The Virgin's War (12 page)

There were two curved rows of chairs on each side, with plenty of space behind for the curious to crowd in. The men of Anabel's privy council took their places—Robert Cecil, Christopher Hatton, and Matthew Harrington chief amongst them—while the women she most counted on had to be content to stand. No matter. Madalena and Pippa would always be amongst the trusted voices she regarded, wherever they stood or sat.

When her council was seated, there were two empty chairs. Her secretary, Christopher Hatton, waited until the observers were silent before rising again to announce the names of those who would fill the empty seats.

The first had been a forgone conclusion for months, for no northern lord had been as accommodating and gracious to Anabel's presence than had Henry Scrope. The tenth baron was a canny choice for one of the Catholic seats on her council. He was sincere in his faith but not dogmatic in his dictates, and Anabel had high hopes of his good sense and counsel in the coming struggles. Also, as Warden of the West March, Lord Scrope commanded a significant military power in the North.

The second name had been up in the air almost to the last minute. Only four days ago had word arrived that Philip Howard would attend her in York, and he had personally come just yesterday. Anabel had insisted on meeting with him last night to force him to accept her offer face-to-face. Though she remained wary, it was no doubt a great coup. As Earl of Arundel and titular head of the powerful Howard family, Philip Howard's name caused a great murmur amongst those in the chamber.

Anabel shot a quick glance to Tomás Navarro and caught the priest looking back at her speculatively. When their eyes met, he smiled and inclined his head. It might have meant many things. She hoped it meant he believed in the illusionary intentions she had worked so hard to create.

She did not entirely trust the arrogant cast to Philip Howard's face as he accepted his appointment and took his seat. It would not do to forget, even for a moment, that both his father and his grandfather had been executed for treason to the crown. It was a precarious path she was embarked upon, and she could not allow an ambitious and devout nobleman to wreck it.

There was a hush after the two Catholics were seated, and all eyes turned expectantly to the princess as her secretary also sat. No doubt they expected a word of welcome or thanks. But Anabel had one more appointment to announce, and this one she would do herself. Forget appointing Catholics to her council—this would send the rumours flying through England as thickly as bats speeding to their cave.

Anabel, at her most imperious, rose straight and tall. “It is our intention to appoint a Lieutenant General of the Marches. Too long has the post remained empty, keeping the wardens disorganized and without proper royal support. And though it is our dearest wish to be closely allied with Scotland, the protection and well-being of our people must ever be our first concern.”

This time the murmurs held a hint of excited alarm, for it was not properly her right to appoint a lieutenant general. That belonged to the queen. Thus, as planned, the Princess of Wales's announcement could only be seen as an affront and an open challenge to her mother's power.

“Lord Christopher Courtenay.” She spoke clearly and deliberately.

His name elicited far more than a murmur, but Anabel ignored it. She kept her eyes only on Kit, who approached with that easy grace he had always possessed, fulfilling at last his youthful promise of skill and strength. His dark gold hair and hazel eyes were set off by the chestnut silk of his doublet and hose. He had always had his mother's beauty, though his was entirely masculine. And like his mother—and Anabel herself—he knew how to use it to his advantage.

He knelt as Anabel spoke to him. “With this charge, serve well our people. Protect our borders and ensure our prosperity. We entrust you with our dearest hopes for this beautiful North of England.”

His obeisance, like all else he did, was beautifully executed. She offered him her hand, to raise him up, but he kissed it first. Still at her feet, he looked up. Then, with the impudence she loved, Kit winked.

No turning back now. Anabel had launched her first shot in open defiance of England's ruling queen. What followed from this might well decide the course of the coming war.

15 May 1585

York

Mother,

The Council of the North has concluded its official business. You would be proud of Anabel; she conducted the proceedings with both gravity and charm. Like her own mother. I would not say that the men over whom she presided ever forgot that she is a woman—but she turned that to her advantage. The unofficial business looks to continue for several more days. The Earl of Arundel arrived just in time to publicly accept an appointment to Her Highness's council, thus continuing the Howard family tradition of committing oneself at the last possible moment. We shall hope the other Howard tradition of treason is not repeated.

Father Tomás Navarro cornered me in conversation at last night's festivities. He is young and intense and rather romantic in that austere Spanish way; pity he is a priest. In any case, he did not waste time trying to flirt with me. Instead, he questioned me rather closely about you and Father and the queen. No doubt he is fully aware of my rumoured relationship to Her Majesty—he seems to think that makes me more disinterested than the others in York. And so I am. I find myself impatient with Anabel's arrogance and Kit's adoration and Pippa's distraction.

No doubt you are enjoying London precisely as much as I am enjoying York.

Lucette

3 June 1585

Scarborough

Mother,

We are embarked on our Grand Tour of the North. Who knew how much landscape is encompassed in Yorkshire and Cumbria and Lancashire? I feel certain that by the end of the summer we will have seen every single rock and vista and heather bush that exists. But of course, it is not the landscape but its people who are the purpose of this royal progress. For progress it is—in fact, if not in name.

Wherever we go, Anabel is received with the kind of attention and rapture that I have previously seen commanded only by the queen. She earns it, I admit, for she works long hours receiving people and listening to their injuries and complaints. Pippa works even longer hours, for she has been to all these places multiple times in the last two years to prepare the way. Kit is only occasionally with us, as he does his work along the border and ensures nothing will mar the coming meeting of Anabel and the Scots king.

Ironic, that last, isn't it?

Lucette

27 June 1585

Berwick

Mother,

The news of Elizabeth's condemnation of Kit's appointment has been received rather coldly in the North. I would prefer it to have been discussed heatedly, for that argues the passion of a moment. But this coldness? It will have to be handled carefully, or these two royal women may find themselves seriously estranged. Like Edward II and his son…though that was perhaps more rightly the fault of Edward III's mother.

Anabel has officially continued the ban on Catholic services, but she turns a blind eye to the Masses conducted privately in her wake as we travel. Tomás Navarro conducts many of the Masses himself, and takes time to hear confessions and counsel gravely wherever we go. It certainly has engendered goodwill.

To answer the rather pointed questions in your last four letters—and that solely to keep you from coming north as you threatened—of course I write to my husband. And he writes to me. Felix is adjusting as well as can be expected, which I take it is not very well at all. I believe Julien had hoped to have the situation better in hand so that he might come north to see me. It is just as well he cannot. That is one strain too many to cope with just now.

Lucette

“There can be no question,” Elizabeth said in amusement, “that Lucette is your daughter.”

Minuette widened her eyes in that pretense of innocence Elizabeth knew so well. “Because she is clever?”

“Because she is insolent. How much of her attitude is assumed, and how much real?”

“Far too real for my liking.”

“Well, as you are always reminding me, one cannot force one's children into a state we desire. It is not as though I enjoy Anne's show of independence. All too easy to believe in her insults, so that at times I must remind myself of their purpose. And then I wonder—does my daughter begin to believe in her own acts? Can I trust her to do what she must when it comes to humbling her pride?”

“Because your own example of humility has been so evident over the years.”

Oh, how Elizabeth had missed this! Having a friend who knew her well enough to dare to tease…that was a gift not to be overlooked. But, being who she was, her manner of giving thanks was astringent. “Perhaps I should ask your husband his advice. Except he has never managed to humble himself in his life—not even when it was a matter of saving yours.”

Minuette eyed her narrowly but let it pass. “The point, Your Majesty, is that the North is turning out for your daughter. And the Spanish are watching every move closely. Just as they are watching you and your intentions with the Netherlands.”

“Do you think if I refrain from making a treaty with the Netherlands that Philip will abandon his desire for war? No. If I refrain from aiding the Netherlands, then they fall to Spain, and Philip will have more troops and money to commit against England. A fight on multiple fronts is to our advantage—for now. I will not be drawn so far as to leave us unable to protect ourselves.”

“And Ireland? If Dublin falls—”

“Dublin will not fall.” Elizabeth spoke sharply.

“Because you wish it? I thought I was the one who believed that whatever I wished must come true.”

“You and Will.” Elizabeth had been thinking a fair amount about her brother lately. How would he have handled the Spanish threat? The only conclusion she had come to was that William would never have been married to Spain, and thus the fight would have been less personal. But surely it would still have been a fight. Spain and much of France were committed to violence to preserve the Catholic cause. England must lead the opposition or they would all gradually be choked to death by fanatics on both sides.

She shook herself out of the useless introspection. “Will you remain with the court while Dominic commands the South?”

“I would like to go with him when feasible—but yes, I will make the court my center while I am needed.”

Impulsively, Elizabeth grasped Minuette by the hand. “You are always needed. That is your curse, my dearest friend—that so many people in so many places need you that you cannot possibly meet every need. I am grateful that this summer it is my turn to have you.”

“It is good for me to have something to do. Otherwise I would merely fret. Why did no one ever tell me that mothering adults is exponentially more difficult than mothering children?”

“Why, indeed!” Elizabeth laughed in sympathy. “We shall simply both have to trust in the children we have raised. We will go to Nonsuch and sign the treaty for aid to the Netherlands—and our children will go to the Scots border to meet Anne's betrothed.”

“And then?”

“And then we wait for Spain's violence to fall.”

After more than two months of crisscrossing northern England, Pippa left Anabel and her court at Middleham Castle to enjoy a brief respite and herself pressed on northwest to Carlisle. In ten days' time the border town would play host to the first meeting of Her Royal Highness, Princess Anne Isabella, and His Majesty, King James VI of Scotland. Anabel had sent two of her household officials ahead to ensure the perfection of planning required for this visit.

Pippa, of course, being one. And Matthew Harrington the other.

The first day was passed in silence, save for the necessary information required when riding forty miles in a rather isolated landscape. Pippa was glad to reach the inn and shut the door on everyone. She was the only woman of the party, dressed for hard riding rather than fashion, and thus not requiring a maid. The tension had been so thick on the road that Pippa's entire body hurt with the weight of it. She didn't know whether to eat or sob or sleep.

In the end she did the first two and then settled down to attempt sleep last of all. Her eyes had just begun to be heavy when a firm knock sounded on her door. If she had been less strained, it would never have taken her by surprise. She had known the feel of Matthew Harrington almost before she had been old enough to recognize it. But she had worked so hard to keep him walled away—how could she deal with him when she was tired and afraid and unprepared?

She lay perfectly still, half hoping he would leave, but Matthew knew her almost as well as she knew him. “Philippa,” he said in his deep, grave voice, “please let me in.”

It was the “Philippa” that did it. She had ached to hear him call her by name again for so long. She rose and threw on a woolen robe over her shift and tied it. Then she drew a deep breath—meant to steady her, but in actuality simply making her light-headed—and opened the door.

She so rarely saw Matthew in anything other than impeccable order. Someone had once opined that he took such care in his appearance to compensate for his less than illustrious birth. Pippa knew better. It was simply who he was. Like his father, Matthew set his own standards, and lived up to them unfailingly.

Tonight he was not impeccable. He had removed his doublet, and the fine wool jerkin was unlaced over his shirt. For an instant Pippa wondered if he knew what effect that had on her. But Matthew had never been one for devious manipulation.

“May I come in?” he asked.

Swallowing, she stepped back. It was not like him to even approach the borders of impropriety. But now he entered her bedroom and closed the door on the two of them. Then he leaned against the door and studied her.

With anyone else she would have had a ready comment or quip to defuse the moment. Not with Matthew. She simply waited for him to say whatever he had come to say.

It was nothing that she had expected.

“Did you think I had forgotten, Philippa? In all my lifetime, I have never forgotten a single word you've said to me. For years I have allowed you to pretend that that summer morning at Wynfield Mote never happened. But pretending is getting us nowhere quickly.”

If this was the conversation they were going to have, she needed to sit. Pippa lowered herself to the bed, trembling a little beneath her robe.

She did not bother to pretend she did not know what he was talking about. That would have been the final insult to both of them. “What has that to do with today?” she asked instead.

“It has everything to do with today, and tomorrow, and next year. Because in all the things you have said to me since then, I have finally begun to understand what it is you have
not
said.”

“Don't.”

“I remember every moment of that day, Philippa—including your silences.”

I love you,
Matthew had told her when she was fifteen. And she'd had only a moment to revel in the joy of it before the vision of disaster had swept her away and left her floundering in its wake. She had always been prepared to face her own life's end. She would never be prepared to face Matthew's.

He had allowed her to set the terms of their relationship since then, however much he disliked it. No more. Now Matthew leaned against her door, eyes alive with a passion that might have been desire or might have been anger. Or equally might have been both. And he was not waiting for her any longer.

“You saw something that day,” he said evenly. “Something that made you walk away. Something that has kept you at one remove from me ever since. I have allowed you to keep me there, because I was afraid if I pushed, you would retreat even further.”

He shoved himself away from the door. “No more, Philippa. What I said to you eight years ago is as true now as it was then—I love you. What can matter besides that?”

“Death matters. Love does not stop death.”

“No more it does,” he agreed. “But it makes the life before it worthwhile. You may be the seer, Philippa, able to decipher the heavens and its portents—but I can decipher you. You will die young. I have known that since you were fifteen.”