The Virgin's War (13 page)

For all his size, Matthew could step as delicately as a cat. He came near enough to touch, but didn't. Yet. She kept her head down, studying her own hands clasped tightly in her lap.

“I have been watching you.” He knelt down so they were closer to the same level. “You are ill. Anabel and Madalena both know it. They thought it simply a product of too much work and too much stress. I thought so, too, for a time.”

He lifted her chin with one hand, forcing her to meet his eyes. “I have spoken to the princess's physician, Philippa. He prevaricated, clearly at your bidding, but he is not a very good liar. He finally told me you have been coughing up blood for some time.”

“Does anyone else know that?” she whispered.

“Madalena, I think. Everyone else is willing to believe what you are working so hard to show them.”

“If you know so much, then you know why I've done what I have.”

“No doubt you have told yourself it's for my own good. Keep me away, never let me get closer than friendship—in hopes that losing you might be more bearable.

“Philippa, if you die before me, there is no preparation beforehand that would make it anything less than devastating. All you accomplish by your stubbornness is to guarantee I have fewer sweet memories to hold to afterward.”

He still didn't know everything. And she was suddenly too tired to lie any longer, even if only by omission. “What if you die first? Because of me?”

Surprise lit in his eyes, and then a slow comprehension. “So that's it—it's not your own death you fear. It's mine. Is that what you saw that day?”

“I will not lead you to an early death.”

“Who is to say you can stop it? Doesn't Dr. Dee insist seers can only interpret fate, not control it?”

“I will not do it!”

“Do what? Listen to me, Philippa—you will certainly make your own choices. If you want to resist and pretend and lie to both of us, you can. But you do not make my choices. And I choose you. Every day.”

She had never seen him so open. So vulnerable. In his face she could see it all—he had laid his heart before her and would let her walk over it if she chose. She had always known he was braver than she was.

It was impossible to know who moved first, but finally, after eight long years, they were kissing once more. Pippa couldn't think straight—couldn't think at all—drowning in this rush of mutual desire. Matthew had always been so familiar to her that she had only rarely seen him objectively as a man. But now she couldn't not see and feel it. She let her knees fall open so he could pull her against him, and his hands went to her hips, steadying her on the bed.

Her only clear thought for quite some time was:
Thank goodness there's no chance of Kit finding us like this.

When reason slowly began to reassert itself, they drew apart a little. Not far—his forehead rested against hers and she could feel his breath on her lips. They were both breathing unevenly.

“Marry me, Philippa,” he whispered.

“You must promise not to tell anyone else what the physician said.”

He hesitated, but finally nodded. “I promise.”

The river was crossed, the bridges burned…Philippa knew when and how to surrender. “Then I will marry you with laughter and joy, Matthew Harrington, for as long as is granted us.”

“That,” he pointed out softly, “is all anyone, seer or not, can ever promise.”

For Stephen Courtenay, it was a summer of long hours and hard work, and he devoted all his considerable gifts and focus to making a success of the job Maisie had entrusted to him at St. Adrian's. The mercenary company he had briefly commanded three years ago in Ireland had not stayed entirely the same. Amongst the fighting men themselves, about half were new to Stephen. Of the officers, only the engineer and physician remained. It had been agreed that this summer would be spent in Scotland, training hard and knitting together the bonds necessary for a successful military company.

He often had cause to silently thank Renaud LeClerc for his time in France. It had been one thing to lead men from Tiverton or Somerset—men who were obliged to follow their liege lord because of his name. France had required Stephen to earn the respect and trust of men who did not care about his name or family, who cared only that he knew what he was doing and showed some respect for their lives as well as his own.

For two months he did not see Maisie, though they wrote to one another at least four times a week. As he reported on their progress, she wrote of her travails in consolidating her power. Her brother, Robert, was proving troublesome. No surprise. Stephen once offered to lead a group of St. Adrian's men to remind Robert of his limits, but Maisie gravely declined. Now that they were only thirty miles apart and their letters took only a day rather than weeks to reach each other, it was more than ever like being engaged in constant conversation. There were times when Stephen had to remind himself to write to anyone other than Maisie.

With his three siblings all now in the North, he kept up with their news almost as easily. Everyone in Scotland knew that the Princess of Wales and King James were finally set to meet in person in Carlisle. It was interesting to hear about this from the Scottish side—Stephen had always so naturally been attached to the English court that it was a little hard for him to hear Anabel, in particular, talked about as though she were simply a means to an end. But he kept his mouth shut. No need to make unnecessary enemies.

If he expected Scotland to be the nearest he would get to his family in the near future, Stephen was wrong. Ten days before the Carlisle conference, he was peremptorily summoned to Edinburgh by Maisie. “The king has requested it,” she wrote. So Stephen handed command to his second, and with two dozen of his best men (as ordered by Maisie) he rode to Edinburgh. They stayed in the same town house where he and Kit had stayed on their arrival. Maisie sent all her orders by messenger, so Stephen was still a little in the dark when he met her outside Edinburgh's imposing castle the next morning.

She looked him up and down and nodded her head once in approval of his understated finery. Expensive cloth cut well, which proclaimed the wearer cared about his appearance without needing to impress anyone else. “Very soldierly,” she said. “The king will like that.”

“Why are we here?” he asked, as he had asked in writing more than once in the last three days.

She avoided answering just as neatly in person. “I imagine the king will tell us.”

If Maisie were as uncertain as he was, she did not show it. He had never seen her dressed so finely—she might have passed at any court for a well-born daughter of the nobility. The gown of sky-blue damask suited her fairness, and the lace partlet and soft lace cuffs were beautiful without being ostentatious. As usual, she kept her abundant fair hair sleek and contained.

They were received in the overwhelming Great Hall of Edinburgh Castle, with its lofty hammer-beam roof and carved supports, amongst which were the thistles of Scotland. Stephen studied James Stuart with covert interest as the formalities were observed, wondering what Anabel would make of her intended husband. James was younger than the princess by four years, but he looked older than eighteen. There was a wary, almost careworn aspect to him that must have come from spending his childhood as a pawn fought over by various factions. He had his mother's colouring and sharp eyes, and Stephen reminded himself to take care. It would not do to forget that this was Mary Stuart's son.

Indeed, that was nearly the first thing James said. “I believe you knew my mother, Lord Stephen.” Though he was no longer—and never again would be, Stephen knew—an English earl, he was still the son of a duke.

“For a short time, Your Majesty. At Tutbury.” It also would not do to let James forget that Mary was no friend to England. Or to her son.

“Yes, my mother has written of you. In no very flattering terms. Since she describes me across Europe in much those same terms, I find myself disposed to like you.”

James then turned his attention to Maisie, who would look at ease wherever she went precisely because she did not try to be other than herself. “And Mistress Sinclair, who has so neatly managed to upset every businessman in Scotland. I hear most of them now fear that the clever females of their families will run amok.”

“If they are inclined to run amok, then they are not likely to make good merchants or bankers, Your Majesty.”

“Quite. And I suppose I am hardly in a position to condemn clever females, seeing as I am about to meet my own very clever betrothed. That is why the both of you are here.”

Stephen chanced a quick glance at Maisie. She looked inscrutable and unshockable as always.

“We leave Edinburgh tomorrow for Annan and Hoddom Castle. I will cross the border during the days to meet with Her Highness, but I will not spend the nights in England. The two of you will be part of my retinue.”

Stephen would not have been more surprised if James had offered to make him an earl in Scotland. What did James Stuart care about him? But beneath the bewilderment was a sudden, aching need to see his family. His parents would not be there, of course, and he'd spent plenty of time with Kit recently. But his sisters? All at once Stephen wanted nothing more in the world than to see Lucie and Pippa.

“It will be an honour, Your Majesty.” Maisie spoke without inflection.

“Yes, it will. An honour I could hardly refuse to offer, seeing as it has been requested by Princess Anne herself. In such strong terms that I suspect she may decline to meet with me in person if the two of you are not also present.”

Stephen knew he must point out the obvious. “Queen Elizabeth has not invited me to return to England, Your Majesty.”

“Queen Elizabeth will not be at Carlisle. I do not intend to leave you in England, Lord Stephen. I understand the force you are training at St. Adrian's is quite…valuable. I have no interest in their commander leaving us before they can be of service.”

It was so easy to capitulate, because it was what he wanted. “Of course I will do as you wish, Your Majesty.”

They were outside the castle before Stephen's head stopped spinning. He looked accusingly at Maisie. “This is your doing. You wrote to Anabel's court and suggested we be included in the Scots party. Why?”

She did not bother to deny the charge. “I have business to transact with Her Highness's household. Now that the assets of the Sinclair company are at my disposal, I can offer her greater opportunities for her investments.”

“And you could cross the border yourself anytime you wanted to transact that business. Why Carlisle?”

She simply looked at him, and for once her face was not unreadable. It was alive with amusement and irritation and the sort of tolerant affection directed at small children slow to understand. “For your sake, Stephen.”

A
nabel rode into Carlisle in a burst of summer beauty that showed the borderlands at their best. Kit rode at her side; as Lieutenant General of the Marches, he was the commanding military officer for all the northern border. They were welcomed with good grace by the Warden of the West March—and new privy council member—Lord Scrope, with a pageant that served as a preview to the coming meeting between England and Scotland. Praises were sung, music was played, flowers were thrown, and at last Anabel was escorted to her suite of chambers and ordered everyone out except Pippa.

During the pageantry, Pippa had never been near enough to her princess for Anabel to guess how she might be feeling. Anabel knew she had been unhappy about being sent ahead to Carlisle with Matthew. It was Kit who suggested it, and now Anabel was curious as to how the two of them had fared.

She hardly needed to ask. The moment she turned Pippa to face her in the light streaming through the leaded glass, she knew. The sunlight was as nothing to the illumination in Pippa's face. Anabel caught her breath, then laughed triumphantly.

“It seems Carlisle is indeed the place for lovers to meet! I am so glad, Pippa.”

“Glad enough to do something for me?”

“Whatever you like.”

“Matthew and I want to get married.”

“I can see that,” Anabel said drily. “I cannot wait to throw you the most lavish wedding England has seen in years.”

“On Thursday.”

Anabel stared. “Thursday. As in three days from now?”

“Yes.”

She was about to protest, to make all the arguments against it, but stopped herself. Pippa would have anticipated them all. “On one condition—that Kit and Lucette give their consent. If your parents are going to punish anyone for allowing this to happen without their knowledge, Pippa, I want their anger aimed at your siblings first.”

It had been a long time since she'd seen Pippa smile so blindingly. “Agreed.”

The joy of it was like a balm over the expected wariness and strain of the coming encounter. Anabel couldn't remember when she'd last been so anxious. Had her mother felt like this before meeting Philip of Spain? If so, she had never talked about it. Not that Elizabeth Tudor would ever willingly admit to weakness.

So Anabel didn't, either. Pippa was too radiantly happy to be as sensitive as usual, and what could Kit possibly say? That was one awkwardness too many even for them. Only Madalena, helping the princess dress on the day of James's arrival, had words of comfort.

As she adjusted the heavy folds of ivory silk that made up Anabel's overgown and sleeves, Madalena said in her low, melodious voice, “You have the heart of both a king and a queen, Your Highness. James Stuart will never be half the royal you are.”

Anabel, to her own surprise, laughed. “Perhaps that will not be my opening statement to my future husband. But I will remember it.” She stopped Madalena's adjustments with a hand. “Thank you, my friend.”

She knew she looked as perfect as blood and wealth and style could make her. Beneath the ivory silk damask, a kirtle of the palest blush pink echoed the sarcenet foaming through her slashed sleeves. She wore diamonds in her hair and at her throat—a necklace alternating the diamond's pure light with cool blue sapphires. Anabel considered herself as free from vanity as possible for a princess born, but it was no sin to recognize the truth: she was beautiful. Any man would be glad to meet such a bride. She almost wondered if she should try to dim her beauty. She had no wish to inspire in James anything more than the cheerful acceptance of political necessity. The absolutely worst thing that could result from this meeting would be Scotland's insistence on setting a wedding date.

Like her mother, Anabel intended to keep her options as open as possible until the very last moment.

It had taken months of negotiation to arrange the ceremonies appropriate to a Scots king being received at an English border castle that had once held his own mother prisoner. Over hundreds of years, Carlisle Castle had been besieged by the Scots more often than any other English castle. All in all, a portentous site.

As the Scots had agreed to the symbolic submission of their king crossing the border, the princess's household had agreed to bear the costs. Anabel noted the evidence of money well spent as she paced through Carlisle Castle—from the inner bailey where she lodged in the Warden's Tower, through to the outer bailey where a viewing stand had been erected for herself and James to view the pageantry. Around and against the grey and red sandstone of the walls hung lush garlands of greenery twined with roses and thistles, and studded with plaques bearing her arms and those of Scotland. Separately—for she was in no rush to combine either their symbolism or their bodies.

Anabel sat on the viewing stand beneath her canopy of estate while everyone else stood to attention as the Scots party began to enter. As Lieutenant General of the North, Kit had joined Lord Scrope at the border crossing to greet the Scots. With Pippa, Madalena, and Lucette to her left and Sir Christopher Hatton and Robert Cecil on her right, Anabel waited with a serene face to meet the man she was betrothed to marry.

James drew the eyes of all the curious as the party entered the bailey, dressed with a richness Anabel had known to expect from reports. She made a rapid assessment as he crossed to the viewing stand: the red hair and hazel eyes of his mother, but without Mary Stuart's height or reported grace; nothing obvious from his elegant Lennox father; a slightly awkward gait; a face of intelligence if not warmth. Anabel rose at precisely the perfect moment to descend the steps of the viewing stand and meet him face-to-face.

She could not avoid curtseying to a crowned king, but James made the moment easy by instantly extending his hand to raise her. Then, in his own—no doubt carefully calculated—show of deference, he kissed her hand.

“Your Majesty,” she said, “welcome to England.”

“I thank God and Your Highness for this gracious day.”

He was not attractive. She had not expected it. But it was a shock to stand so near to him with Kit just behind his shoulder—Kit, whom all the world would find attractive.

She was introduced to the chief members of the king's train, and in turn James met her own advisors. Then, as she placed her hand in the crook of his arm to ascend the steps, James paused.

“I must not forget the gift I promised Your Highness,” he told her. “I believe your lieutenant general can bring them forward?”

There was the slightest emphasis on the title, just enough to make Anabel's instincts sharpen. James did not like Christopher Courtenay. And as it seemed unlikely Kit had done something offensive in the last hour, it could only be because of gossip James had heard. Something to be careful of.

She let the thought go for the moment, because coming forward was the little, clever Scots girl who had made Anabel so much money in the recent past. Maisie Sinclair made a deep obeisance that encompassed both her king and the English princess. And at her shoulder, standing a head taller and as dark and watchful as he'd ever been, was Stephen Courtenay.

Anabel smiled with real pleasure. “Thank you, Your Majesty. This is a gift indeed.”

She smiled up at the viewing stand, where Pippa and Lucette had had no idea that their brother was coming. Despite the difficulties inherent in the coming days, there would be at least a few pleasures.

If someone had designed an event specifically to undo Lucette's tightly wound control, they could have done no better than dropping Stephen in front of her without warning. She almost accused Pippa, standing next to her, but her sister's indrawn breath and blinding expression of joy eloquently assured Lucette that she had not known, either. It must have been Anabel, then.

It took all her years of control and inbred dignity to stand quietly through the ensuing hour of formal pageantry and welcome. She could feel her brother watching from where he stood below the viewing stand. As much as she had missed him, she was also terrified. If anyone could get to the heart of her troubles, it would be Stephen.

She had done the same for him, once, during a long winter at Farleigh Hungerford after Stephen's first foray into Ireland. He had come back from that broken, and she'd had to steel herself against emotion and set about putting him back together.

Turn about is fair play,
a little voice whispered.

When the royals vanished inside for a meal with only Christopher Hatton and James's secretary, John Maitland, for company, Lucette was swept into reunion. Pippa, so extravagantly happy about her coming marriage with Matthew Harrington, threw her arms around Stephen and fired questions at him without pausing for breath.
How does it feel to be back in England? Are you making the men of the mercenary company properly afraid of you? When was the last time you ate and slept?

Pippa's final question was directed to the quiet girl standing just outside their circle. “And how is your business proceeding, Maisie Sinclair?”

“Very well indeed. I am looking forward to speaking to Her Highness's treasurer now that I have greater assets at my command.”

Her Highness's treasurer himself stood only a few paces off—Matthew having hardly been away from Pippa's side the last two days save for sleeping at night. And was that a smile when he bowed to the Sinclair girl? Who, despite her age and appearance, must be the shrewd businesswoman Lucette had heard so much about.

“At your convenience, Mistress Sinclair,” Matthew said—with, indeed, a smile on his usually grave face.

“And you were right, I must confess,” Pippa declared, linking her arm with Maisie's, “when we spoke in York last autumn. Here is my brother serving dutifully as you predicted he would in our last conversation. I am glad it is in Scotland, and under your command.”

Lucette, despite her nerves, looked curiously from Pippa to Maisie to Stephen, who looked a little flushed—and not just from the heat of noonday.

“Come with me,” Pippa said, encompassing Maisie, Kit, and Matthew effortlessly. “We'll take refreshment and talk about Scotland. Because, of course, I was also right in that conversation, Maisie Sinclair. Do you remember what I said to you?”

The little group passed out of earshot, and Lucette was left wondering what Pippa had said to the girl that could leave the air so charged between them months later.

Then Stephen stepped in front of her and she was forced to look at him. His eyes, those shifting green-gold hazel eyes of their mother, searched far too deeply. “I am sorry, Lucie,” he said. “I know I said it in letters, but I am more sorry than you can know about your losses.”

Not my losses, she silently corrected. My babies. Three she had failed now, failed to carry any longer than four months at the most.

He was wise enough not to say more on that subject. “I am also sorry that Felix was dropped so abruptly into your life again. Renaud had wanted him to come to England for a visit, but it should have been planned and prepared for, not spurred by further death and trauma.”

“Felix hates me now,” she found herself saying, and realized that here was an additional pain she had not yet acknowledged.

“He does not know what he feels. Surely you can understand the terror and confusion of having your world turned upside down in an instant.”

With the Tudor rose necklace given you by the queen, she knew he meant. The necklace that had spurred the revelation of her shaky paternal heritage, kept from her far too long by her parents. In the wake of that trauma, Lucette had cut herself off emotionally from both her parents—but from her father most of all. Only when she had gone to France and met Julien had she been able to understand her parents' choices.

“Let us hope that Felix does not take as long to forgive as I did.” She almost smiled when she said it.

“Will you spend the winter with the princess? It must be hard for Julien to be separated from you.”