The Virgin's Daughter (10 page)

Since the death of your wife
, Lucette finished. Her name had been Célie, she remembered. A sixteen-year-old married to Nicolas only eleven months when she’d died giving birth to their son, Felix.

Nicolas turned and smiled, a much gentler, warming smile than Julien’s challenging one. “To bring such a bright mind from the outside world to the quietness of Blanclair is a great gift. I thank you for it, Lucette.”

For the length of several erratic heartbeats, Lucette let herself pretend that she was here for nothing more than to catch the eye of the Blanclair heir. Here there was no queen to intimidate or authority to disapprove—here there was simply a man looking at her as though he liked what he saw. A man she had idolized as a child.

But, being herself, she did not linger in that pleasure. Her responding smile went from genuine to calculated—this much lift to the corners of her mouth to portray shy interest, this much of an angle to her downcast eyes to suggest demure appeal. This much personal exposure in hopes of reeling in someone in Nicolas’s family and delivering him to Walsingham.

“The gift,” she said, “is entirely your family’s doing. It is I who am grateful, sir.”

“Nicolas,” he insisted.

She tilted her head. “Nicolas.”

31 May 1580

Wynfield Mote

We have come home, Dominic and I, for a few weeks’ respite before returning to court. It is somewhat unsettling being here without any of the children, but also…well, there is a certain headiness to not having to worry who is going to walk around corners and interrupt whatever we may be doing
.

I would be happy to remain here all summer, but Elizabeth has requested Dominic’s advice on the council that will oversee the dissolution of her marriage to King Philip. I think he would have said no, if it were not that Kit and Pippa will be at court then with Anabel. Elizabeth has pointedly not asked my opinion, but I imagine I will find a way to express it nonetheless. I think she expects me to always be disappointed, as though I have taken the place of her mother in some respects, but her marriage broke down long ago. Better a conscious and careful dissolution than violent recriminations
.

Stephen writes twice a week from Tutbury. I wonder if he says any more to Walsingham than he does to us? And Lucette has written dutifully along the road. Last we heard, they were just about to enter Paris. If all has gone to schedule, she will be on her way to Blanclair now
.

I wonder if her childhood infatuation for Nicolas LeClerc will be revived. I should be less troubled by that thought than I am—after all, she must marry someone, and who better than Renaud’s heir?

But I do not want her to leave England. What a pity children cannot be made to do only what will please their parents!

INTERLUDE

September 1568

L
ucette never meant to eavesdrop. Exactly. It was just that she knew when something was not right in her home, and it would ring through her almost like pain until she knew what it was. Tension, disagreement, discordance…they called to her like the sirens of ancient Greece, clamouring for her attention.

She fancied she could see those tensions as coloured threads stretched between various people. Today, those troubled threads were noticeably woven through all the adults, but reached their deepest shade—an alarming red—in her parents. Usually they would talk out any troubles in the rose garden, but after the rider from London appeared with royal dispatches, Mother and Father shut themselves up in what had been Grandfather Wyatt’s study before the house was burnt and rebuilt.

But it was a fine warm day for September, and the long windows of the study were open. Lucette was small enough to fit beneath the windows and so not be easily seen by anyone inside.

Like most of her eavesdropping, it was more exciting in theory than in practice. But she had long ago learned that just because she
didn’t understand everything she heard didn’t mean it wouldn’t quiet her mind to know it. So she squirreled away the people and places and concerns of her parents:
Don Carlos…starved to death, they say…Burghley fears more…if Philip was involved…Anabel’s guards to be tripled…already the Catholics fear Mary Stuart will never leave England…Philip must press now, for another heir from Elizabeth or else a divorce…the weight of two realms resting on a little girl…

And all at once, like fireworks exploding, that collection of names and phrases arranged themselves into a startling, shocking pattern.

It was like stars suddenly arranging themselves into constellations, or disparate shapes of fabric sewn into the folds and pleats of a gown. Lucette could hardly breathe for surprise and pleasure as the wide range of her parents’ conversation rearranged itself into a coherent whole.

Mary Stuart was the easiest piece, for she was Queen of Scotland (or had been) but had recently fled into England from her rebellious subjects. Don Carlos, though, was King Philip’s son and heir to the Spanish throne, as Princess Anne was Philip’s daughter and Elizabeth’s heir. Don Carlos was dead. King Philip needed another heir. Either he would try to take Anabel to Spain, or he would need a new wife, for surely Queen Elizabeth would not have any more babies now?

Spain and England might become enemies. If they did, it wouldn’t be long before France was pulled into the fight.

And at this very moment a French family was resident at Wynfield Mote.

At last Lucette had something important to say to Nicolas LeClerc. News that would make the tall and handsome eighteen-year-old look at her with something other than indulgence in his expression.

Unfortunately for her, when she finally located Nicolas, he was in the stables with his brother Julien. Lucette was suspicious of Julien LeClerc. He laughed too much and smiled too often, and she’d heard one of the serving girls giggle, “His charm will be the death of him, like as not, as soon as he meets a father he can’t talk his way round.”

Besides, he teased her as though she were still a child, no older than Kit and Pippa. So when she heard the brothers talking, Lucette darted into the nearest stall while she figured out how to detach Nicolas from Julien.

And thus, once again, found herself eavesdropping. They spoke in French, which Lucette could follow almost as easily as English.

“So we’ll be off home sooner than later?” Nicolas mused. “Father won’t want to risk being caught between England and Spain if Philip moves against his wife.”

“Seems a pity to run when there’s trouble. Father might just as well decide to offer support to Lord Exeter.”

“You know better than that, Julien. Father and Exeter are two of a kind—men who know when to sit out trouble rather than rush to meet it. And I daresay Lord Exeter will be relieved to see the last of us—or at least of you.”

“What does that mean?”

“His wife. You’ve been panting after her all summer like a dog in heat. There’s a limit to the man’s forbearance—”

The sound of quick steps, and sudden violence. Lucette covered her mouth to stifle a gasp, but the brothers’ scuffle pushed them down the center aisle and directly into her line of sight. Julien’s wheat-coloured hair hung in his eyes as he shoved his brother. Nicolas, his hair several shades darker, was the first to see her.

“Hello,” he said in English, and the change of tone was enough to alert Julien, who dropped his hands and whirled round.

Lucette would not be cowed by Julien’s grim face, nor—more disquieting—the sudden smile like the sun blazing through a summer storm. “In faith you do get around, child. Everywhere I turn, you seem to be at my feet.”

“Not your feet,” she said, then stopped as her face flamed.

She wished she knew some bad words to hurl at Julien as his smile broadened. “No, of course not. Why would you haunt me when my brother is at hand? Nicolas is all that is good and pure. But sweet as
you are, I don’t think Nicolas is quite so pure as to wait the necessary years for you to grow up.”

“Julien.” Nicolas, usually so mild, could make his voice whip like an adult’s when he wished it.

With a shrug, Julien lost interest. “Were you looking for me?” Nicolas asked her kindly.

As it was clear they already knew about the death of the Spanish prince, Lucette scrambled for something interesting to say. But her mind, usually so quick, supplied nothing. “I came,” she finally said loftily, “to look at the kittens.”

As long as she lived, she would never forgive Julien LeClerc for the slow, cynical smile that said,
I see right through you, child
.

SIX

“T
hus far,” Elizabeth announced, “I have not found this June especially to my liking.”

The court was still at Greenwich, from whence it would soon set out on its way to Portsmouth to welcome the Spanish. Elizabeth paced the eastern gallery, resplendent in gold velvet and damask, the bodice and skirt encrusted with crystals. Her open ruff of lace rose stiffly to frame the coiled plaits and curls of one of her many wigs, and ropes of pearls swung to the pointed v of her waistline. Burghley and Walsingham were alone with her as she preferred when she was out of sorts.

Gravely, Walsingham said, “There is no doubt that the Jesuit mission has begun. Even now there are priests slipping into England with the pope’s blessing to stir up rebellion.”

Burghley played devil’s advocate. “According to their own statements, they are come only to teach, not to meddle with affairs of state or politics.”

“There is no difference.” Walsingham would not raise his voice in
her presence, but Elizabeth could hear his fury. Because she knew it was prompted by concern for her, she let it pass.

“Is it true,” she asked, “that Edmund Campion is leading the Jesuit mission?”

Burghley, who had been Campion’s patron when the man was a scholar at Oxford, nodded. “With Father Robert Persons. He’s a gentler man than Campion, no doubt meant to rein him in. I doubt he’ll be successful.”

If there was one thing Elizabeth detested, it was ingratitude. “No Anglican cleric benefited more from the crown’s favour than did Campion. I was seen to publicly praise him, he was allowed to offer the Latin oration when the founder of his college died! How dare he throw such gifts back in my face?”

“He says it is for conscience’s sake,” Burghley said mildly.

“I take no issue with his conscience. If he feels he must follow Catholic doctrine, let him. I did not pursue Campion when he left our kingdom. But now he dares return to publicly oppose the religious settlement that has kept England at peace for twenty years.”

“Your Majesty,” Walsingham said, “we must consider on the wisdom of allowing King Philip to land so many Spanish with him when he arrives. How do we know he is not importing members of this mission to stir up violence against you?”

Burghley bore the first argument on her behalf. “It is a diplomatic entourage of the queen’s husband. We can hardly ask King Philip to reduce his party while coming to visit his wife.”

“Coming to divorce his wife,” Walsingham said bluntly. “If we’re lucky.”

“Oh, come now,” Elizabeth said with a casualness that was partly feigned. “Do you really expect Philip to import an assassin to do away with me when all of Europe knows our marriage is but a sheet of paper that will be ripped in half this summer? There is no need for Philip to have me killed. If nothing else, the man I married is not
stupid. He would not risk such a step while he himself is on English soil to be made suspect.”

“But not all of his men are so prudent. Philip may not be fanatic enough for Rome, but many of his subjects would gladly give their lives to end yours.”

“Perhaps,” Elizabeth said sharply. “But then, that is why I employ you, to prevent fanatics from carrying out their schemes.”

“Like the Ridolfi plot or the gunman along the banks of the Thames? I need not remind you that those might as easily have ended badly. So much depends on luck.”