The Virgin's War (34 page)

“You would never regret the loss of me personally. But perhaps England will regret the loss of Scotland one day.”

“Perhaps the next generation will provide a prince and princess more suited to one another.”

“Or less stubborn.”

He raised her up and kissed her hand, then her cheek. “Farewell, Anne Isabella. Ride safe and pray hard. I will await your message.”

Being at the center of a flow of information was only tolerable while there was an overabundance of information. With the sighting of the Spanish ships both north and south, dispatches became briefer and Lucette was left with too much time to worry about the meaning of the messages she was ciphering and deciphering. Julien at least could contact her fairly frequently, seeing as most military dispatches came through Kenilworth, and it was a relief when Maisie appeared direct from Carlisle. A firsthand report from someone Lucette could question gave an outlet for her nerves. Besides, Maisie was as quick-witted as she, and it was nice to have someone who could follow her thoughts without having to spell them out.

And thank God and all His angels that, finally, Felix was speaking to her. As she and Julien had mended the pains in their marriage, Lucette had learned to treat Felix with unfailing kindness and a promise of love if he should want it—without demanding anything from him in return. Save courtesy, which Julien demanded, but Felix was an essentially obedient and well-brought-up child so courtesy was his natural default.

The boy caught himself several times, as though reminding himself of Lucette's sins, and would withdraw back into abrupt silence. But when she had returned to Kenilworth from Pippa's death and burial—alone, as Julien was required with her father and the English troops—she found Felix where she had left him in Nora Dudley's care, and at his most natural. His sympathy was unfeigned. Felix knew what it was to lose family, far more than Lucette did. With her sister's death fresh and sharp, Lucette began to glimpse the depth of pain for a thirteen-year-old boy who had lost more than his share of family. No wonder he was surly.

Except that he wasn't, not any longer. Or at least, no more so than any boy his age. He took to watching her and trying to anticipate what she might need or want—fresh paper, sharpened quills, food brought to her desk so she might not have to disrupt her work too much.

One night, almost a week after returning to Kenilworth, Lucette wearily went to her bedchamber well after midnight to find three roses the colour of sunset skies lying on her pillow. As she wept for the first time since Pontefract, she knew that Felix was going to be all right.

Finally came the alert that everyone in the castle had been waiting for—the dust of riders and floating banners approaching from the North. The entire castle seemed to crowd the walls and courtyard straining to decipher what they could from the sight.

Three white feathers rising through a golden crown…a banner of plain gold…the lion and torteaux of the Courtenays bordered for the younger son…

“Anabel, Stephen, Kit,” Lucette breathed, feeling Maisie's hand tighten convulsively in hers. With Nora and Felix at their heels, they raced down the battlements for the gates.

Once there, Lucette loosed Maisie and hung back a little with Nora. Stephen was off his horse almost before he'd reined up and caught his wife as she flung herself into his arms. Lucette and Nora shared a quick glance, amused while each hopeful they might have similar reunions before long.

Even as Kit helped her dismount, Anabel was speaking to Lucette. “May we speak privately?”

Nora tactfully took the hint. “Felix, help me arrange refreshments for the men. Will you be staying, Your Highness?”

“Not above an hour. We must ride straight on to London.”

Lucette hugged Kit, conscious of trying to fill a little of the void left by Pippa's absence. “How is Matthew?” she asked as she led them to her private library.

“He's a good fighter, and violence helped exorcise a little of the pain. Having something to do always helps.”

With the door firmly closed, Anabel spoke quickly to those members of the Courtenay family facing her. “The North is secure for now. You've had nothing from the South?”

“Not since word of the armada being sighted off Gravelines.”

“Nothing from your mother?”

Lucette tipped her head. “No. Why?”

“Two weeks ago Her Majesty was seriously injured by an assassin. The government has been keeping her condition quiet, from the very real fear that she may be dying. That is why I am riding to London as fast as I can.”

“To ensure England has a queen prepared to lead,” Lucette said slowly, head spinning. England without Elizabeth? She wasn't sure she could begin to contemplate that thought.

“Yes.” Anabel hesitated, and shared a look with Kit. A private look that hinted at some deep well of feeling. Then she steeled herself and resumed the mask of leadership. “A queen with a king to support her if necessary. I married James Stuart on July twenty-third.”

“I see.” Lucette shot a look at Kit, who showed no apparent emotion, and decided to slide over the news without comment. “Can Maisie and I ride south with you? I don't think she'll let go of Stephen and I—”

“Want the earliest possible news of Julien. Of course. One hour,” Anabel said.

But it was only a quarter hour later that a rider flew into Kenilworth's courtyard, no banner, no livery, but a face known at once to everyone there. Brandon Dudley, Earl of Leicester, had come home.

They would all have discreetly faded away to allow him to greet his wife, but Brandon said, “I have news for Her Highness.”

“News from Leeds?” Anabel asked without any noticeable quaver. Her face was stark, all cheekbones and wide eyes, and Lucette saw how very much the princess would look like her mother when she reached that age.

“Yes, Your Highness. Her Majesty the Queen reports that the Spanish Armada has been greatly damaged and defeated. The remaining ships are running with no sign of an immediate threat to England. Her Majesty desires that you meet her at Whitehall as soon as may be. She also desires whatever Courtenays I may encounter to be assured of the continued health of both Lord Exeter and Julien LeClerc.”

“The queen is alive?”

“She is, Your Highness. And she has written to you.” From inside his jerkin, Brandon pulled a somewhat battered letter that Anabel accepted as though being offered the Holy Grail.

Lucette drew a deep sigh of relief and shared a smile with Stephen. Then, to her great surprise, the unflappable, often cynical Princess of Wales burst into tears and flung herself into Kit's arms.

What had begun as a desperate dash for London and the possibility of a government left without a queen now became a triumphal procession. Anabel had her mother's instincts for pageantry, but Kit could see that this heartfelt outpouring of love and thanks touched her deeply. It was the first time the princess had been south of Leicester in two and a half years, and Kit thought he could see the tension literally melting from her with each mile.

He was a little dazed himself after Anabel's stunning confession that James would now give her an annulment. Resolutely, he shoved that tantalizing thought into the back of his mind and behaved as he needed to. While most eyes were turned south to London, there were dispatches and orders to be handled behind them in the North. The Scottish troops on loan from James had left them at Kenilworth, and Kit busied himself communicating with Lord Hunsdon and Lord Scrope about the aftermath along the border.

One day outside London, Kit went through the pack of dispatches and found a single thin letter with just
Christopher Courtenay
on the outside. He did not recognize the writing. Inside, there was no greeting, simply this stark message:

If I have relinquished Her Highness only to see her wed another foreign royal, I shall be greatly disappointed.

It was signed, simply,
James,
surprisingly readable with a flourish at the end. Kit sat with his mouth open for some time, then closed it and burned the letter.

They entered London from the west, along a route thronged with people cheering their princess, their queen, their victory…but mostly, in Kit's prejudiced view, their princess. Anabel rode slowly, wearing the same silver tissue gown in which she had rallied her troops in the North. From behind, Kit thought he would never tire of the sight of her straight back and the fall of red-gold hair crowned only with a gold-wrought wreath of laurels.

Kit could only hope that Queen Elizabeth's reception had been as triumphant. Forbearance was not one of her notable qualities.

The gates of Whitehall were thrown wide for Anabel and her immediate party—her privy council and various Courtenays—to enter. Kit stood immediately behind the princess with Robert Cecil. Behind him were Stephen and Maisie, who had hardly spoken to anyone but each other since Kenilworth, and Lucette with Felix LeClerc. Kit had been glad to note the liveliness in the boy's eyes.

Queen Elizabeth appeared beneath one of the arched ways leading to an inner courtyard, and every person present bowed or curtsied deeply. Including Anabel.

At some unseen signal passing between the two royal women, Anabel straightened and walked forward. The others present slowly eased up as well to witness the reunion. When she reached the queen, Anabel sank low once more and kissed the fingers offered by her monarch. The hand gently lifted her until the two women faced one another, mirrors of the past and future.

“Well done, Your Highness,” the queen said.

Then Kit saw the queen's expression alter, so that it was the mother looking upon her only daughter. He bent his head, hiding his grin of relief, as they embraced. Decorously, to be sure, but heartfelt nonetheless.

The two women retreated within, to allow for more spontaneous greetings amongst their retinues. Lord Burghley made straight for his son, Robert, at Kit's side, and there were his own parents right behind—still so striking together at whatever age, fair and dark and perfectly balanced. And Julien, taller than the lot of them, swinging Lucette in a wide circle before kissing her so passionately that Kit almost blushed and caught Felix's eye in amusement as he turned away.

It was his nondemonstrative father, surprisingly, who embraced him first. “Well done,” Dominic said, before moving on to Lucie.

Kit looked at his mother, her form and colouring and expression so like his lost twin that his heart ached. As always, she understood perfectly. She pulled him down into a tight hug while he wept a little on her shoulder.

Two hours later Kit stood before Queen Elizabeth alone and very curious. Not even Burghley or Walsingham were with her. Still dressed in her ceremonial finery—the ivory damask of her gown nearly hidden beneath embroidered peacocks, her signature pearls dripping from her bodice and sewn into her hair—the queen did not look like a woman who had nearly died two weeks ago. Save, perhaps, for an extra fineness to her hands and face.

She studied him unblinkingly, and Kit could not read a single one of her thoughts.

“Did you enjoy arresting Eleanor Percy?” the queen asked abruptly.

“Rather more than I should have, I expect.” He answered cautiously, not at all certain where this was going.

“I wish I could have seen her face.” Her face lit up in a mischievous smile very like Anabel's. “I should have locked Eleanor up long ago.”

“What will happen to her now?”

“She did commit treason, but I am feeling…generous after our great triumph. I shall allow her to keep her life.”

“The woman is dangerous,” he felt compelled to point out.

“Eleanor will have her life,” Elizabeth repeated, “but not in England. For all their bluster, France is enormously relieved that Spain has not succeeded in swallowing up England. Catherine de Medici and her son owe me a favour.”

“What kind of favour?” Kit was beginning to enjoy this.

“Being a Papist country, France has any number of convents. I understand it is quite common for noble women of a certain age to retire from the world. Do you think Eleanor will enjoy the peace and solitude of a religious house?”

Kit grinned. “I think a community of nuns will prove immune to her charms. No doubt they will enjoy instructing her in the ways of a virtuous woman.”

“Quite.” And with that single word, the queen's countenance grew forbidding. Kit felt his pulse quicken.

“I understand,” she said, her words like cut glass in the heavy silence, “that James Stuart is willing to forgo his rights as a wedded husband and not seek consummation of the ceremony. He is willing to set Her Highness free to seek another husband. Why?”

“I cannot speak for His Majesty.”

“Anne tells me you saved his life at Berwick.”

As it was not a question, Kit did not answer. Elizabeth narrowed her eyes at him. “It did not cross your mind to let him die on the battlefield?”

“And leave a kingdom without a monarch? We cannot afford Scotland in turmoil. And if James had died less than a day after wedding England, there are many in Scotland who would provoke further war.”

“I did not think you so wise,” she murmured. “Certainly not as a child. As I recall, you were always prone to act first and apologize after. Exactly like your mother. But it seems you have a deep strain of your father's honour as well. I would see your loyalty properly rewarded.”

“Your Majesty—”

“Not as you may wish,” she cut him off. “The matter of the marriage of the Princess of Wales remains the province of myself and my government to decide. However, since your brother's folly in Ireland, the Duke of Exeter has had no accepted heir to his estates. In the honours bestowed this week upon those who fought valiantly, we have determined to name you your father's heir—and to give you the title and estate commensurate with that position. You shall be Christopher Courtenay, Earl of Somerset.”