The Virgin's War (30 page)

A military trial was swift and efficient. As Stephen Courtenay had already left for Carlisle, his sworn statement was read into the record. It was an accurate and damning eyewitness account of Navarro's cold-blooded attack.
As my company was already sweeping down upon him and he must have known he had been defeated, Navarro's act can only be seen as the most cowardly spitefulness.

Pippa's public denunciation as a witch and subsequent whipping at Hull Castle was testified to by Matthew Harrington. A man who valued privacy and control, perhaps only those who knew him well could see the anguish beneath the newly made widower's surface.

There was no jury, only Anabel with the governor of Pontefract Castle to offer the appearance of counsel. She had taken care to prepare her verdict in the most damning language.

“Tomás Navarro, you stand accused of unlawful murder. As a foreign agent, you came to England to stir up violence and divide the loyalties of our faithful subjects. When balked of your intent, you most maliciously targeted an innocent woman to bear your displeasure. Your crimes are worthy of death. You will be taken from this hall to the place of execution, where your sentence will be carried out immediately. Have you anything to say?”

The priest had held his tongue thus far, not bothering to conceal his loathing for the princess he had so zealously tried to convert. Now, speaking in English so that everyone present might understand, Navarro declaimed, “Daughter or not, King Philip will punish you for destroying a man of God. He will curse your name for what you do here today.”

Anabel contemplated him as she would an unsavory species of insect life. “No,” she said finally. “It is
you
my father will curse. In your arrogance and viciousness, you have lost him his war. The fire of resistance has been kindled—and I will see that it burns every Spanish soldier who sets foot on England's shores.”

The guards took Navarro to the courtyard, where the executioner awaited with his axe. When the governor had pointed out that hanging was the usual method, Anabel answered, “Hanging is not enough. I want his head.”

In their haste, they did not even bother with a platform for better viewing, simply a wooden block set atop a layer of straw.

Anabel insisted on being there, as did the remaining members of the Courtenay family. Whatever else might have been said of Navarro, his faith lent him strength. He removed the cassock of his calling and repeated the Lord's Prayer. Then he crossed himself and knelt. He had declined a blindfold, and did not even close his eyes as he laid his head sideways on the block. Faintly, Anabel could hear him reciting.

“Hail Mary, full of grace…pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”

The axe fell as the “amen” ended. Navarro's head, eyes open and fixed, mouth twitching for several ghastly seconds, landed with a subdued thunk on the straw. Anabel felt a sharp pain in her hands, and realized her fingernails had dug themselves into her palms.

She looked at the captain of Pontefract's guards. “Bury him where no one will ever find him again.”

When she turned away, it was to speak to Dominic Courtenay. “It is justice,” she acknowledged. “But justice is rather hollow. There can never be compensation for Pippa's death.”

“No. But there can be meaning to it. Pippa's life and death—make it count, Your Highness.”

“I will.”

And when every last Spanish ship and Spanish soldier has been routed from our seas and coasts, she vowed silently, I will lay the wreath of victory at Pippa's tomb.

E
lizabeth had never allowed personal concerns to interfere with matters of state. She had faced down assassination threats without retreating behind closed doors, had dared the scorn of her advisors to marry Philip and flirt with France, and had always put England's welfare before that of her own or anyone else.

When Elizabeth received news of Philippa Courtenay's death hard on the heels of the Spanish fleet's maneuvers, it was something of a shock to discover she could not banish the girl from her mind even while she gave orders and plotted for the security of the coasts.

Though Philippa had always been Anabel's nearest friend—much as Minuette had been Elizabeth's—she had also been the most enigmatic to the queen's understanding. Elizabeth had had her personal dealings over the years with Lucette and Stephen and Kit—not always comfortable dealings, but occasions that allowed her access to their innermost workings. But Philippa? Philippa, she felt now, she had hardly known at all.

It was partly these personal issues that brought her this night to Greenwich, where John Dee had been for the last month. If Elizabeth had a third critical advisor—alongside Burghley and Walsingham—it was Dr. Dee. He had engaged with her when she was a princess and had continued to provide a more esoteric brand of counsel than she could find elsewhere. Walsingham was the cynic, Burghley the pragmatist…and John Dee was the mystic.

She arrived by torch-lit barge and was ushered in with little ceremony. Her state of mind did not lend itself to dealing with idiots tonight. In very short order she was seated in Dee's private sanctuary, overflowing as all his spaces were with the miscellany of travel and study and exotic subjects.

“Will Spain land?” she asked bluntly.

“Yes.”

“When and where?”

“The stars do not tell me dates and times, Your Majesty.”

“If they did, would you have warned Philippa Courtenay of her death?” She hadn't known she was going to ask that.

“Philippa Harrington,” Dee corrected mildly. “And she needed no warnings from me. That was one woman who knew absolutely what she was about. England will have cause to be grateful for that before this summer ends.”

“If you are going to tell me that I should be grateful for her death—”

“She was the one who encouraged Her Highness to go north, did she not? And she served your daughter well in that wary landscape. That goodwill is necessary for the looming fight. You and your daughter created a pretty picture of estrangement these last years—and Spain has fallen into the trap. They will land in the North. And then England will need all her people, of whatever faith, to fight under one banner. If that fight is won, it will be in no small measure thanks to Lady Philippa's wisdom.”

“And the fight in the South? Will I be equal to this, Dr. Dee? Will my sacrifices for England be enough?”

He took her hands in his, a comforting gesture that Elizabeth allowed to so few people these days. “Your Majesty, do you know what I see when I look at you? I see the young woman I first knew, one with confidence in herself and her country. You were blessed with extraordinary abilities, Elizabeth. As Mordecai said to Esther—‘Who knoweth whether thou art come into the kingdom for such a time as this?' ”

As their eyes met, Elizabeth felt chills run through her arms and fingers where he held them. She remembered the first time they'd met: she'd had a queer sense of doubleness, a certainty that as he was speaking to her then, he would also speak to her in the future, guiding her, telling her how to save England.

And here it was. As though he followed every turn of her thoughts—as probably he did—John Dee smiled. “You wish to save England? Then be yourself. That will always be enough for your country.”

She left him that night with the assurance she had so desperately needed. Dominic was on his way south to take back his command, and Minuette would come with him.

It seemed fitting that the three of them would stand together at the end.

By the time Anabel's party reached Berwick, she felt as though she had aged several years. Judging by Kit's face, he felt the same. He had lines carved around his eyes and mouth that might never vanish, and a faraway expression that echoed Pippa at her most otherworldly. He had limited himself to only the most necessary communications and shut himself away from even Anabel at night. She herself coped much as her mother would have done—by meticulously anticipating everything that might possibly happen when she reached Berwick. She kept up a voluminous correspondence while on the move and so knew that Lord Hunsdon had reservations about the ability of his March garrisons to stand against a serious Spanish landing.

Within an hour of their arrival, he reiterated that point in a concise manner. “The borders have been underfunded for many years, Your Highness. I know how stretched the government is, but goodwill alone cannot conjure more men or arms out of thin air.”

Anabel paced the length of the spartan chamber, meant for war councils such as this. How many times, she wondered, had Berwick Castle seen war? Too many to count, considering how often it had changed hands between Scotland and England. For more than three hundred years violence had stalked Berwick—now it threatened the greatest deluge yet.

“I thought the Earl of Arundel had committed his resources to our side,” she said. For that had been the most surprising news along the way—not only had Arundel pressured the Spanish to sail out of Hull once Navarro was captured, but he had then agreed to do more than remain neutral.

“He has, and Arundel comes with several hundred men of his own. His name and persuasion might bring us another few hundred from the Catholics. But the approaching Spanish ships carry at least five thousand men—and they are funded by New World gold. They can afford to land in several places, and we cannot keep all of them from breaking out. And if once they reach the Midlands…”

Anabel shut her eyes for a painful moment and grimaced. She had known this moment was coming—despite faint hopes to the contrary.

With a wry attempt at a smile, she opened her eyes. “I have sent a message to King James of Scotland. I expect any hour a return message naming a time and place for a meeting. He has five thousand Scottish troops massed along the border. I intend to return from Scotland with those troops.”

“James knows his mother is on one of those Spanish ships,” Lord Hunsdon warned. “He is afraid of losing Scotland to her.”

“If I must,” Anabel replied coolly, “I will beg.”

James's reply came that evening, naming the day after tomorrow for a meeting in the Scots border village of Ladykirk. Considering the pride she was prepared to swallow, Anabel made no protest at having to cross the border. The English town of Norham faced Ladykirk directly across the River Tweed and was only eight miles from Berwick. Anabel made the brief trip on horseback with Kit and a contingent of Hunsdon's troops, prepared to sleep at Norham.

Madalena rubbed Anabel's temples that night after brushing her hair. The relief of it made her eyes prick with tears, and after a moment the older woman laid a comforting hand on Anabel's shoulder.

She was not Kit, but it allowed Anabel to sleep that night.

He was with her the next morning, and seemed to actually see her for the first time in a week. Looking her up and down, in her severely cut riding gown of dark blue, he even managed a faint smile. “An appropriate blend of dignity and supplication.”

“Whatever it takes.”

“It will work. I have faith in you.”

She crossed the Scots border for the first time in her life, splashing her horse through the shallowest spot in the river with Kit and two guards as her escort. They were met on the bank by royal guards who with little ceremony directed her to the church itself.

The last time she and James had a private conversation, it was his warning at Carlisle to watch herself with Kit. She had thought of him as a boy then. After all, he was a good four years younger than she was. But the king who greeted her today was no boy. Just turned twenty, James carried himself into this meeting with an assurance that he had the upper hand. For once, Scotland had England right where she wanted her—begging a favour.

“Your Majesty.”

“You may as well call me James. I will not expect my wife to be so formal in private.”

Though it made her uneasy, Anabel nodded. “James. Thank you for meeting with me in such haste. The situation is pressing.”

“Please, sit.” When they had seated themselves at an angle so that each might watch the other, he said, “We are aware of the Spanish ships and their numbers. Will you be able to hold them at Berwick?”

When one had come to beg, there was no point in being coy. “No. We expect them to land troops not only at Berwick, but at Newcastle. Hull, we think, is adequately defended for the moment. But you must know there are a handful of ships threatening Carlisle as well.”

“Since you have a Scots company to help Lord Scrope defend it, I expect Carlisle will stand.”

She did not intend to get into arguments about Maisie Courtenay's mercenary company. But it warned her that James was in a prickly mood and not minded to be especially generous.

“James,” she said bluntly, “I need your army to protect Berwick.”

“And if Berwick still cannot be held—what troops will I then have left to protect Scotland? For that is one purpose of these northern attacks. I know my mother's mind well enough to recognize her hand in these landings. If Berwick falls, at least half the Spanish troops will march straight for Edinburgh.”

“Then it is to your advantage to ensure Berwick does not fall.”

After a long and nerve-wracking pause of consideration, James said, “I will agree to march my army to Berwick…on one condition.”

Anabel's relief was almost instantly swamped by misgivings. Somehow she knew exactly what that condition would be. But she was a Tudor princess. The future Queen of England. Nothing came before her service to her people.

She swallowed. “I am prepared to concede to almost any condition you name.”

James smiled.

Within an hour of Stephen's exhausted squire bringing her the news of Pippa's death, Maisie left Carlisle Castle with a retinue of those mercenary guards ordered by Stephen to stay with her. Lord Scrope had returned grim-faced from Hull with his men shortly before, with news that the Spanish were sailing to Berwick. This morning reports had come of Spanish ships landing near the Solway. The decision was made to make their stand at Carlisle, which had the benefit of being defensible and also flexible, as it had been besieged dozens of times by the Scottish over the centuries.

Maisie spent a brief, restless night at Penrith and was on the road again by dawn. As her party drew near to Barnard Castle, they were intercepted by her husband.

Stephen was off his horse almost before he reined it in and reached her before she could dismount. She half fell into his arms.

She wished they could sit in silence somewhere and she could comfort him as he had once comforted her in a lonely Irish household after the death of a child. But there was no time. All too soon they had to deal with essentials.

“Tell me about Carlisle,” Stephen said.

“Carlisle itself will hold, unless the Spanish decide it worth their while to expend the men and arms in taking the castle. More likely they'll leave a small force behind to keep us penned in behind them while the rest march swiftly to join up with the eastern army. Assuming the eastern army is able to land?”

Stephen made a sound she recognized as displeasure. “Unless James Stuart agrees to intervene, they will land. Anabel has gone to Berwick to beg the use of his army.”

“Well,” Maisie said practically, “even if he gives it to her, it will take a little time for word of it to come west. I do not think the Maxwell men will join the Spanish in attacking Carlisle without the presence of their lord. But I could be wrong.”