The Virgin's War (25 page)

“I understand your reticence, Lady Philippa. I am not a fool. Any child of Queen Elizabeth and King Philip will have a subtle intelligence and a stubborn sense of righteousness. Princess Anne is not a woman to make decisions solely for her own gain. The Spanish might be willing to believe she would sell her mother for a crown of her own, but I am not.”

“What do your fellow Catholics believe?”

“Which side will they come down on, do you mean? I cannot make predictions. Every man must choose as his conscience dictates. I will say that the borders, at least, are the home of men and women whose greatest pride is in their independence. They may not like London's rule—but far less would they like Spain's. For the rest of the North?” He shrugged. “I can't tell you what religion will drive people to do.”

“Can you tell us what you will do?”

“I think you already know, Lady Philippa. If the Spanish land in the North, I will march every man at my command to oppose them.”

Pippa was swept with relief so strong that it openly shook her. She felt Matthew's hand on her arm, steadying her. “Her Highness—and Her Majesty—are honoured to have your service. May we ask that this discussion remain entirely private until such time as the matter is brought into the open?”

“You have my word—but that does not mean it will not be discussed. Some of my fellows see only what they want to see. But others are near as canny as I am, and with long experience of the wiliness of Tudor minds. I am surely not the only one to guess the truth.”

“I will take that message to Her Highness,” Pippa said. “Thank you, my lord.” It was time to stand up, but she was not entirely steady on her feet. As though all the strain of the last year, intensified by these weeks of working to see beyond the surface of things, had suddenly slipped through her controls and landed heavily on her body.

“Philippa?”

She could hear Matthew, but dimly, as though from a distance. Her vision was spiraling into an image so familiar to her now it held no terrors.
Rushlight and fog, insistent hands and masked faces, melodious Spanish voices mixed with the unmistakable lilt of the Scots, the certain knowledge that she was dying…

The last thing she felt was her body slipping through Matthew's grasp.

When she awoke, it was dark and she was in an unfamiliar bed. The disorientation swirled for a precious few seconds, until she heard a woman say, “She's rousing, sir.”

And blessedly, there was Matthew, his normally placid face twisted with worry and a touch of anger. “How long has this been coming on?” he asked directly.

She looked over his shoulder, at the Bolton Castle maid attending her, and Matthew understood at once. “You may go,” he told the girl, with an abruptness he hardly ever used.

When they were alone, Pippa answered. “Long enough for me to husband my resources so that I might finish this particular task. And I have. Lord Scrope was our last assignment.”

“And what has it cost? Are you trying to kill yourself out of some misguided notion that dying in Anabel's service is your fate? Do you
want
to die, Philippa?”

“How can you ask me that?”

“Because I see no sign of you trying to avoid it!”

She inhaled sharply, and her husband dropped his head into his hands. “I'm sorry,” he said, muffled and broken in a way she'd never heard before.

“You knew this when you married me, Matthew. You told me you understood.”

“Understanding is not quite the same as facing it.”

She sat up and pulled his hands away so he would look at her. “No, it is not.” Her head was heavy with fatigue and her eyes pained from holding back tears. “Do you think I do not care? Do you think me reconciled? I am not. I do not want to die, Matthew! I want to live with you until we are old—I want to have your children—I want to be at peace. But I cannot change what will come. No one can. The only difference is that I can
see
it coming.”

And then the tears were not simply threatening, but engulfing her. Matthew climbed onto the bed and pulled her into his arms. She wept for some time, and knew he did, too. But he did not fail her, as she had known he would not. When the storm had gentled, her husband was once more prepared to be the rock she needed him to be.

“I do not suppose,” he asked gently, “that you would retire from court life if I asked you to?”

“Are you asking me to?”

He cupped her chin in his large, square hand. For all her life, Matthew's brown eyes had been one of her favorite sights. Even distressed, they steadied her. “No. I will not make you refuse me. You are right, Philippa, I came into this with my eyes wide open. It is not fair to you to change my mind now. Wherever you are, I will be. Whatever you do, I will help you bear it. On one condition.”

“Which is?”

“You
allow
me to help you. Tell me what you need. To keep people away from you? To guard your time and privacy so that you can keep your strength for whatever is coming? And Philippa, sweetheart?”

He kept her chin turned to him, staring directly into her eyes. “Do not try to protect me. Whatever it is you fear for me, you must put it aside. Because the only thing I fear is failing you. Promise me.”

Already she could feel the pressure lifting, the constant drag on her body shifting just enough for her to breathe easier than she had in weeks. She leaned forward and kissed her husband, determined to not worry so much about the future that she lost the present. “I promise, husband.”

The last day of April an exhausted, sweat-stained courier was, most unusually, brought directly into the queen's presence, Lord Burghley at his side. The three gold cups on his badge marked him as one of the Earl of Ormond's men, and Elizabeth shot a sharp look at her treasurer as she took the sealed message. But if Burghley had been apprised beforehand, he gave nothing away.

She broke the seal and read. Ormond, a distant cousin, had addressed her with a greater than usual familiarity even for him. But propriety, or the lack thereof, was the last thing on Elizabeth's mind when she read his news.

Cork has been retaken. Some of the remaining Spanish soldiers and ships are concentrated in Waterford, clearly intending to gamble on reaching England. The remainder of the ships and men set sail last week, we do not know where. The Irish rebels are rapidly falling back to the lines we held before the Spanish interference.

But even that news was not what caught Elizabeth by the throat, seizing the words so that she had to try twice to read it aloud to Burghley: “ ‘Desmond is taken and is in my hands at Kilkenny Castle. I await instructions.' ”

Elizabeth was certainly not one for praying to saints, but just now she felt like blessing St. Brigid herself. With the Earl of Desmond in English custody, the rebellion would collapse. Ireland might be only a side battle of this conflict, but it was important to her and to her people. News of Ormond's success would bolster confidence in their coming fight with the Spanish.

More practically, Ireland would stop begging her for the men and money she needed here in England.

“Our thanks to my dear cousin,” Elizabeth told the kneeling messenger. “My household will see that you are rested and refreshed from your faithful and difficult travels.” She sent him away with a waiting page and turned jubilantly to Burghley.

“Publish this widely and loudly. And summon Walsingham. He will be delighted at this success.”

Lord Burghley did not look as though he entirely found this a success. He had always been the voice for negotiation and conciliation in Ireland.

“Cheer up,” she told him. “Without Desmond, the rebellion will fall to pieces. We will have the whole of the country by the end of the year.”

He was not mad enough to contradict her at this rare moment of good news, but she read the caution in his eyes and knew the arguments he would make.

Ireland can never be predicted or trusted. Religion plays merry hell with practicality. We cannot depend on logic to believe we have won.

All true enough, Elizabeth granted when forced to listen to it later that week in council. But along with her understanding of hard political realities, she also possessed in large measure her father's gift for public relations. She knew how to choose information, how to highlight what she wished and shadow what she didn't, how to inspire a population to devotion and pride and ferocity.

It proved the perfect opportunity to expel Ambassador de Mendoza from England. She had a final, stormy interview with the man, then told him to go back to Philip and assure the Spanish king that, just as Ireland had been freed, so England would never be enslaved. After Mendoza left London, Elizabeth convened her council with a clear message: make all the arguments you like in this chamber, but when you leave it is
my
message that you carry. Ireland is our first victory. The first victory, but not the last.

And to set her seal upon it, a special service was held at St. Paul's in celebration and gratitude. Elizabeth loved such occasions, and this was no exception. Dressed in heavy and elaborate cloth-of-gold studded with pearls and moonstones, a six-inch cartridge pleated ruff, and a fall of stiff gauze from her shoulders that elevated her from queen to legend. Her appearance was as important a part of her reign as her policies—the people wanted a fairy queen, a Gloriana of more than earthly beauty and intelligence. She was heartened by the thunderous cheers of the crowds lining the streets, a reminder that her people loved her. That her people would fight for her.

Further evidence of that was provided in the next two weeks. As the bulk of the Spanish fleet continued its frantic preparations in Lisbon, a small number took to sea to test the English navy and scout what weaknesses might be revealed.

There were not many, save for the fact that England's best sailors were not yet at sea but still preparing their commands. Drake and Raleigh could have easily turned the Spanish feints, but it was more important that they and their men and ships be prepared for the critical encounters to come. And so the Spanish effected a surprise attack on Penzance. It was a lightning strike, for they could never hope to hold a position with only fifty men, and certainly not with the bulk of the English fleet less than eighty miles away. But they pillaged and burned, rather in the manner of the northern border reivers, and left an uneasy film of fear behind when they fled. And, most devastating of all, Calais fell to the French eager to exploit England's crisis.

In the aftermath, there were those of the queen's advisors who pressed for the arrest of anyone who showed even the slightest attachment to the old religion. Walsingham, as always, warned of sinister conspiracies, and even the sensible Lord Burghley fretted about the “secret treasons of the mind and heart.” Elizabeth would not be moved. Jesuits and seminary priests might be treated as agents of an enemy power. And the queen conceded the necessity of placing the leading, most powerful, Catholic recusants under protective custody, sequestering their arms and horses. Further, she would not go.

Dominic Courtenay came to court after surveying the damage done by the Spanish raids, riding fast and hard and without his wife. Once the necessities of business were concluded—quickly and efficiently, as Dominic handled all things—Elizabeth indulged a more personal curiosity.

“Where is Minuette?” Her friend could often be persuaded to come to court without her husband, but rarely the other way around.

“At Tiverton, raising both troops and morale. Military leadership is thin on the ground, Your Majesty. She might be our best choice for the west country. With Kit in the North and Stephen in Scotland?” He shrugged. “There aren't a lot of Courtenays to go around my family lands.”

“There is no need for Stephen to continue to sulk in Scotland. I have written to tell him so. He is needed here, wherever you think he should command.”

“With his company of mercenaries in tow?”

“I certainly hope so. This marriage of his should bring some reward.”

She waited for Dominic to protest that cynical statement, but he could stick to the point when necessary. “I am sure Stephen will serve. Whether he brings the mercenaries with him is a matter for his wife and the Scottish king.”

“As James Stuart does not seem in any hurry to provide more than token assistance to us at this point, he had damned well better release those mercenaries. Or I may tear up the marriage treaty myself.”

“For now,” Dominic said, “I have asked Julien to take a command with my men. The central counties are not in immediate danger—and if the Spanish get as far as Oxford, we have greater problems than who is commanding where. Lucette intends to go to Kenilworth and keep Nora Dudley company. Also, it's a convenient spot from which to gather and send out information between North and South.”

“And your wife?”

“She insists on returning to the south coast,” he said wryly. “I have tried to persuade her to stay with you, but she is…stubborn. She insists on coming to Dover.”

“Just as well, for I intend to make a tour of the coast later this month. I'll take Minuette with me, if you want greater security for her.”

“By traveling with the heretic queen who has been the target of Catholic assassins as long as she's been on the throne? That is very secure, Your Majesty.” But his lips turned up at one corner as he spoke. “I suppose your council has already tried to persuade you from going about in public?”

“They have, so don't bother. I have never been afraid of my people—I will not begin now.”

“And if an assassin gets lucky? They must be trying harder than they ever have before to kill you. Whatever they may think or guess of the Princess of Wales's intentions, no doubt they consider she would be a queen far easier to manipulate.”

“Then it is as well for England that they are entirely wrong. I do not intend to die, Dominic. But if I do, it will not be cowering in security while men die at my command. And I trust that Anne would revenge me nicely.”