you had in mind for your son.”

“What I have always had in mind was a woman he loved.”

How was she supposed to respond to that? Surely Stephen didn't want her telling his father that their marriage was primarily a matter of convenience. Why was she so damned uncomfortable? She could coolly manage any number of businessmen and merchants and even mercenaries…but this man was entirely different. He looked at her as though he could see right to the heart of the secrets she was keeping from his son.

“Well,” Dominic said, with a gentleness she had not anticipated, “no doubt Stephen is beside himself wondering what I'm saying to you. Why don't we go put him out of his misery? My wife has arranged for a private meal, just the four of us.”

And that was hardly likely to ease her nerves.

14 March 1586

Carlisle Castle

I expected to be quite sharp with Stephen in our first conversation, but he disarmed me almost instantly with the light in his eyes. Oh, he apologized well enough. And I am sure he meant it. But the happiness is too deeply rooted to override even his guilt.

Mariota Sinclair is quite an enchanting daughter-in-law. I used to worry about the sorts of women who would wish to marry the sons of a duke. I do not think I would have much patience for vapidity or coquetry. I should have trusted my sons. Stephen always appreciated beauty, and a casual observer might suppose Maisie to be an exception to that rule. I am not a casual observer, nor is Dominic. I could tell at once how taken my husband was with her.

And Stephen? I have never seen my son both so certain and so vulnerable at the same time. After dinner, when we had bid them good-night, I asked Dominic, “Is it only me?”

He shook his head. “You could cut the tension between them with a dagger.” Then he laid his hand on the curve of my neck and kissed me lingeringly. “A tension that we both remember well.”

Yes, indeed. The tension of unfulfilled desire. The question is—why? They are married. And clearly they are each of them desperately in love with the other. So why are they also so clearly keeping out of each other's way? It can only be that they do not know how the other feels. As a mother—perhaps simply as a woman—the temptation to force the issue is extreme. Which my husband recognized at once.

“Leave them be,” he warned me, at some point between kisses and the shedding of clothes. “They will come to it themselves, and it will be all the sweeter.”

All these years of marriage—and still I hate it when Dominic is right!