To Kiss A Spy (34 page)

“Advancing years!” Pen scoffed. “What nonsense.”

“I have a wife and three children,” he said. “And for all I know, there could be others.” He placed his free hand on her belly. “It isn’t as if we aren’t providing nature with opportunity.”

“No,” she agreed, unsmiling, aware that this was perhaps the most important conversation they would ever have. If he felt she had pressed him, maybe he would feel resentment later; if she felt that he had denied her fears, maybe the resentment would be on her side.

“But what would you do, love? I don’t see you farming, or playing the courtier, or idling your time away, even with such delights as music.”

“Antoine detests England,” he said. “If a suitable replacement could be found, I think he would gladly return to Paris.”

Pen stared at him. “You would be ambassador to Mary’s court?”

“I have every reason to believe King Henri would approve it, with Antoine’s support.”

Pen absorbed this. Diplomacy, overt diplomacy. Much safer than the covert world of an agent. And yet, from one point of view, perhaps as exciting.

“You would still spy?”

“No. I would run spies,” he said. “Something I do already. Again an area of expertise that would stand any ambassador in good stead.” His smile was a touch sardonic in the moonlight.

“We would live in London, then. All of us?” She seemed to be feeling her way to understanding exactly what he was saying, desperately anxious not to misinterpret and rejoice too soon.

“If this works out, yes.” He released her hand and stood up, his long lean body glistening in the moonlight. He stood with his hands on his hips looking out over the silvered stream and the countryside beyond.

“I couldn’t promise it would be forever. We might have to live for some time in France. Would you object?”

She rose and came to stand behind him, putting her arms around his waist, resting her chin on his shoulder as she looked out over the same landscape. “If I am with you, I would live in Suriname, or among the Cossacks in the Wild Lands.”

He turned and drew her against his chest.

It was early evening on the sixth of July when they rode through the gates of Lord Kendal’s house in Holborn.

Pen could barely contain her excitement, an excitement mingled with a curious apprehension. She knew she would be welcomed, that there would be no reproaches, not even for her marriage, which had taken place in the small church in Owen’s mother’s village. She had written and told them, and they had written to welcome Owen into the family with warmth and gratitude for all he’d done. Nevertheless, she couldn’t help her anxiety.

Would they like each other? How would Owen, an only child, a man who had always lived his life alone, at least emotionally, feel clasped to the exuberant, loving, intensely close bosom of her family?

The gatekeeper had sent his son racing up the drive through the trees to warn the family of the new arrivals, and as they rode onto the gravel sweep in front of the house, the door opened and a wave of people flowed out, the air filled with glad cries.

Pen was engulfed. Philip, startled into silence, was passed from hand to hand. Owen dismounted and waited, watching the scene, wondering how he would ever find a place in it.

“Don’t let it overwhelm you,” Hugh said at his elbow. “Guinevere and her daughters can overwhelm any outsider. For the rest, they are family retainers who’ve known Pen since she was born. It’ll settle down in a minute.”

He smiled at Owen and held out his hand. “You are most welcome, Owen d’Arcy. You’ve looked after my daughter with such care. I haven’t seen her so well, so happy, so
radiant
since before Philip died.”

“I am glad of it,” Owen said, taking the other’s hand and returning the strong grip. “And I thank you for your welcome.” He looked again at the noisy group, observing, “Robin’s not here?”

“No. Northumberland’s kept him close to his side these last months. Princess Mary’s departure and Pen’s disappearance didn’t please him. He’s keeping close watch on Robin.”

A worried look entered Hugh’s brilliant blue gaze. “If Northumberland decides Robin betrayed him, then—” He broke off abruptly. “But that’s a concern for another day. Come, you must be welcomed by the distaff side.”

Pen was exclaiming over little Charles, whose hair seemed spikier and redder than ever atop a round, freckled face, and a well-fed body. “Does he talk?” she asked Pippa.

“Nonstop,” Pippa said with a laugh. “Especially if there’s food around.”

The sound of hooves pounding the gravel interrupted the melee. Robin on a lathered horse galloped onto the sweep, gravel spraying from beneath the animal’s hooves.

He sprang from the saddle, for the moment barely noticing Owen and Pen. Hugh hurried over to him. “What is it?”

“Edward’s dead.” Robin was breathing heavily, sweat running down his face. “Sometime this morning, but the duke will not have it proclaimed. He has sent to Mary at Hundson, and to Elizabeth to attend their brother’s bedside. If they come to London they will be seized immediately and taken to the Tower.”

He wiped his face on his forearm, staining the silk of his doublet.

“He intends to have Jane proclaimed queen as soon as he’s locked the city gates, and had troops in the outlying cities prepared to deal with any uprising.”

His gaze fell on Pen, on the child in her arms. She came swiftly to him, kissing him. He hugged her tightly. “I’m so glad you’re back, but you would have done better to have stayed in hiding.” He glanced over at Owen, and the two men exchanged a look that was neither hostile nor particularly warm, but there was acceptance beneath it.

Then Robin continued flatly, “Northumberland will be avenged upon us all once he has Mary and Elizabeth in his hands, and Jane wears the crown.”

“That cannot happen,” Owen said. “Mary must be warned not to come to London.”

“Aye,” Hugh agreed, moving towards the house. “She must fly north, where the Catholic support is greatest. I’ll go at once to Hunsdon. Robin, you’ll accompany me. Send to the stables for my horse and a fresh one for you.”

Guinevere said nothing. Her husband had chosen his side. If Mary’s cause was lost in this fight for the crown, then Hugh and his son would lose their heads.

Pen glanced at her husband. “Owen?” She made of his name a soft question.

“I have no part to play in this fight,” he said. “France supports Mary’s cause, as do I, but it is not my place to take up arms in England’s civil battles. You understand that, Pen?”

He frowned at her, wondering if she would understand why he had to maintain a political, diplomatic detachment in a cause that her own family had embraced, their loyalty putting their lives at risk.

“Yes,” she said. “I understand. Your loyalties are with France.”

Owen nodded, his relief greater than his satisfaction. “My place is at the ambassador’s side.” He turned to Guinevere. “Madam, my wife and adopted son are under the protection of France.”

Guinevere nodded. “That is good. Take them to the safety of the ambassador’s roof.”

“And Pippa and Anna and Charles,” Pen said. “I know you will not come, Mama, but they should.”

Guinevere looked a question at Owen, who said, “Of course. They are related to France by marriage. Are you certain you won’t seek the same protection, Lady Guinevere?”

“No, I thank you. My place is under my husband’s roof,” she said quietly.

Hugh emerged from the house as Robin appeared astride a fresh horse and leading Hugh’s charger. Their farewells were brief but no less intense for that. Then they rode off down the driveway.

“Gather some things together,” Guinevere said to Pippa. “And take Tilly and Ellen. They’ll help with the children.”

Four days later, Jane Dudley was proclaimed queen and taken in state to the royal apartments in the White Tower in the Tower of London to await her coronation.

As the great culverins sounded along the river to herald the queen’s progress, Pen, Pippa, and Anna left the ambassador’s residence at Whitehall and went to the river to watch the procession leave Durham House. The crowd along the bank was silent, sullen, no cheers, no thrown caps, as the magnificent procession of barges made their stately progress.

“The country will not stand for it,” Pen whispered, her lips barely moving because there was no knowing who might be planted in the crowd.

Pippa merely nodded her agreement and held tighter to Anna’s arm.

They returned to the residence, filled with a depression that verged on fear. The whole city, hot and muggy in the summer swelter, felt as if it would erupt at any minute into a riot of the mob violence of which Londoners were so capable.

Owen greeted them with relief. “ ’Tis dangerous to be out there,” he chided, making no attempt to hide his annoyance.

“It was safe enough,” Pen said, unfastening her hood. “But we didn’t linger. What news of Mary?”

“A messenger arrived just now.” The ambassador answered her as he came out of the parlor into the cool hallway. “Mary is safely away to Framlingham. Your father and brother are with her. The duke has had proclamations issued in every market square but the people are turning out in droves in support of the princess.”

“We can only wait now,” Owen said. He put a hand on Pen’s shoulder. “And if you do not mind, madam wife, you will wait within doors. You and your sisters.” He tried to sound as if he was teasing her, but neither Pen nor Pippa was deceived.

Anna regarded him with a hint of alarm. She didn’t dislike her new brother-in-law but she found him intimidating at the best of times, although he was never less than unfailingly polite and considerate towards her. He made Pen laugh, though, and Pippa teased him with an ease and confidence that amazed her little sister.

Pen smiled. She thought she should have found this concern and stricture annoying, and yet she didn’t. Owen had not protected his first wife, and his second would have to put up with the consequences of that failure.

They waited for nine days, during which they never left the house. Owen came and went, sometimes leaving Pen’s bed in the early hours and not reappearing until late afternoon. Messengers arrived almost hourly from the north, where Mary was gaining overwhelming support. Northumberland was trying to raise troops against her across the country and meeting only resistance.

It was midafternoon on July 19 when Pen, sitting with her sisters, trying to teach Philip and Charles to play cat’s cradle in the ambassador’s parlor, heard the first roars from the streets.

She jumped up, the wool falling in a tangle to her feet. “What is it?”

They ran to the windows overlooking the street. People poured down it, singing, dancing, weeping.

“What
is
it? Where the devil is Owen?” Pippa demanded. “He keeps us immured in here, and then isn’t around to tell us what’s happening.”

“I’m here.” Owen’s light, melodious voice came from the door. “It’s over. Mary has been proclaimed queen. Northumberland is expected to surrender by nightfall.”

Epilogue

Queen Mary rose from the chair beneath the cloth of state in the royal apartments in the White Tower and stepped forward to receive her visitors.

“Pen, my dear.”

Pen curtsied, her damask skirts spreading across the rich Turkey carpet. “Highness,” she murmured, bowing her head low.

Mary took her hand and drew her to her feet. She kissed her warmly. “I have missed you, Pen, but I understand you’re to be congratulated.”

She laughed gently. “Your chevalier has done us much service, and I understand we may see much more of him at court, in a rather more . . .” She laughed again. “Rather more conventional guise.”

“It is my hope, madam,” Pen said.

Mary was dressed with dazzling magnificence, her kirtle sewn with gold and jewels, her overgown blazing with gems. The royal apartments in the Tower were richly hung with many-hued tapestries, richly carpeted and furnished, and Mary, although it had been but a week since her triumphant entry into London, inhabited them with all the gracious ease of one who had never doubted they were her due.

Mary turned her attention to Owen, who stood at Pen’s side. “Chevalier, when the formalities are done I will welcome you most warmly as a friend of England’s queen to the Court of St. James’s.”

Owen bowed, his black velvet bonnet clasped to his chest.

“And who have we here?” Mary bent her gaze on the small figure between Pen and Owen. Philip, holding tightly to their hands, was dressed in a gown and petticoats of embroidered white silk. He surveyed his queen with wide-eyed curiosity.

“You and I have met before, I believe,” the queen said, her smile benign. “Some considerable improvement has been wrought in the child’s appearance since then,” she observed, turning her intense, myopic gaze to Pen.

“Love and good food, madam,” Pen said, smiling.

Mary nodded. She played with the heavy jeweled cross lying on her breast. Sapphires and rubies glowed so bright it was hard to look directly at them.

“Pen, I believe you have a favor to claim.” The warmth in her voice, and the smile in her eyes, left no doubt but that the favor would be granted.

“Yes, Highness. The Bryanston earldom lies vacant since the exile of Lord Bryanston. I would claim it for my son, the son of Philip Bryanston.”

“An evil tale,” Mary said. She bent down to the child, whose gaze was riveted on the jeweled cross. He blinked and tugged a hand free from his mother’s, reaching to touch the bright toy.

“So you touch the cross,” Mary said softly. “You will grow in the ways of the true faith, my child, as England returns to the sacred ways of worship.”

A shudder went down Pen’s spine; she knew the depths of her queen’s religious fervor, but she held herself very still.

“Philip, Earl of Bryanston, I restore you to your father’s title and lands,” Mary stated. “Grow strong in faith, and in loyalty to your queen.”

Philip, overcome by the solemnity of the occasion, burst into tears.

Pen bent to comfort him, picking him up, awkwardly because her ceremonial gown gave her little room to maneuver. Owen took the child from her and soothed his tears against his own gray silk doublet.

“I shall miss you in my service, Pen, but I release you now to your husband’s,” Mary said formally.

Pen curtsied, hiding the flash in her eyes. She was no more in Owen’s service than he was in hers. She backed away and saw Owen’s amusement.

“Handmaid mine,” he whispered into her ear. “I welcome you to my service.”

Pen gave him a look of mock indignation, and left him in order to greet her parents, who stood at the far side of the state chamber with Pippa, and a woman who had her own mother’s red hair and her father’s features. Elizabeth, the daughter of Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn.

Pen curtsied to the princess, to Hugh and Guinevere, and embraced her sister, who was looking more than usually exuberant.

Pippa waited impatiently for the greetings and formalities to be completed before drawing her sister aside. “I am to accompany Princess Elizabeth after the coronation,” Pippa informed Pen in an undertone. “She won’t remain at court but has requested my companionship. Do you think ’tis a sensible thing for me to do?”

“I don’t know,” Pen said doubtfully. “If she’s not to be at court, it could be rather quiet for you.”

“Oh, there’s always excitement somewhere,” Pippa said. “You managed to find an exotic and dangerous husband while in the service of a princess, I’m determined to try my own luck.”

Pen laughed. “You are absurd.”

“Oh, you’ll see,” Pippa said. “You’ll see.” She returned to Elizabeth, her step seeming more like a dance than a glide.

Pen and Owen, with Philip, left the royal apartments a short while later, the Tower ravens flocking on the grass of Tower Green, their discordant cawing rising in the evening air. They walked swinging Philip between them towards the Tower entrance.

Pen glanced over at the Gentleman-Gaoler’s lodging, a handsome two-story building that faced the green. She thought she caught a glimpse of a figure at one of the windows. A slight figure in a somber gray gown, hair drawn back into a neat white coif.

Jane Dudley.

“Poor girl,” Pen said softly. “She’s not yet sixteen. A queen for nine days, and now a prisoner. All for an ambition that was not hers.”

She bent to kiss Philip’s cheek. “Such evil as there is, Owen. This child’s father died for a parent’s ambition. Poor little Jane faces I know not what for the ambition of the Suffolks and Northumberlands.”

She stepped through the gates onto the water steps at the Lion’s Gate.

“Our children will not suffer from
anything
we can avert,” Owen said, swinging Philip onto the waiting barge.

“No,” Pen agreed, taking a seat in the bow as the barge moved away from the dock. “ ’Tis time to fetch Andrew and Lucy.”

Owen smiled, standing feet braced on the deck, hands on his hips as he watched the city slide past.

“I love you,” Pen whispered.

“And I you, sweetheart,” he returned, still smiling.

“Love you,” Philip announced, bouncing on the seat beside his mother. “Love you . . . love you . . .” He shrieked with laughter as if he had said the funniest thing imaginable.

Pen came to stand beside Owen at the rail. He put an arm around her and she let her head drop to his shoulder. Behind them her son continued his joyful chant, and it was the most wonderful sound in the world.

“Kiss me,” she demanded softly, turning her face up to Owen’s.

“Always,” he said, cupping her cheek in his palm. He brought his mouth to hers. “I am going to spend the rest of my life kissing you, sweetheart. Like this . . . and like this . . . now, and for always.”