The Virgin's War (33 page)

“Until my very last breath,” Kit swore. And added, with a bow of obeisance, “Your Majesty.”

S
PEECH OF
A
NNE
I
SABELLA,
P
RINCESS OF
W
ALES AND
Q
UEEN OF
S
COTLAND,
B
EFORE THE
B
ATTLE OF
B
ERWICK

Men of England, I come amongst you today not as a ruler, but as a fellow citizen willing to defend my country with my own blood if necessary. For my blood is England's blood: the blood of liberty, the blood of defiance, the blood of a land that has not failed to defend its shores for five hundred years. We will not fail today, for we fight with the blood of our ancestors as well as our own.

Today, we proclaim that England is not two nations, divided by faith, but one nation, united in a cause greater than our individual concerns: to keep this land free from the terrors of the Inquisition, the contempt of enforced thought, the horror of compelled belief. We may fail often in our attempts to live together, but better to fail with good intentions than to comply in chains.

The North does not belong to Spain. The North does not belong to me.

The North is yours.

And the North is defended.

The English and Scots rode swift and light through the grey dimness in the hour before dawn. The Spanish intent was clearly to seize Berwick as fast as possible so that their ships standing off could disembark more troops at leisure. Lord Hunsdon's orders were to hold the castle but to let the town be taken if necessary. Most of the women and children had been hastily evacuated southwest, away from the coast. England could afford to lose houses and walls.

They could not afford to lose the castle. If they did—and if no English ships arrived to hold back those Spanish still at sea—Berwick would be a strong base for the enemy. The invaders would be perfectly poised to strike either north or south as they pleased.

Kit knew logically that this was not the sole critical moment of the war—his father and the English fleet in the Channel faced a greater threat in both numbers and choice of targets—but if the queen was dead, then England absolutely needed this victory to solidify Anabel's throne.

The army did not hesitate when Berwick came into view, for the orders had already been given and couriers were flying back and forth between them and the town and Lord Home's Scottish forces crossing the border from the North. Kit and Matthew followed their orders and led the small English force toward the water to cut off reinforcements from the ships.

In the three years since Ireland, Kit had fought on a variety of battlefields and in a range of conditions. Today was ideal, fresh and clear and dry. He missed Stephen, but Matthew was a steady and formidable presence who had been trained with the brothers when younger and thus moved and thought in many of the same ways.

The greatest advantage that the border English and Scots held was that they were accustomed to unconventional ways of fighting. Not for them the heavy guns and heavy horses and orderly formations of ritualized warfare. The border riders mounted small, swift, sure-footed horses specially bred to their location. Kit had been so taken by their sturdiness (men swore they could cover a hundred miles a day in time of great need) that he'd adopted a border horse for his own. With Matthew and the Middle March troops, they kept the line of retreating Spanish turned back toward Berwick and the press of the royal Scots troops behind them.

The air was so clear that Kit could see a long way off even without a spyglass, and in brief snatches of calm he watched the fresh Scots arrive from the North. Lord Home had two thousand lances at his command and he used them with skill—sending smaller groups out in forays while he kept reserves in hold at the center. Thus his lances were kept refreshed and could wear the Spanish down. It didn't require a great deal of time.

Though Kit hated to admit it, he knew that the Scottish troops made all the difference today. Left to Lord Hunsdon and the thin garrisons from the Middle March, the English would have required heavenly aid to turn back the Spanish. He was not prepared to call James's aid a miracle, but he could not deny that it served the purpose Anabel had intended. Berwick would hold.

When it became clear that the battle lay decisively with the English and Scots, the only task left was the breaking up of small circles of enemy soldiers. Kit gave command to Matthew and rode to the Scots line nearest him. He intended to seek out Lord Arran and exchange whatever information was needed for the final clearing up. But it was James who hailed him.

Swallowing his pride—and the vision of Anabel in his own arms the night before last—Kit reined in his horse to speak to the king. “The Spanish ships are drawing off. The soldiers left on shore will never reach them, Your Majesty.”

“Good. You've done well. Seems my wife was not wrong to give you command of the English Marches.”

“She is never wrong.” That was a lie—Kit had often taken pleasure in telling Anabel she was wrong over the years—but he couldn't help the instinct to bait James. And won't that be trouble in the future, he thought grimly.

Kit pulled lightly at his reins, to turn his horse and be on his way before he could say worse. But in the brief time they'd been speaking, a Spanish soldier—through sheerest luck—came within range of the king. Despite surely knowing he could not escape, the soldier did not hesitate. He drove his sword straight at the unprotected area beneath the king's left arm.

Moving before he knew it, Kit kicked his horse so it shoved against the king's mount. The other horse startled, moving just enough for the sword to miss the king and catch Kit on his gauntleted arm instead.

The force of the blow dropped him to the ground, and the Spanish soldier moved in with the swiftness of approaching death. With the perfect clarity of a vision—was this how Pippa had seen things?—Kit knew that the Spanish sword would go through his throat before he could move and before anyone else could intervene.

I'm sorry, Anabel.

The soldier thrust…and his sword deflected off a swirl of white mist that had not been there a moment before. Except how could something as insubstantial as mist stop a sword? Kit read shock on the enemy soldier's face the instant before he fell from an avenging Scottish arrow.

The mist twisted before Kit—almost danced—until he thought he discerned a shape to it. It couldn't be. Surely not?

A touch of silk against his thoughts, familiar as breath…
You're welcome, twin mine.

Four hours after the first troops had left Norham, Anabel was allowed to approach Berwick. The Spanish had broken and fled before the combined forces of the English and Scots. Those not dead or injured tried desperately to reach the three ships that had landed them. Few of the Spanish made it. With the bulk of fighting over and her army reduced to finding the wounded and imposing order on the victorious men, Anabel took to the ramparts with Lord Hunsdon to watch the three ships retreat from English shores.

From the ramparts they had a clear view of more than just the three ships. The remaining dozen Spanish ships were farther out, holding in their unusual half-moon formation. If that were the only sight, she might have panicked, for the number of soldiers in those reinforcing ships would be too much for Berwick. But remarkably—blessedly—so distinctly that God and nature must wish witnesses to this wondrous, terrible encounter, Anabel also saw a long line of English ships interposed between the Spanish and the coast. The three fleeing ships seemed to hesitate, then swung south to get around the English line that had seemingly appeared from nowhere.

Of naval warfare, Anabel knew only what she had read and studied. She'd never even been aboard a ship at sea, much less one under fire, nor could she imagine the mind that could comprehend such enormous areas of moving water and still manipulate ships—his own and the enemies'—in battle. What sea battles lacked in speed and intimate violence, Anabel could see they made up for with awful grandeur.

The Spanish ships depended on their crescent formation to confuse and outgun the English. It did not appear especially successful. From the water floated the crack of guns and occasional faint shouts, but mostly Anabel watched in silence trying to guess the meaning of what she saw. Lord Hunsdon, who had better information and experience, supplied occasional commentary.

“Their long guns are formidable, but our ships are more nimble—they can swing out of range in a moment…We want to break the crescent, that's why all our ships are attacking the left in a single file line…The Spanish will want to board one of our ships if they can…”

Please,
Anabel prayed fervently.
God in Heaven, please let our ships prevail. Send the Spanish threat far from us so we may recover our peace.

God in His Heaven must have been amenable to English prayers. Without warning or sign of imminent danger, one of the Spanish galleons exploded. Anabel jumped and grabbed Lord Hunsdon's arm.

“What happened?”

“I could not say.” He seemed as startled as she was. “I never knew such a thing—the ship was not taking fire, it was on the opposite crescent from our own ships.”

More laconically, one of the Berwick captains said, “There's a mighty load of gunpowder on those ships. All it would take is a moment's inattention, a stray spark, the barrels stored carelessly…” He shrugged. “It's a wonder more ships don't blow themselves to pieces.”

The explosion and subsequent fire on what remained of the galleon decided the battle. All but one of the remaining Spanish ships retreated as quickly as they could from range of the English and began to run. Even Anabel could tell there was little order to the flight. One brave Spanish ship remained, putting off small pinnaces to presumably try and pull survivors from the wreck. She hoped their gallantry would be honoured by her navy.

Half of the English ships put to sea to continue harrying the Spanish, but the remainder anchored smartly offshore, and by sunset their captain was admitted to Anabel's presence at Berwick Castle.

“Your Highness.” He bowed, signs of battle showing beneath the hasty wash and change of clothes. “Allow me to present the symbol of your victory this day.”

At her feet, he laid the captured royal standard from the wrecked Spanish galleon. Miraculously, it was only singed along the edges. Anabel stared at the crimson silk emblazoned with the arms of the House of Hapsburg. Someone had added King Philip's personal motto to the standard:
Orbis non Sufficit.

The world is not enough. And therein, she considered mournfully, lay your failure, Father.

E
lizabeth's physician assured the queen that her survival and comparatively good health was a gift from God—delivered, one was led to suppose, through the hands and mind of the physician himself. Minuette was entirely more cynical. “You're too stubborn to die without knowing how this war ends. Besides, you'd never give Mary Stuart the satisfaction. No doubt you plan to outlive her by fifteen years at least.”

But the softness in her friend's eyes belied the tartness of her words, and Elizabeth understood how very frightened Minuette had been.

It was most irritating being confined to this borrowed chamber at Leeds Castle while the war she had so carefully prepared for was being fought. Elizabeth compensated by driving Burghley, her clerks, and the maids to distraction with her unending demands for information and the need to get on her feet once more.

Three days after her fever broke, Dominic appeared sweat-stained and grimy at Leeds Castle. With news.

Elizabeth refused to meet him lying down. Seated in a high-backed chair that provided the support she grudgingly needed, the queen waved away his manners when he tried to make a proper entry and obeisance.

“There's no time for that,” she said sharply. “What has happened?”

Minuette stood tensely near her husband, plainly not having been told either. That was only right—for good or bad, any news of import must come to the monarch first.

“Admiral Hawkins and Francis Drake have damaged and scattered the Spanish fleet off Calais. They sent in fireships, which by all accounts worked even better than the most optimistic could have hoped. When the sun rose, only six Spanish ships were still to be seen. And the great galleass
San Lorenzo
had run aground beneath Calais Castle. They say she will never sail again.”

Elizabeth did not move. “And what is the current condition of Admiral Medina Sidonia's armada?”

“Scattered and running. Indications are some of them are still stubbornly heading north, perhaps believing they can manage to regroup and ferry across Parma's army. But that is exceedingly unlikely. Unless…”

It was unlike Dominic to hesitate over the obvious. Elizabeth finished for him. “Unless the Spanish were successful at taking Berwick and Carlisle and can help clear the way to bring the remnants of the armada and its men ashore in the North.”

“Even in that case, there is little chance of bringing Parma's army across,” Dominic said firmly. “And without his twenty-five thousand soldiers, Spain has very little hope of holding even the North for long. All reports are that the Catholic English are either fighting for the princess or remaining uncommitted.”

Elizabeth drummed her fingers on the arm of the chair, so anxious to be up and doing, hating being confined and having to wait for things out of her control. “All this assumes that the Spanish who sailed from Ireland are not victorious at Carlisle.”

“You are right, Your Majesty. This is not outright victory—not yet. But it is the best we could possibly hope for at this point. The armada will not land on England's southern shores. They will not seize London in a lightning raid. And without London, Spain cannot win in the end.”

She knew he was right. And she wanted to celebrate. But Dominic himself did not seem particularly cheerful—as if anyone could tell the difference—and Minuette looked nearly as tense as she had before her husband began speaking. Elizabeth knew why, for she felt it, too.

The South was safe. The North? Unknown. And in that large quantity of unknown lay the lives of Anabel, Kit, and Stephen, placed deliberately and squarely in the war's path.

The next thirty-six hours were the longest of Elizabeth's life—except possibly those hours she had spent at Hatfield thirty years ago waiting for word of her brother William's death. Long after dark the next day, a rider appeared with a letter whose writing Elizabeth knew at once.

25 July 1586

To Her Majesty, Elizabeth, by the Grace of God Queen of England and Ireland

Your Grace,

The North is secured. On Sunday the twenty-fourth of this month, enemy troops came ashore near Berwick-upon-Tweed and attempted to take the castle. Being valiantly defended by Lord Hunsdon, the castle held fast until relieved by forces both English and Scottish.

The enemy was put to flight, including their ships, leaving behind significant numbers of dead and wounded. The cost to our troops was less, though still most deeply felt.

Even as we counted our own victory, word arrived from Carlisle that the combined Spanish and Irish forces that landed in the West have also been most decisively defeated. That word was delivered to us in person by Lord Stephen Courtenay.

The enemy ships that have fled before our English ones are perhaps heading north once more. Certainly they are unlikely to attempt to rendezvous with Medina Sidonia's fleet—not with the bulk of the English navy in their way. We think it likely they are out of the fight for the foreseeable future.

While still ensuring that the North is held in good order, most of our troops will proceed south with all speed to render whatever aid may be needed. We trust Your Majesty will find these provisions acceptable.

I myself will ride directly for London.

Her Royal Highness Anne Isabella

Princess of Wales and Queen of Scotland

Elizabeth and Minuette were both left speechless—by the signature as much as by the content. “Queen of Scotland?” Minuette said, bemused. “When did that happen?”

Because Elizabeth knew her daughter and, more importantly, knew how kingdoms worked, she thought she had the answer. “I expect that James Stuart was reluctant to lend his army unless Anne gave him what he wanted—the binding ties of a church ceremony.”

“Then why did she not tell you so?”

“Because how she gained the Scottish troops is of far less import than the fact that she did manage to gain them.”

Minuette sighed. “It is a remarkable letter. She could not yet have had word of your recovery, and yet she writes as though she were certain.”

“The first requirement of leadership is to behave as though one is in perfect control at all times. Because Anne could not know my condition when she wrote—or what news may have been spread about it—she ensured that no one intercepting this letter would have any grounds for fear or gossip.”

“She is certainly your daughter.” Minuette shook her head, as though not certain she entirely approved of that assessment. “What next?”

“We continue to guard the coasts until we can discover for certain that Medina Sidonia's armada is scattered beyond recall. There is no point in winning a battle or two if we simply lay down and lose the war for lack of vigilance.”

“I meant next for you.”

Elizabeth raised a critical eyebrow. “To London, of course. I must be very visibly present to welcome my prodigal daughter on her victorious return to my court.”

“With her husband in tow?”

“I wonder…”

Only now that Anne had proven she could do what she must did Elizabeth regret it. She knew it was sentimental, but she would have liked her daughter to have had her happy ending.

When one's husband sends a government member to beg his wife's presence for a discussion, one does not expect a pleasant encounter. Anabel nearly said no to Maitland—from sheer perversity—but knew that she should not begin her marriage with more conflicts than could be helped.

Maitland led her to the large tent with the Scottish royal standard flying beside it. Night had fallen and Anabel could scarcely believe that only forty-eight hours had passed since she'd summoned Kit to her bedchamber in Norham.

Not the sort of thing she should be thinking of. Think, instead, that she'd not had an hour's sleep since her wedding service. When Maitland announced her and then withdrew, Anabel noted with some alarm that she and James were entirely alone. Surely he did not mean to consummate their marriage within sight and smell of the battlefield? If he tried, she would shoot him down immediately, and conflict-avoidance be damned.

“Sit, please.” James took a seat in a fretworked folding chair and Anabel took a matching one across from him. It felt…adversarial, rather than marital.

She preferred to keep it that way. “I understand you're willing to send half your men south with us tomorrow. Thank you.”

“No farther than Leicester, depending on what news comes from the South. If you need them, they are at your disposal. But if your people have already seen off the Spanish threat, they will return to the border.”

“Naturally.”

He—almost—smiled. Anabel decided James “almost” did a lot of things. “I didn't send for you to discuss the army. We both have capable captains and generals to do that for us. I asked you here as my wife.”

She made the offer that she knew she had to make, no matter how it stuck in her throat. “I will ride ahead of the army, heading directly for London. Assuming, as you say, that the news is good.” Anabel looked in his eyes—hazel, the same as Kit's, and yet nothing at all alike—and steeled herself for what felt like a much more binding commitment than the few words spoken in the church. “Will you come with me to London?”

“Do you want me to?”

“I have advised my mother of our marriage in the letters I sent today. I am certain she will expect to meet you.”

“Are you certain she is still alive to do so?”

“If she is not, then all the more reason for you to ride with me. I will need to begin from a very strong position at this time of uncertainty.”

“You are not wrong. If you are indeed England's queen at this moment—and without a visibly royal husband—King Philip would be seriously tempted to redouble his attacks.”

“I know.”

He leaned forward, as though confiding in her. Thus more casual than she'd ever seen him, he was almost attractive. “I know some things, too, Anne. I know you do not love me. I never expected you to, not seriously. Not that I don't believe we couldn't fashion an affectionate marriage over time. You are practical as well as beautiful, and like your mother, you know how to make the best of a bad situation.”

“Are you calling yourself a bad situation?”

The smile this time was fleeting, but definite. It was a surprise to discover he could be teased. “Christopher Courtenay saved my life today. He didn't have to do it. He is a good man. A good man whom you love.”

She stilled, within and without. “You are entitled to many things as my husband, but I will not share my most private thoughts on command.”

“And that is why I am going to make you an offer. Our marriage remains unconsummated. I propose we leave it as such for now. Tomorrow you will ride south to London and I will remain at Berwick so that I can move quickly in case of trouble in Scotland. I have some few lords who would not mind taking advantage of the chaos to seek their own profit. And then…”

“Then?”

“You will send me the first word you have about Queen Elizabeth's condition. If she is dead and you are now Queen of England, I will come straight to you in London and ensure that your succession is secure. And we will fashion what marriage we can manage between two practical people.”

“And if I am not queen?”

“If Queen Elizabeth lives, then I will cross back into Scotland and never trouble you again, save as England's nearest neighbor.”

Anabel blinked once. Twice. “I don't understand.”

“I mean that, to satisfy my own honour, not to mention my pride, I will give you what you are too honest to ever ask me for: I will give you an annulment.”

“Why?”

“Because you will not need me then.”

“James—”

He stood up. “I imagine your heartfelt wishes for your mother's survival just rose by a hundredfold. You may live to regret it, you know.”

“My mother's life? Do you think so?”