The Virgin's Daughter (9 page)

And Mary knew very well how to manipulate such facts.

Stephen Courtenay was unusually well-controlled for such a young man; he did not openly rise to the sting of Mary’s insinuation. “It would, naturally, be a great sorrow for all of us if my sister chose to live out of England. I must say I do not consider it likely, for none is more attached to my mother’s home at Wynfield Mote than Lucette. For one who so deeply loves the essence of the English countryside to give it up for France…?” Stephen shrugged.

Mary was somewhat taken aback by the flood of words, and could only conclude that Stephen was, despite what he said, a little afraid of that very outcome. She knew how to play on that fear. “But love of a person can so easily strike, laying waste to even love of a home. Would you begrudge your sister if she found love in France?”

The hazel eyes that met hers were steady and, despite his youth, unflinching. “Does Your Majesty begrudge the loss of your country for the love of a man?”

She flushed deeply. “You are out of your depth,” she spat angrily. “Do not presume on my good nature to insult me.”

“I apologize,” he said, in the same collected voice that did not sound at all apologetic. “I would never begrudge my sister happiness. But I confess I hope her happiness will be found here, with her family and her religion.”

“Ah, so it is the Catholic aspect from which you recoil, as much as the distance.” Mary’s hauteur conveyed her continued warning to not trespass on her goodwill. “I do not suppose that is a subject on which we could find agreement.”

He hesitated, before saying thoughtfully, “I wonder, Your Majesty. Not all minds are as fixed as the fanatics’. And peace is a state greatly to be desired, worth almost any price.”

Interesting. Mary pondered that intriguing answer from the young earl for some time afterward. The Courtenays were outwardly devoted Protestants, as befit the dear friends of Elizabeth. She would have expected from them the same disdain that other English Protestants turned on her, considering her Catholic faith
primarily an inconvenience that had cost her Scotland as much as her disastrous marriage to Bothwell. But it was her faith that would free her. How could heretics understand the power of truth? Understand it or not, England would be forced to reckon with its undeniable power once the Nightingale Plot released her from the bonds of this hated imprisonment.

And perhaps, in that new England, there would be more families than she could guess ready to grasp any hand that brought peace, whether their faith was devotedly pure or not. She would have to sound Stephen Courtenay on that subject.

But first the Nightingale Plot must advance. She consulted later that evening with her confessor, who was in all her confidences, about the delicate structure of a plot that, this time, must succeed. How could it not? For the first time since her ignominious flight from Scotland in 1568, Mary had more on her side than just her French family. The stars had aligned, and now Catholics in both France and Spain were united in the cause of freeing her from English captivity. What followed her freedom might still be a matter for debate among the competing parties, but Mary was confident in her course.

“And our timing?” Mary asked. “King Philip’s visit is definitely set?”

“The Spanish king will arrive in England in late June,” her confessor said, “date dependent on the sailing weather. Philip and his entourage will spend three weeks at court, to visit his daughter and to discuss with Queen Elizabeth the marital matters of Princess Anne as well as their own. It is believed the divorce will be finalized before he sets sail for home.”

“It had better be,” Mary said drily. “We need Philip well and truly separated from Elizabeth to be certain of his support.”

“We’ll have it,” her confessor answered confidently. “The Lord is watching over this endeavour, Your Majesty. There is no need to fear. Righteousness cannot be denied.”

But it can often be delayed, Mary thought cynically. And there
were any number of wicked men and women who would do whatever it took to keep her in England until she died.

She tried to ignore the fact that one of those wicked opponents might very well be her own son.

25 May 1580

Edinburgh

To Her Royal Highness Anne Isabella,

Your Highness, I thank you for your goodly letter and best wishes. As you say, cousin, is it not reasonable that two young people of similar birth and position should befriends? Sure it is that I wish you well in all your endeavours
.

Scotland is most willing for equal friendship with England, and we trust that you and I may have some say in creating that partnership. I look forward to our continued correspondence and wish you well in the coming visit of your royal father, King Philip
.

All care from your cousin,
        

James VI
    

Anabel studied James’s letter with furrowed brow, then tossed it on the table. “So, what do you think? Did James himself have any say in that carefully equivocal letter, or did my cousin merely sign his name to what his council dictated?”

Pippa touched the paper with the fingertips of her right hand and Anabel waited. It was not a common state for the Princess of Wales, but Pippa was always worth waiting for.

If Anabel could order her life entirely the way she wished it, Pippa would always be with her. But the Courtenay family was not hers to order. They would sooner have taken Anabel into their own home than allow their daughter to spend so much time attached, even peripherally, to court. But that had slowly been changing. Now
that both girls were eighteen, surely Pippa’s own wishes would come into it more.

“James believes that he wrote his own wishes,” Pippa answered finally. “But he is not quite fourteen. With no memory of either father or mother, having known only the care of various Lord Protectors, how can James be certain which beliefs are his and which are not?”

“Those carefully chosen words,” Anabel mused, “ ‘equal’ and ‘partnership.’ Almost I might be insulted at James’s caution in courting me. Clearly he will not have me unless he is certain that Scotland will not be swallowed up by England in the bargain.”

“He is four years younger,” Pippa reminded her, “and has never met you. Do you want the poor boy to be so madly in love with you that he would simply hand over his country?”

Anabel sniffed. “It would be flattering. But I suppose even he has too much sense—and for certain too much pride—to allow it. There will be a long back and forth before this contract is concluded.” She could not keep the note of satisfaction out of her voice.

Pippa, of course, noted it. “Which gives you time to be young and foolish. And to see if you cannot persuade one of your parents into allowing you a different marriage. Or, no, it is not an early marriage you are longing for. What you want is your independence.”

Anabel gave a small, secret smile. “I am only eighteen. My mother was not married until she was twenty-six. Why should I be rushed from childhood to marriage bed?”

“As you say, there will be precious little rush about any of this. And really, your mother has shown remarkable restraint in not betrothing you until now. Most future monarchs are matched in the cradle. Not that most of them end by marrying those first matches.”

“Like Mary Stuart and my uncle William? Now that is a path for musing: how might the world be different today if England had married Scotland thirty years ago? I would wager Mary Stuart has wondered that. For if she had married my uncle, and if her son had been
William’s rather than Lord Darnley’s…well, then, she would now be Queen of England and her son would rule a united island.”

“And you would never have been born,” Pippa pointed out caustically.

“I didn’t say it was a history I regretted. Only that, on such personal matters as marriage and children do kingdoms rest.”

“And that is why your mother will do the dance of royal betrothals for your sake. Because she, not Mary Stuart, is Queen of England, and on her life and yours rests the security of the kingdom.”

Anabel sobered. “I know,” she said, and those two words were weighted with the knowledge she’d had almost her whole life—that England as an independent and Protestant state depended wholly on the fragile Tudor line. Elizabeth could not afford to keep Anabel single until she was twenty-six. By that age, she needed to have borne at least one son, if not more, to give breathing room to this country she so passionately loved.

Still, she would maneuver for what freedom she could. And being the only child of parents who ruled two different kingdoms meant that she had more pieces of gameplay at her disposal than most royal women. She intended to gamble this summer, but like all good gamblers, she knew that the key to winning was to never wager more than you were willing to lose.

And Anabel would never risk losing England.

—

“I shall miss you,” Lucette said fervently as she hugged Dr. Dee goodbye. He would remain in Paris while she set out for Chateau Blanclair this morning, and she was suddenly much more anxious than she’d ever expected to be at the thought of leaving her last link to the English court.

What if she needed advice? What if she got in over her head? What if she was lonely?

At that last, she drew herself up sharply.
You’re not a child
, she lectured
herself sternly,
and you’re hardly going into battle. All you have to do is keep your eyes and ears open and see if your mind can make a pattern out of anything gleaned
.

And possibly betray Renaud LeClerc’s hospitality and Charlotte’s friendship by damning someone in their family into the hands of England’s spymaster.

Lucette didn’t have a clear idea what Walsingham would do if she confirmed the connivance of a LeClerc in the plots against Elizabeth’s life, but she was uneasy. Walsingham was not a gentle man where Elizabeth was concerned. And it would be poor repayment of their hospitality to bring ruin to Blanclair.

Dr. Dee held her by the shoulders. “Remember,” he said, “I shall be waiting to hear from you at least every other day. Renaud LeClerc will expect no less, for he knows your father well. Keep your missives brief and remember your equations. I shall know how to solve them.”

Of course he would, for it was Dee himself who had taught her their idiosyncratic ciphering system based on algebraic equations. Whatever number answered the equation attached to one of their letters would be the number used to decipher the coded message in a seemingly innocuous communication. And it would look like nothing more than a demanding tutor and his apt pupil studying mathematics from afar.

They had also agreed on three key phrases in case she needed to write in a hurry and could not be troubled to create a code:
I am keeping up with my reading in German
meant “all is well.”
There is a new argument in Aristotle I am eager to debate with you
meant “I have uncovered evidence.”
I long for Wynfield Mote at this time of year
meant simply “get me out of here.”

Like any good teacher, Dr. Dee spoke to her deepest fear before she’d even put it into words to herself. “Do not be afraid of making a mistake, Lucette. You are not the only asset Walsingham has attempting to uncover the Nightingale Plot and all its links. It is not
on your word alone that any man will be condemned. Trust your instincts and your natural intelligence and you will have no reason to doubt yourself.”

“I shall endeavour to do you proud.”

“Just come back safely when you’re finished. That is all the result I, or anyone who loves you, will ever need.”

But for all his comforting words, Lucette was three hours south of Paris before she was able to breathe freely and begin to enjoy her surroundings. The road to Orléans was broad and well-traveled, and Lucette had to admit the company was pleasant. Charlotte was not with them—she and Andry would come on to Blanclair with their children the last week of June, “giving you time to work your charms,” Charlotte teased—but Renaud rode beside her all that morning. Their pace was easy and Lucette felt her spirits rising to something close to euphoria the farther they got from Paris and the last remnants of both parental and royal authority.

She was truly on her own now. Time to see what she could do.

They stopped at an inn midday to rest the horses and eat. When they returned to the road afterward, it was Nicolas who maneuvered his horse alongside hers.

Julien called after his brother, “Watch yourself. If Charlotte hears of this, she’ll drag a priest in her wake when she comes to Blanclair.”

Accustomed to her brothers’ (mostly good-natured) bickering, Lucette expected a stinging reply from Nicolas. But Nicolas ignored his brother and turned his attention wholly to her.

And quite heady attention it was. Lucette had certainly had her share of male attention at court, but the Duke of Exeter’s fierce reputation—not to mention Queen Elizabeth’s close interest—kept such attention extraordinarily formal. And since her disastrous encounter with Brandon Dudley five years ago, Lucette had been content with the formality.

Nicolas, however, was French. And already in his thirties. A widower and father, who was less impressed with Lucette’s English network
of relationships and comfortable in his own country and his own lands. He was an easy conversationalist, skillfully drawing her out as to her intellectual pursuits.

“I am quite abashed,” he said, after Lucette’s spirited account of the mathematical equations behind Mercator’s cylindrical map. “If that is the level on which your mind operates, I fear you shall quickly grow tired of our quiet life at Blanclair.”

“By no means,” Lucette replied warmly. “My favorite time of each year is that passed at Wynfield Mote. To ride and read and spend our evenings as a family rather than in grand parties?” She shrugged eloquently. “That has always been a time of great peace.”

“I, too, relish peace.” Nicolas stared ahead, brooding. “When I was young, I thought I should never wish to live anywhere but Paris and resented the necessary time spent in the country. But these last years, ever since…” He trailed off.