The Virgin's War (7 page)

The sergeant had another question. “What can we expect to see at Blanclair?”

“You should always expect to meet the worst.”

“Are you taking any of the men with you?”

“Just my brother. We want to ride fast and without the appearance of undue alarm.” Stephen hesitated, and looked swiftly to where Felix sat next to Kit. “And Felix will ride with us.”

The three of them had argued about it long and loud—most of the loudness on the boy's part. The problem, Kit and Stephen agreed, was lack of information. They were guessing far more than was comfortable. Leave Felix behind or keep him under their direct protection—how were they to know which course was the right one?

Felix had finally announced that if the brothers left without him, he would simply ride out alone to follow. Since it would have meant confining the boy against his will to stop him, Stephen had been reluctantly persuaded.

It was Kit who had pointed out, “I doubt if Queen Mary intends to harm you, Stephen. At least not yet. She is targeting those around you. If we leave Felix behind, what if her men decide to target him?”

“And if Felix is a target on the road?”

“He'll have the two of us to stop it. She has lost the element of surprise. We're paying attention now.”

But as the three of them mounted and prepared to ride out in the clear, frosty dawn next morning, Kit prayed silently,
Let us not be wrong.

They had forced Felix to mount a smaller horse, so that he would sit lower than the brothers and could thus be more easily covered in case of threat. All three of them wore brigandines—Felix's a little large—and were well armed.

After the first two hours of tense riding, Kit felt himself relax slightly as the miles passed without incident. If anyone had been watching Blanclair, they had not troubled to follow. At least not close enough to be noticed.

Thanks to the depth of the cold, unusual for early March, the roads were tolerable and Felix was an uncomplaining and hardy traveler. By dint of changing horses several times and taking only brief rests, they reached Blois not long after sunset and secured a room for the three of them in one of the less respectable inns. It was Kit's suggestion, meant to draw less attention to themselves by not announcing their identities.

While Stephen and Felix slept, Kit drank in the common room for several hours, accumulating a good deal of gossip. Some of it even to purpose. While they dressed next morning, he passed on what he'd heard.

“Renaud came through Blois three weeks ago. Stayed two nights, as though waiting for someone or something. There was a man last night who'd just come from Tours. He thinks Renaud was in conference with Navarre's men there. If Renaud is still in Tours, that's only forty miles. We can be there by dark.”

“If he's still in Tours, then why haven't we heard back from the fourth courier?” Stephen asked quietly, when Felix had gone out of earshot to relieve himself.

“Ah, yes,” Kit said reluctantly. “I asked around about local violence last night. I found there had been an anonymous body discovered on the riverbank just about the time you'd expect the Blanclair courier to have made it this far.”

Stephen shut his eyes, then sighed and opened them. “All right. Seems we don't want to risk staying in Blois. But keep your eyes open and every sense alert today.” In a grim undertone, he added, “I will not have another dead child on my conscience.”

They were only ten miles out of Blois when they heard drumming hooves approaching from ahead, faster than the usual pace. Stephen drew his sword and urged his horse to the front, while Kit edged within arm's length of Felix, ready to snatch the boy's reins if they had to wheel round quickly.

Four men, riding hard. When they saw Stephen with sword drawn, they slowed. By the time faces could be seen, recognition had blossomed. They were Renaud's men, wearing his badge of scarlet and black. When the soldiers recognized Stephen and the others, they drew up sharply. “You heard?” one of them said.

Kit shot a look at Stephen but could only see his brother's back.

“Heard what?”

“The vicomte. He's dead.”

Kit hissed in shock, but had the presence of mind to grab Felix's reins to keep him from darting his horse forward.

“You're lying!” Felix shouted as Stephen said over him, “What happened?”

“An assassination attempt on King Henri of Navarre. The king escaped unhurt, but Vicomte LeClerc was shot and killed in the melee. I'm sorry, monsieur,” the soldier said to Felix. “It was pure bad luck.”

Kit didn't think so. No doubt Catholic assassins were always happy to try and kill Navarre, but to miss him and just happen to shoot Renaud instead? He didn't like coincidences.

“How long ago?”

“Last night. The rest of the men are seeing to the necessities. We were sent ahead to warn Blanclair.”

“Why warn us?” Felix asked, too shrewd by half even when traumatized. “If Navarre was the target?”

Stephen answered. “Because your grandfather went to some lengths to keep his visit to Navarre quiet. The Huguenots have many enemies. He wanted you kept clear of possible reprisals.”

“Shall we escort you to Tours?” the soldier asked.

“No. We will see to ourselves. Continue on and let Blanclair know what has happened. Write to Madame Charlotte first of all.”

“Yes, sir.” The men were trained to obey, even if they thought their orders unwise. When they were out of sight, Stephen brought his horse round so the three of them could talk.

“We're not going to Tours, are we?” Felix asked. To Kit, the boy seemed to be all eyes, wide and fixed but dry. For now.

Kit and Stephen shared a long look, then Kit answered. “Stephen is right. Even if your grandfather's death was an unlucky accident, there are definitely assassins watching the area. The last thing he would want is to put you in immediate danger.”

“What about
Tante
Charlotte?”

Stephen said, “She will be wise. I wrote to her before we left Blanclair, laying out the situation. I do not think anyone will trouble her, not unless we draw attention back that way. The question is, where can we go to keep you safe?”

“Calais?” Kit mused.

“We'll be expected to head to our fellow English, which means we shouldn't. Nor should we go farther south into Huguenot territory. I suggest we make for Le Havre.”

“And find a ship? Not easy if you intend to keep us anonymous. We haven't enough money to both hire a ship and hide our identities.”

“There is a man in Le Havre who will help us, with very few questions asked. And I have all I need to pay him.”

Kit raised a skeptical brow as Stephen pulled back his doublet and jerkin to reveal a ruby-set fox pin on his shirt. “Doesn't look terribly expensive,” Kit said dismissively.

“It doesn't have to be. It only has to be unique. There is a man in Le Havre who will accept this pin as payment in full. He will help us with whatever we need.”

“And who is this very accommodating man?”

Stephen smiled grimly. “Mariota Sinclair's business manager.”

A
fter a winter spent profitably between Newcastle and York, Maisie Sinclair drew a metaphorical deep breath and, with a nicely judged amount of notice and fanfare, crossed the border and entered Scotland for the first time in four years. On a day of patchy April sun and squalls of freezing rain, she rode into Edinburgh and dismounted before her late grandfather's house in the Canongate.

If it had been left to her brother, no doubt the doors would have been locked against her. At the very least the household would have been caught surprised and unprepared for her arrival. But Robert, with all his resentments and dislike, was not solely in control of the Sinclair concerns. And so Maisie was met by well-dressed staff and smiling faces and the full complement of board members who endeavoured to keep Robert from destroying the company his grandfather had so carefully built.

“Maisie, lass, how you have grown in beauty.” That was Andrew Boyd, his spare figure still upright and elegant despite his sixty years. He had been the late William Sinclair's partner since the age of twenty-five, and if anyone truly ran the concerns these days, it was Boyd.

She smiled, and tipped her cheek up to be kissed. “Well, you can hardly claim that I have grown in height.”

As she accepted and returned the greetings of the staff and board, Maisie made silent notes about personalities and how likely they were to be on her side in the battle to come. She had expected to have the entire household staff in her corner, for Robert had always been a difficult person to please in any matter. From a child, her brother had been rude to the maids and condescending to the grooms and men-at-arms. But apparently Robert had turned his eye to the household staff when he inherited the business, and fully half of them were new to Maisie. It was easy to pick them out—they all had a slight air of slovenliness. And of the men-at-arms present, only a few were familiar. She did not like the look of the rest at all—hard and indifferent and cruel.

The board, however, had been largely beyond Robert's control. So Maisie was greeted with genuine affection even by those men who would likely oppose her ambitions simply because she was female. That was all right—she could deal with that sort of response. And she had the tacit support of the most important ones already; not only Andrew Boyd, but the four who had served longest with her grandfather. They knew where the brains had gone in this family.

Sulkily, Robert welcomed her home, his discontent plain. “Why did you stay away so long? We expected you to return soon after your husband's death.”

“Did you? I must have missed your letter of condolence.”

He might be completely unsuited for the task of running a large merchant concern, but Robert had his own native cunning. “You miss only what you do not want to see. Still, you are here now. We can begin to make plans for the next wedding.”

“A wedding! Congratulations, Robert. I cannot wait to meet the…fortunate woman.”

“You know I mean you. There are men aplenty interested in what money you can bring them. So many, that this time we can afford to place a higher price on you.” With an ugly smile, he leaned in and said, more softly, “You see, sister, how I have learned this business. You are a commodity. All I have to do is find the highest bidder.”

Despite expecting it, Maisie found herself shaken at the venom. But she was nothing if not always controlled. “I am no longer fifteen, Robert. I think you will be surprised by what price I command.”

She turned away, and smiling brightly at Andrew Boyd, said, “Shall we go in? No doubt there is a meal prepared…and then we have much to discuss.”

The discussions begun at table that day were not meant to force a confrontation, but to subtly shape the tone of the conversations to come. Everyone except Robert was eager to hear the stories from her travels, and Maisie knew precisely what to highlight in her recitations. Not just the prices and markets of various cities, but the personalities: gossip about who was sleeping with whom and whose son was being forced into an inconvenient marriage and whose brother was working for the opposition. There were stories of the continuing war in the Low Countries and French suspicion of Spain's increasing aggressiveness.

“Both Scotland and England should give thanks for the native enmity between France and Spain,” Maisie concluded. “If ever they combined their might, our island would be hard-pressed to resist.”

“Like Ireland?” Robert said nastily. He had been drinking a great deal.

She met his eyes steadily. “Yes. Very much like Ireland.”

“You had no trouble opposing the English there.”

Not all the English, she thought. But would never say. Stephen belonged to a separate part of her life, one she did not intend to share with anyone. He belonged to Cahir Castle and Oliver Dane and Liadan—and to Ailis Kavanaugh most of all.

Her first day back in Edinburgh ended in her bedchamber of old. Maisie was surprised and pleased to see it had not been altered in her absence and suspected she owed that to the housekeeper. The initial homecoming had gone well, she thought critically. She had expected nothing from Robert and so was unlikely to ever be disappointed. Andrew Boyd had been more than just welcoming—he had asked astute questions and, more critically, listened carefully to her answers. Of them all, Boyd knew the most about Maisie's personal business concerns in the last two years. And when he bid her good-night, he added, “The board would like to see you in a few days. For a more formal accounting of your travels, and a discussion of your future.”

Boyd, at least, did not mean a marriage. Or not only a marriage.

All in all, Maisie was highly pleased with herself. There was nothing she liked more than preparing perfectly and having that plan unfold as it should.

When she awoke in the morning, it was to be handed a letter just arrived from her factor in Le Havre, brought by ship from France, and suddenly her plans were—if not ruined—at least altered.

The Thistle will sail Friday, three weeks ahead of schedule. I have filled what orders I could in the shortened time, but the primary cargo will be three passengers: two men and a boy. One of the men carried a ruby-studded fox, and thus I rendered all aid as previously ordered.

Maisie caught her breath. Only one man in the world possessed the ruby fox pin that was the twin of her own.

Stephen Courtenay was on his way to Scotland.

By the time their ship reached Edinburgh, Stephen's nerves had been at such a high pitch for such a long time that he had a permanent headache at the base of his skull. The journey from Blois to Le Havre was already a hazy memory, consisting mostly of fast riding, bad food, and sleep snatched a few hours at a time. They had traded their finer clothes for the rougher frieze of the countryside, but kept their weapons prominent. Felix proved tougher than Stephen had feared, especially after the devastating news of his grandfather's death. The boy had continued quiet, but made no serious objections about leaving France.

Either they had slipped their watchers or they were being allowed to leave. Stephen didn't much care which. Once in Le Havre, it was fairly easy to locate Maisie's factor, and producing the ruby fox provided instant aid. Maisie turned out to be majority owner of a ship called the
Thistle,
which providently was in port at the time. It had not intended to sail for several weeks, waiting for a cargo of spices from the Levant, but between Maisie's ruby fox and what remained of Stephen's money, they sailed from Le Havre less then seventy-two hours after arriving.

On April 21 the
Thistle
sailed into Leith, the chief port of Edinburgh. The captain disembarked and asked a few questions, then reported to his passengers.

“You sailed at the right time—Mistress Sinclair arrived in Edinburgh just this week. She's at her grandfather's house in the Canongate. I've sent a boy to let her know we're in port. Will you go straight to Edinburgh?”

“No,” Stephen said. “It is for her to decide if she wants to see us. I assume there's an inn or two nearby?”

The captain directed them to an inn a quarter mile back from the water that was slightly shabby on the outside but warm and welcoming within. Between the three of them, they had only four packs and their weapons. But just knowing that he could now write to his family and receive help in a matter of days was a relief. For the first time since Duncan Murray's death, Stephen felt he could let go a little of his fierce sense of responsibility.

They bathed and changed into serviceable hose and leather doublets, then joined the crowd in the tavern. A mix of languages—from French to Flemish to a handful of people speaking Italian—wove together as expected in a merchant port. Bread, ale, and hearty stew woke the appetites of all. Even Felix began to lose the haunted look he'd had since Blanclair.

“What next?” Kit asked.

“We see about hiring horses for the two of you. Or, properly, borrowing money to hire you horses. I imagine we have some acquaintance in Edinburgh, and perhaps you can join a larger party heading south.”

“I meant—what next with Mistress Sinclair?”

Stephen shrugged. “We'll see if she sends for me. I did make rather free with her name to get us here. She may be piqued.”

“Why didn't you send a personal message to the Canongate? After all those letters you've written—”

“I will certainly write with apologies and a promise to repay Mistress Sinclair for the use of the
Thistle,
” Stephen cut in austerely. “Though I suppose Father and Mother will have to bear that cost for now.”

“Don't you like her?” It was Felix who asked, so plainly that Stephen could hardly shoot him down the same way he had Kit.

“Of course I like her. What has that to do with anything?”

Felix shrugged. “You don't seem very anxious to meet her again.”

“It doesn't matter. Let's ask around, see if there are any English known to us in residence just now. At the least, we can go to the English ambassador. When he knows who you are, Kit, he'll fall over himself getting you back to England.”

But Kit had stopped listening. He was looking over Stephen's shoulder and suddenly grinned.

“It seems Mistress Sinclair is quite anxious enough for the both of you. She just walked in.”

Stephen froze where he was, half standing. Then, cursing himself for awkwardness, he straightened and turned.

His first impression was that Maisie had changed hardly at all from the last time he'd seen her, when she visited him in the Tower of London. She was still little, barely reaching his shoulder, and had the same pleasant expression that one had to decipher carefully to understand.

Her voice was also unchanged. “The brothers Courtenay. What a surprise to find you commandeering my ship. I little expected you to land on my doorstep the very moment I returned home.”

Stephen flushed and could not immediately think of what to say. Kit, at his most engaging, rescued him. “Mistress Sinclair, how could we not be drawn to you as butterflies are drawn to the fairest blossoms?”

“You must be desperate if you're wasting your charm on me. And who is the third and handsomest member of your party?” She smiled at Felix.

Finally Stephen got a grip on himself. Noting the many eyes on them, curious and storing up gossip to spread around the port, he spoke softly. “Perhaps we might withdraw for a full accounting of our presence?”

The look she shot him was sharp with understanding and intelligence. But she might have been any mere Edinburgh hostess when she proclaimed, “You're coming with me. The Sinclair Company keeps a town house for visitors. I'll show you.”

They walked the two miles from Leith to the Sinclair town house in Edinburgh. Maisie—who, one remembered, had been brilliant with a child in Ireland—took Felix as her companion and chattered to him all the way until even he was smiling.