The Virgin's War (8 page)

Stephen and Kit walked behind, and Stephen was glad for his brother's unusual discretion in not prodding him with dozens of questions or comments. Other than shooting him a few curious glances, Kit left him alone.

They entered Edinburgh from the north, the castle rising on its stark crag to their right and the road continuing down to the Palace of Holyrood on their left. Following Maisie, they turned in that direction down the densely built road until abruptly she turned again, into a narrow close on their left.

The town house had a medieval feel, and Maisie informed Felix that parts of it were a century old. From outside, the ever-present dark grey stone gave it a forbidding aspect, but the interior was pleasantly updated. Maisie had clearly given orders before coming to the port, for the house was opened and aired and food and drink had been provided. After showing them to welcoming bedchambers, she neatly set Kit and Felix to entertaining themselves, then turned to Stephen.

“Let us withdraw, as you suggested, and you can give me a full accounting.”

He had forgotten how intense her presence could be. It was an effect she had kept mostly muffled in Ireland, but now, secure in her home city, she practically radiated competence. No, something much more than mere competence—genius, perhaps.

Sitting across a table from her in an impersonal reception chamber, Stephen flashed back to his many meetings with Ailis in just such a manner. He'd had to guard himself carefully during those interviews. It was a hard habit to break.

“Tell me,” Maisie said.

It was a long story, for Stephen began not in France, but with the details of his assignment to spy on Mary Stuart in the last months of her English imprisonment. He told Maisie about the Nightingale plot, about the Frenchmen who had embroiled Stephen's sister in the affair, and of the violence at Wynfield Mote that had not been sufficient to prevent the Scots queen from sailing away to become, in turn, the Spanish queen.

And how, last year, he had begun to receive anonymous missives containing no words—simply a drawing of a nightingale.

Maisie broke in then, with a question. “And you told no one?”

“No.”

She did not ask him why. Perhaps she knew how much he had flayed himself for that error, wondering if Duncan Murray and Renaud LeClerc would still be alive if he had spoken earlier. Stephen finished the story with those deaths. Of their flight across France, he said little.

When he finished, he waited for her judgment. To his surprise, she asked another question. “Why me?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why put yourselves in the care of my factor? There are Englishmen aplenty in France. Surely the English ambassador in Paris would have conducted you to safety in far greater comfort.”

“To England,” Stephen pointed out. “Which I am forbidden.”

“Please,” she said derisively. “Queen Elizabeth would hardly have tossed you back to the wolves once you'd fled to her for help.”

“I didn't want the queen's help.”

“You mean you didn't—and don't—want
anyone's
help. So why mine?”

“Because you I trust.”

At that she stilled, and Stephen had a chance to study her more closely than he yet had. He realized that despite his earlier impression, she had indeed changed in the interval since their last meeting more than two years ago. The bones of her face and brow had grown more defined, so that despite her youth, there was no longer anything of the child about her. One tended to think of her still as sixteen, though he supposed she must be nearly nineteen by now. Her mind had always been far ahead of her body, but it seemed the gap was narrowing. In Ireland, Stephen had grown used to seeing Maisie in well-cut but plain wool or linen. Today she was dressed in impeccable—if restrained—fashion: her skirts a subtle blue silk that shaded to mauve when she moved, an organza partlet rising from the bodice to encircle her throat, her hair contained in a velvet caul.

For a moment he remembered that hair falling free across her shoulders as she wept after Liadan's death. A flood of silver gilt that had altered her from schoolgirl to woman…

Mariota.

She coloured faintly as he stared at her, but said lightly enough, “Well, I shall see that your trust is not misplaced. I assume you intend your brother and young Felix LeClerc to ride south?”

“Yes. Perhaps Thomas Randolph—is Randolph back in Scotland yet?—can arrange a party to conduct them at least as far as the Princess of Wales's court. If Anabel hasn't left the North since February?”

“The princess intends, I understand, to preside at the Council of the North in York next month. It is a simple enough matter to bring the two to her household. You need not even trouble the ambassador—I am sure someone on our board has business wanting in England.”

“That would be…very generous.”

“And you? Since your scruples are so firmly set against touching English soil until you are deliberately invited, what do you intend to do now, Stephen?”

He laughed. “Make my living. By the sword, since that is all I know. Once Kit and Felix are safely in England, I thought I'd sail to the Netherlands. They have plenty of military companies I could join.”

She nodded. “I thought that might be it. I have been thinking, however.”

When was she ever not thinking? Stephen wondered.

With a mischievous smile, Maisie said, “My mercenary company is currently in Scotland. Not fighting—not for the moment—but I thought it wise to have…
insurance
for my coming actions. I have established them thirty miles from Edinburgh, in a country estate called St. Adrian's. They are in want of a commanding officer.”

She must have seen the instinctive pride that preceded a blunt refusal, for she quickly added, “Do not answer me now. There is time before the others are safely in English hands for you to consider. That is all I ask—payment for use of my ship, if you like. Consider it.”

What else could he say? “I will consider it,” he promised.

April in England was often temperamental—cold sunlight, fitful winds, sudden blasts of showers and occasional freezing rain. The changes in weather echoed the tenor of Elizabeth's court this early spring of 1585. With each day, campaigning season drew closer. Which meant decisions would soon have to be made. About Ireland, about the Netherlands, about—always and more than anything else in the world—Spain.

It was the topic Walsingham and Burghley returned to every single time they had the queen's attention. After all these years together, Elizabeth could have written the entire dialogue herself. That didn't stop them from having the conversation.

Walsingham was always the one pleading the cause of men and money for Ireland. “John Perrot is begging for more men, Your Majesty. So is Ormond. If we're going to land soldiers this spring, we'll have a very narrow window if the Spanish decide to harry our ships.”

Burghley, as ever, was the voice of moderation. “Can Philip afford to spare ships for Ireland this year? The Netherlands is in ferment. He cannot continue to split his forces forever.”

Elizabeth's role was to hit on the essentials. “Philip also cannot afford to lose face. Perhaps if there had been no child between us, he could have cut all ties to England. But pride will keep him meddling in our business. Pride—and Mary Stuart.”

“Speaking of Princess Anne,” Walsingham said darkly. “It is all but confirmed that Spain is sending an envoy to Her Highness in the North this spring. A Jesuit named Tomás Navarro. Do you intend to protest this flouting of your authority, not to mention the deliberate defiance of the law that prohibits Jesuits in England on pain of death?”

“We will protest. But lightly, Walsingham—there is no need to provide further fuel to Philip's self-righteous fury. He is trying to provoke me. I intend to be provoked only at a time and place of my choosing.”

Burghley provided the final warning. “You can delay only a short time longer, Your Majesty. The delegation from the Netherlands is demanding an answer on a treaty of assistance. And if your Irish lords are demoralized by lack of aid, they may cut their losses and make whatever deal they can with the rebels. Dublin cannot hold out another season if the Spanish make a serious effort to take it.”

Elizabeth sometimes thought that the entirety of her reign could be summed up by the warnings the men of her kingdom had given her. Once, she had thought it was her youth that prompted the overarching concern—but here she was, past the age of fifty (not that she liked to remember it), and more than twenty-five years a queen, and still there was a slight hesitation to trust her.

It was no wonder she lost her temper from time to time.

And yet…there were some bonds worth swallowing one's pride for. First and foremost, of course, her sacred bond to England. Her daughter. Both Burghley and Walsingham—though she had made the latter swallow his pride as often as she did.

And one other person. Someone for whom Elizabeth was prepared to make great concessions in order to repair the oldest of her relationships. She had not seen the Duke and Duchess of Exeter since Christmas 1582—when their eldest son had been imprisoned in the Tower for breaking Elizabeth's peace in Ireland. In that interval, they had confined themselves to their estates and not even written. It was the longest Elizabeth had ever gone without Minuette Courtenay near.

And so, finally, Elizabeth had—not summoned, but asked her friends to attend her at court.

They came as they always had, with little fanfare and less notice. Every other noble in England took pains to cultivate their opportunities, to assemble a circle of supporters, to flaunt their influence in the government or the court. In the earliest years of his title, Dominic Courtenay had been pressed and flattered by many who sought to benefit from his royal ties. But he'd always had a way of turning such people away without hardly having to speak a word. He might once have become the most powerful noble in England. Instead, his indifference was legendary and only his family—or duty—could stir him.

And always, the surest way to command Dominic Courtenay's aid was to persuade Minuette to speak to him. So it was the Duchess of Exeter alone who came to Elizabeth at Hampton Court, on a May afternoon of gentle sun and gorgeous blossoms. The queen had chosen the venue with care—for this palace had many memories for both of them. Not all good, but all of the sort that bound the women to one another forever.

In the years since her brother's death, Elizabeth had altered the decorations of the privy chamber that had once been William's. Even still, she imagined Minuette remembered the space well. She had spent many evenings there with the king when they were all young and thoughtless.

Elizabeth would never admit—even to herself—that she was a little frightened of meeting Minuette again. But she could not ignore the relief that came like a cool breeze when her friend entered as she always had, with no more than the usual polite curtsey. After an absence of more than two years, Elizabeth noted for the first time the signs of encroaching age in her friend: the lines around her eyes, a little fading of her rich honey-coloured hair, the slightest softening of her jawline. But Minuette's beauty had never been dependent on youth alone.

When Elizabeth beckoned her to stand, Minuette tilted her head and studied the queen carefully in return.

“Will I do?” Elizabeth asked, as she used to, seeking approval before a public appearance. For once, she was nervous that the rich purple of her gown and pearl-draped bodice were not sufficient to distract from her own fifty-one years.

But Minuette smiled, the artless, charming smile of their shared youth. “You do very well.”

“I try to do well. But not always successfully.” It was the nearest Elizabeth would ever come to apologizing.

Minuette's expression, wry but understanding, showed that she accepted the unspoken words. “What is it my queen desires of me today?”

“Your ‘queen' desires your aid. Your
friend
would like to sit with you and discuss it beforehand.”

If it was not—could never be—the same as before, that was a path they had already walked once in redefining their friendship after Elizabeth became queen. If only the two of them were allowed time and space, the ties that bound them would see them reconciled.

“Philip is sending a Jesuit priest named Tomás Navarro to join Anne's household as an ambassador. Oh, he is not titled that, of course—but it is plain. Spain believes the time is ripe to drive a wedge into the space between us. Philip wishes to force it so wide there can never be reconciliation.”

“You could stop it—the Jesuit, at least. It would cause waves to refuse him access to the princess, but how much stormier can the sea become? I'll wager Philip expects you to stop it.”

“Do you? I am not so certain. He knows my pride. He may very well be gambling that I will allow him to pass if only not to openly admit that Anne and I are divided.”

“Will you allow him to pass?”

“I will. The Council of the North meets in May, presided over by Anne. Perhaps you have heard from Philippa?”

Minuette was always cautious in bringing her children into political discussions. But she could hardly fail to admit the obvious—that her daughter wrote to her. “We have heard something of it, yes. It seems an astute move, for Pippa writes that the North is grown increasingly supportive of Her Highness. And anything that strengthens people's ties to your daughter must strengthen your own.”

“I am not sure it is wise for the public to come to that conclusion,” Elizabeth remarked.

Minuette shook her head, but with an affectionate smile. “Ah, wheels within wheels, Your Majesty. That is a game at which both your parents excelled.”

“But not my brother?”

They had so rarely spoken of William in twenty-five years. Yet Minuette hesitated only briefly. “Will never had your subtlety, Elizabeth. Nor your patience. He would never have been able to maintain peace the way you have. I imagine there are many Englishmen living who, all unknowingly, owe their lives to your reign.