The Virgin's War (15 page)

Yes, she thought, this is a woman to have on my side.

First, though, to deal with Stephen. Elizabeth was prepared for coolness from the man she had banished from England for acts verging on treason. But Stephen possessed his mother's warmth as well as his father's pride, and his smile rested nicely between wryness and familiarity.

“Your Majesty,” he said. “Allow me to apologize personally for all my offenses committed. I live only to serve as best I may in future.”

This was why she had refused to see Stephen Courtenay after he'd killed a man inside her own palace—because she had known that any member of the Courtenay family would be able to disarm her fury in a heartbeat.

Balanced between chilly pride and gracious forgiveness, Elizabeth replied tartly, “Words are all well and good, but of no value without deeds to back them up.”

“Do I expect that you are going to offer me a chance to prove myself with my deeds?”

For all his eerie resemblance to Dominic, Stephen had the edge of Minuette's insubordination. Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. “Since you know so much, would you like to tell me what that offer is—or shall we proceed directly to your answer?”

There was a laugh, hastily disguised as a cough, from the Sinclair girl. It made Elizabeth like the chit better—not that she would give her the satisfaction of knowing it.

Stephen's lips quirked as well. “I would never presume to speak for you, Your Majesty.”

“Quite. Well then, let us proceed directly to business. But it is not with you I wish to transact it—it is with Mistress Sinclair.”

She liked the girl even better for not flinching when the Queen of England turned the full force of her attention on her. “Your Majesty,” she said politely. She did not hurry to assure Elizabeth that she would do whatever was wanted.

“I understand that you are in possession of a mercenary company. Personal possession, I mean—for you formed it before taking control of your grandfather's business. Indeed, I believe that very company took the field against one of my captains in Ireland.”

Stephen did not react outwardly, but even without looking at him, Elizabeth could feel his anger. That wasn't really the point of this discussion, so she continued smoothly. “I believe that company is under your personal command, not subject to your board's approval?”

“It is under my command.”

“I would like to hire it for a specific mission this autumn.”

Under her breath, the girl murmured something that sounded like “two minutes.” More audibly, she asked, “In the Netherlands, Your Majesty?”

Elizabeth tipped her head thoughtfully. “No, though I did consider it. But I already have good men in the Netherlands. What I need is a relatively small and very mobile force for…somewhere else.”

“Where?” It was Stephen who asked bluntly, as though he knew already what the answer was.

Elizabeth met his uncompromising gaze. “Ireland.”

Swift and insolent came his answer. “No.”

“It is not for you to answer, Lord Stephen. You may command the force, but it is at Mistress Sinclair's disposal.”

“I can hardly send a force without a commander.” Maisie might be young, but she spoke with a nearly royal hauteur. “And I cannot compel any man to serve.”

“But I can,” Elizabeth replied.

“One Englishman, perhaps. But not the entirety of a company resident in Scotland.”

Oh yes, this girl was good.

Elizabeth was better. “Scotland is quite willing to give me what I want just now, with my daughter's marriage not yet finalized. King James is amenable to pressure.”

“Be that as it may, I cannot be bought, Your Majesty. I will disband my company before I allow it to be used against my will.”

“Mariota, listen.” Stephen touched the fierce girl on the arm, and spoke to her as though no one else was present. Elizabeth shot a surprised look at Burghley and saw that he was watching the pair with the same interest she felt.

“Do not make any rash statements on my account,” Stephen told the girl. “I am tired of having sacrifices made on my behalf. I will pay for my own sins.”

“You have paid! There is nothing left for you in Ireland.”

“I think we both know that is not true.”

There were undercurrents here that Elizabeth did not entirely grasp. She didn't have to. She merely had to manipulate them. “Perhaps,” she broke in mildly, “if we explain the nature of the mission?” She turned to Lord Burghley and waved to him to proceed.

He wasted no words. “Spain intends to make a concerted push to capture Dublin in time for Mary Stuart to land there—before winter, if it can be managed. We want to prevent that.”

“She intends to bring her younger son?” Stephen scowled.

“To view his future kingdom—yes.”

“Then she'll be disappointed, for the Irish will never recognize a foreign monarch.”

Elizabeth let that insubordination pass, for whatever Stephen might imply, she was not a foreign monarch. Ireland was as much English as anything else. More to the point, it was certainly not Spanish.

“We are not asking you to launch into battle beyond Dublin,” Burghley said. “We only want to secure the integrity of the city against a Spanish landing. Your company is well-qualified to help accomplish that.”

There was silence, longer than Elizabeth would have liked, but the queen recognized the internal and silent considerations in both of the young people before her. Ireland did not hold pleasant memories for either of them. Elizabeth didn't know the whole of what had happened there three years ago, but she knew that much.

They seemed able to communicate merely with their eyes, for not a word had been spoken between them when Mistress Sinclair said abruptly, “If Lord Stephen is willing to command the force, then I am willing to negotiate with your government for its use. For a fixed amount of time, of course—I do not make open-ended contracts.”

“I would expect no less of William Sinclair's granddaughter.”

Beneath Elizabeth's satisfaction at accomplishing what she'd wished ran a decidedly feminine curiosity about the nature of the relationship before her. She would have to ask Minuette what she thought of her oldest son and this decidedly bold young Scotswoman.

29 August 1585

London

And so both my daughters are married.

30 August 1585

London

If I were interested in presenting myself in the best possible light, no doubt I would record only how happy the news of Pippa's marriage has made me, how delighted I am that she has found happiness, that wedding Matthew is the fulfillment of years of hope.

Every single one of those statements is true. But they are not the whole truth. I have also wept for her choice to wed so quickly and so far from us. Though I am grateful my other children were with her, I am angry that Dominic and I were not.

Except that anger is not the true emotion. It is fear. Because I know my daughter, and if I do not wholly understand the gifts she walks with, I do know how they inform her choices. If she wed in such haste, it is for a reason. I do not like what my fear whispers of what that reason might be.

7 September 1585

Dover Castle

To distract myself, I have come to Dover with Dominic. I will remain in the castle for a week or two while he rides back and forth along the coast. Though the season will soon pass when a naval assault is likely, my husband will ensure that whatever is in his control is perfectly prepared.

Chief amongst the things we cannot control being, of course, our children. It was so much simpler when the most I had to fear was illness or accident or the likelihood of Kit throwing himself off the battlements in an ill-judged attempt to keep up with Stephen. Now, even more than their bodies, I fear for their happiness. Lucie is wrapped in self-imposed isolation, Kit is in love with a princess set to marry another, and Stephen…Oh, Elizabeth! How could you send Stephen back to Ireland?

My only consolation in that last is that Maisie Sinclair has insisted that she will accompany her troops to Dublin. From the moment I met her, I was impressed by her practicality. It is a trait not to be undervalued, especially by those likely to get themselves into trouble over esoteric matters. Maisie, I believe, will keep Stephen grounded.

Much in the way Dominic has always done for me.

Philip received the reports of his daughter's meeting with the Scots king in contemplative silence. He wished he had heard directly from Anne, but she wrote only very occasionally these days and always with the strictest formality. It was Navarro who wrote from Carlisle instead, with a stiff bias against the Calvinist counselors King James surrounded himself with:

Is it proper for an Infanta of Spain to tie herself to the most flagrant heretic? The Infanta Anne has a wise heart, Your Majesty, and is open to the appeals of the faithful amongst her people. Should we not encourage her to consider a husband who would promote such instincts rather than crush them?

Navarro did not know Anne as well as Philip did. “Infanta” was a courtesy title to her, nothing more, for she was as English as her mother. That meant stubborn and suspicious and insular—but it also meant pragmatism and a willingness to negotiate for the things she most wanted.

And Philip would safely wager an entire shipload's worth of silver from the New World that marriage to James of Scotland was not what Anne truly wanted. Navarro might wish to promote a Catholic marriage, but the priest was being deliberately naïve. There were no French royals available at the moment, and England would never wed Anne to a mere Italian count, which left only Spain. England would revolt if another Tudor woman tried to wed a Spaniard.

There were one or two Catholic possibilities amongst her own Englishmen, but Philip did not even bother envisioning such a thing. Both Anne and Elizabeth had good reason to look to Scotland, and his daughter would not break such a necessary match lightly.

The first time Philip had traveled to England—during the late king's reign, when Elizabeth herself was only Princess of Wales—Philip had met a man named Robert Dudley. It had not been hard to guess why the young lord did not like Philip, and subsequent inquiries had confirmed how close he and Elizabeth were. Robert Dudley had been one of the casualties of William Tudor's violent end. But what, Philip wondered now, if Robert had lived? It would have been politically disastrous for Elizabeth to marry the fifth son of an attainted and executed traitor. Philip did not think she would have married her beloved Robin. But she might conceivably have refused to marry anyone else. She was just stubborn enough to do so.

Philip knew—had known for several years—that his daughter was in love with Christopher Courtenay. And by all reports, Christopher was equally in love with her. On paper, not the best match. Christopher was the younger son of the Duke of Exeter—though now that his brother had been stripped of his titles by Elizabeth, it was possible the boy would inherit. Nor was he Catholic, but his family was not noticeably fanatic in their Protestant sentiments. And Philip knew something that not many people did—that Dominic and Minuette Courtenay had been married by a Catholic priest.

It was as well to keep all this information in mind, he mused. When he next wrote to Navarro, he might begin to steer him in an unexpected direction. One that would make his daughter sit up and take notice.

But before his daughter, Philip must deal with his wife.

He had allowed Mary to leave Segovia after several months, and she gave no sign that she had considered herself confined in any way. But she had been a touch less arrogant in their most recent dealings.

The arrogance revived the moment Philip told her something she did not wish to hear. In this case, that her long-planned visit to Ireland was cancelled.

“We cannot disappoint our supporters!” she railed. “The faithful of Ireland need a symbol to fight for.”

“Alexander is not even four years old. I will not risk one of my sons on the open seas with a less than certain reception waiting on the other end. Dublin has not fallen yet. There will be an intense push this autumn and I do not want him anywhere near that.”

“Then send me.”

Philip was only half surprised at the suggestion. Mary Stuart's physical bravery had never been a question, and she had always been driven to head directly for the things she wanted. Just now, she wanted Ireland. Not for the country itself or even its faithful Catholics, but as a symbol to fling in Elizabeth Tudor's face.
You cannot keep hold of your own territories,
Mary wanted to proclaim,
any more than you could keep me in prison.

“To what purpose?” Philip asked reasonably. “You cannot go near Dublin.”

“Then I will land at Waterford. The Earl of Desmond would surely be willing to meet me there.”

The Earl of Desmond was surely willing to take Spanish money and men, but Philip knew the man would not be thrilled at an imperious foreign queen appearing in person to demand her due. But such was the position of the beggar—the things Desmond wanted must be paid for. Usually at the cost of swallowed pride.

Philip calculated while his wife watched with undisguised impatience. She had never learned to value the time he took before making decisions. To a woman accustomed to acting on impulse, his caution was an irritation.

“I will consider it,” he said finally. “But you would sail on one of my warships, not a royal one. And you would be under the command of a military officer. For your safety.”

“Of course,” she agreed generously.

There was one more matter to broach. “May I ask you, Maria, what you have heard of the meeting of your son and my daughter?”

She sniffed, not being overly endowed with maternal sentiment for the son from whom she'd been separated as an infant. “I have heard that Anne is lovely and James is awkward. No doubt once they are wed, she will move to swallow up Scotland as her mother has tried to do with Ireland. If James cannot oppose his wife, then he may find himself in the same position I did—ousted by his own lords and sent running for the English border. Perhaps then my people will remember how I always held Scotland's independence sacrosanct.”

Except for the garrisons of French troops both you and your mother used freely, Philip thought sardonically. If Scotland rid itself of James, it would not be to invite Mary back to the crown of her birth.

But that threat might make an intriguing line to play upon in the web surrounding his daughter's marriage.

In the weeks after the Scots visit, Kit threw himself into his new command with almost manic energy. There might be peace between England and Scotland, but the borderlands were a place—and a law—unto themselves. Men raided freely in both directions, one generation after another, and the complexity of familial enmity was enough to make a drunkard out of a monk. There was no shortage of demands upon the March wardens of England.

Up at dawn, in bed long after sunset, hours in between spent on horseback, Kit was frustrated when he finally flung himself into bed only to then stay awake staring up at the ceiling of whatever chamber he happened to be in. As lieutenant general, he nominally commanded all three Marches along the border and he ranged freely from Lord Hunsdon in Berwick to Lord Scrope in Carlisle.

He stayed away from Anabel for more than a month. Though they wrote one another almost daily, there was a constraint to their exchanges. Kit didn't know how meeting James had affected Anabel—for Kit, dealing with the living, physical man had provoked a restless urge to outpace the future. Knowing that Anabel must marry was one thing. Counting down to a specific day was entirely different.

Besides, being in Anabel's household would have meant being in the presence of Pippa and Matthew's unequaled joy every day. That was a bit much to ask him to endure just now.

But in late September, Kit received a summons from the Princess of Wales using all of her names and titles to attend a council at Middleham. He finished up a planned scouting ride with Scrope's men out of Carlisle, then rode south through a landscape of burnished heather and rocky vales and vast skies.

Middleham impressed Kit with the careful restoration of the medieval castle. Anabel had a feel for the past and the ability to enhance its beauties while updating its inconveniences. She had not, however, completely made it over into a manor. Like the other great castles of the North, Middleham retained its fortress feel. If called upon, it would be able to withstand a siege.

Kit had the uncomfortable feeling it might have to.

He found Anabel in a giddy, slightly dangerous mood. She was waiting for him in the courtyard—not with royal politeness, but more as a woman welcoming her absent lover. Little things—how she held on to his fingers when he kissed her hand, the way she met his eyes with a smile that acknowledged no one else, the subtle adjusting of her position so she seemed always to be turned to him. Though Kit was glad of it—what man didn't want the woman he loved to be so anxious to see him?—the part of him that had grown up in the last few years warned that it was a bad idea. He knew what James of Scotland had said to Anabel before he left. And from his own journeys through the borderlands, Kit knew that the Scots king was not the only one watching the Princess of Wales's personal relationships.

There had been only wisps of rumours in most places, like stray cloud drifts that moved so fast one could hardly pin them down. But in Dumfries those wisps had coalesced into an ugly scene. Kit had crossed into Scotland by invitation from Lord Maxwell, Scotland's West March warden. He took with him a contingent of men from Carlisle Castle, and military matters had gone well enough. Maxwell was a canny, worldly man unlikely to be moved by sentiment but very willing to come to practical arrangements.

The Carlisle men had been drinking with their Scots counterparts. When Kit crossed the courtyard after supper, he heard boisterous laughter and the kind of drunken noise that had never particularly appealed to him. He meant to skirt it all, since it did not sound anything more than normal high spirits, but then several phrases caught his ear.

Faithless in bed means faithless in war…it's not heads women rule with…weak and silly girl…Anne…