The Virgin's War (17 page)

In tight and careful English, Felix replied, “Charlotte is my aunt. This is how I speak to the woman who pretended to love my father only to betray him.”

“Felix!” Julien's hand shot out to grab the boy, but he whirled and left in a not entirely dignified escape.

Lucette stopped Julien when he made to follow. “Let him go. It is for Felix and me to work this out between us.”

For though his face had been expressionless, his eyes had not. They were the eyes of a boy, in some ways still a child, who had lost mother and father and grandmother and grandfather and was stranded now in a foreign country. With the uncle he'd worshipped—before he'd murdered the boy's father. And with his uncle's wife, who had once agreed to become Felix's stepmother.

What a mess Nicolas LeClerc had made, of more lives than his own.

Not that she could claim to be doing much better at the moment. But in her time apart from Julien, Lucette had done a lot of thinking.

As though his mind marched with hers in every thought, Julien said, “And us? Are we to work this out between us?”

“We should withdraw. I do not think it a conversation for the courtyard.”

Julien would likely have retreated to the library or a similar neutral space. But it was Lucette who chose, and she led him straight to their private chambers. She faced him in the small and elegant reception room, very aware of the bed looming behind the doors to her right.

She did not bother to sit. “It has been almost ten months now, Julien.”

“I know it. To the day.”

“So tell me—what happens two months from now?”

His voice tinged with cautious amusement, Julien said, “That feels like a trick question.”

“In two months, with the approval of the physicians we have agreed to heed—or you, at least, have agreed to heed—we resume the fullness of our marriage. Unless,” she asked stingingly, “these months of marital celibacy have inclined you to look elsewhere?”

His face darkened and she was glad of it. Glad to rouse any emotion in him at all, even fury.

“I'll assume that is a no,” she conceded. “Then you will be eager, no doubt, to have release once more. And then what? What if I once again fall pregnant and once again lose the child? What if the cycle continues on and on? Must we spend the next twenty years in either feast or famine?”

“Better that than to lose you.”

“I have no wish to die, Julien, believe me. But I cannot live like this. Can you? Are you so resigned to long periods of absolute celibacy?”

She read the answer in the tightening of his shoulders and the way his eyes slanted away from hers. “What do you want from me, Lucie? It is your life.”

“Yes, it is
my
life! So I should have some say in how it is lived. What do I want? I want this! Talk to me—tease me—argue with me—touch me. I will not break.”

“Not from a touch.”

“Are you so afraid of losing control? I trust you, Julien. It need not be all or nothing. Neither of us wants to refer to Nicolas, but surely we have both considered the same thing. I have been a wife long enough now to have a very good idea of what your brother once offered me as a husband.”

Nicolas, who had been not only vicious and twisted and murderous—but who had been castrated just before the birth of his only son.

Of course there would be affection and even—how do I say this delicately?—pleasure. There is more than one way for men and women to experience pleasure.
So Nicolas had said when he'd asked Lucette to marry him. And if Lucette had only been able to guess at some of those ways then, she had much clearer ideas now.

“Julien, why are you so afraid?” she asked. “I am sure you know as much as Nicolas did of women. No, that's not true. You know far more than he ever did, because he never considered women individually unless they could do something for him. But I am your wife, Julien. Why are you so content to keep your distance?”

“Content?” he choked. “You think me content? Ask the household about my short temper. Or the groomsmen about how hard I ride the horses. I nearly whipped Felix for insolence the other day…and I love that boy as though he were my own.”

He did not touch her, but he did close the gap between them a little. “Can you not see how I am shaking for you? There is no contentment without your love, Lucie mine.”

“Then let me give it.”

“As you say—I am afraid.”

“Why?”

“Because I seem to remember making a vehement, rather drunken speech to you one night about Nic's selfishness and how I would be much the better husband for you because I was a man whole and entire.”

“And you're still trying to prove it after all this time? Nicolas is dead, Julien. He can only hurt us if we let him. To be a man whole and entire rests on much more than a single instinctive action—though, I warn you, I quite like that as well. But if you want me to obey the doctors, then we must find an accommodation.”

She rested her palms against his chest, remembering the feel of his skin rather than the texture of fabric. “Let me be brave for the both of us,” she whispered. “Let me love you. And show me how you love me in return.”

They didn't make it to the bedchamber for some time. Neither of them cared.

I
n the third week of November, Elizabeth awaited the arrival of her daughter at Kenilworth Castle in an unusual state of nerves. It had been nearly two years since she and Anne had been in the same city, let alone the same room. Unfortunately, the initial meeting had to take place in public. Or, perhaps after all, fortunately—for Elizabeth did not care to betray how much she had missed her daughter. Even to her.

The setting could not have been more magnificent: the great hall built two hundred years ago by John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, had soaring perpendicular lines of stone offset with windows and a hammer-beam ceiling so impressively constructed that it allowed the entire open space to be unsupported by pillars. Elizabeth had presented Kenilworth to Brandon Dudley when she made him Earl of Leicester in 1580, and he had outdone himself to host this royal gathering. His wife, Nora, had truly come into her own now that she was independent of her difficult mother, so that Kenilworth sparkled with laughter and music and spirited conversation. There had been a moment or two this day when Elizabeth looked at her warm and lively niece and silently said to her brother:
You would be proud of her, Will.

Elizabeth had commanded an audience of courtiers, scholars, and government officials to attend her at Kenilworth—an array of her strongest supporters. Including, naturally, Dominic and Minuette Courtenay. Though she conceded that they were here less for their queen than to see their own children.

From where she stood in the great hall—herself adorned and polished and decorated to the highest degree—she heard the arriving clatter of horses and murmurs of welcome from Lord Burghley. Elizabeth had long perfected the ability to remain still and composed under any strain. But she could feel the faint tremor in her hands and clasped them before her to mask it.

Lord Burghley appeared at the top of the elaborate steps, Anne at his side. There were others behind her, but Elizabeth had eyes only for her daughter. They'd been separated for almost two years, but it might have been ten from the leaps Anabel had made in authority and poise. They were disturbingly like rival queens facing one another across an expanse of polished chessboard, each assessing the other's strengths and weaknesses.

Elizabeth had chosen a royal purple gown buttoned high to a two-inch pleated ruff circling her slim throat. The sleeves were close-fitted and the skirt split at the waist to flaunt a kirtle heavily embroidered with gold thread. Atop the curls and twists of one of her many wigs rested a diadem of pearls and gold.

In contrast, Anabel had dressed head to toe in black. The mournful colour and severe lines were as good as a public announcement:
I stand with Spain.
Not that women all over Europe hadn't copied Spain's fashions for decades, but somehow Anabel wore the gown in such a way as to highlight her differences with England's queen. In contrast to her mother's careful styling, Anabel's red-gold hair was dressed in soft plaits, emphasizing the waves and gloss of her youth. She wore not a single jewel.

With exquisite care, the Princess of Wales crossed the hall and made her obeisance. “Your Majesty.”

There was politeness but no warmth to her voice. Although Elizabeth had expected as much, it stung a little. And made it easier to steady herself against the unexpectedly strong maternal pull.

“Let me see you.” Elizabeth surveyed Anne carefully and critically. “I suppose the North has agreed with you. It is good of you to stir yourself long enough to attend on your queen.”

“I was not aware I had a choice in the matter.”

Oh, she was good. It was almost like hearing herself coolly oppose her brother. “There is always a choice.” Elizabeth delivered it as a warning. “I am pleased with this one.” Leaving no doubt that there were other choices with which she was less pleased.

There was a flash from Anne, a moment's amusement passed between them, then she stepped slightly aside to allow the others of her train to greet the queen. The first—insultingly—was Philip's meddling Jesuit, Tomás Navarro. It took no pretense for Elizabeth to eye him icily. And his contempt was certainly real enough. They had a cat amongst the pigeons here. Pray they had belled him sufficiently to give them warning.

Elizabeth acknowledged the others with hardly a pause, only giving Christopher an assessing gaze that he returned without flinching. But after him was his sister, and Elizabeth had certain things to say to Philippa Courtenay.

Primarily concerning the fact that she was now Philippa Harrington. “Well,” Elizabeth noted drily, “no one could claim that marriage does not suit you. Three months a wife now, and still admirably…slender.” It did no harm to point out to the gossips that there was no too-early baby in the mix here.

But there was impudence in the girl's hasty marriage, and Elizabeth would not let that pass. “It grieved us to realize how lightly you hold your queen's and your family's affections. To marry without word…was not wise.”

Matthew Harrington, so like his quiet father, stood protectively next to his wife. He was not a man to be cowed by any authority, particularly not in defense of the woman he loved. “When has love ever marched with wisdom?” he asked. “Your Majesty,” he added belatedly.

Elizabeth smiled. Those who knew her would know rightly how to read the warning there. “Admirably put. And as it stands, I have forgone my right of chastisement. That belongs to Lord Exeter. And Philippa's mother.”

Every eye in the hall turned to Dominic, who stood stony-faced as only he could. On the other side of Minuette stood Carrie Harrington, neat as a wren in her gown of blue wool, eyeing her son with mingled affection and exasperation.

If Elizabeth had been Matthew Harrington, she would have felt more than a qualm at the sight.

It was a relief to move through the remaining necessary courtesies as quickly as possible and then retreat. Alone, for queen and princess needed to be marked keeping their distance from one another. There would be a few opportunities for private communication, but not immediately. Let Anne's household mingle with hers without the pressure of the queen's presence, so that curiosity might be assuaged on both sides.

And to confirm, to those suspicious eyes here and in Spain, that the gulf between the Tudor royals was widening to an almost unbreachable impasse. Everything depended on Philip believing that Anabel could be manipulated by Spain.

Walsingham came after her. “That went well.”

She smiled fondly. “Only you would define that iciness as going well.”

“It served its purpose.”

“So it did. Tomás Navarro looked insufferably pleased with himself. So did Ambassador de Mendoza. You'll watch them, of course. But they'll be expecting that. It is their attitudes that will tell us more than their words. I suspect Navarro might be the sort of Jesuit to make enemies even amongst his own kind.”

“I agree.”

“Give me an hour to rest, Walsingham. Let it be seen as weakness, I don't mind. Not in a good cause, at least.”

“And then?” he asked.

“And then,” she repeated, slowly. “Send Christopher Courtenay to me. Philippa I could chastise publicly. Christopher requires more delicate handling.”

Elizabeth could be delicate when she chose. That didn't mean she wouldn't also be implacable.

Christopher entered the queen's presence with a wariness unusual to him. She guessed that behind his elegant obeisance he was calculating whether he had done anything particularly reprehensible lately.

“Rumour preceded your coming, Lord Christopher. Even in the South we are hearing idle gossip about you and the Princess of Wales. It must stop.”

He had become skilled at control, but he was not a master like his father. She saw the flinch of instinctive defiance. “I cannot stop rumours, Your Majesty. Surely that is a lesson I learned from you?”

“Don't play clever with me,” she snapped. “I will not have my daughter's reputation dragged through the mud for the sake of a charming tongue. Already my court has received subtle complaints from Scotland about your behaviour during their visit.”

“Are you ordering me to leave her service, Your Majesty?”

She smiled coldly. “You would like that, wouldn't you? So you could blame me. No, Kit”—and noted another flinch at her familiarity—“
you
must do this. I know my daughter. She is capable of wrecking all we have been working so hard to achieve out of sheer perversity.

“And also,” Elizabeth conceded, “from the strength of her affections. I do not lightly discount what either of you feel. But the time for indulgence is past. I will sacrifice anything for the sake of England. And so must Anabel.”

“What do you want of me?” he asked in a low voice.

“To make it easy for her. You are surrounded by beautiful women here. Take advantage of it. Not enough to cause a riot, but enough to still a few tongues. As long as you look at no one but my daughter, those who would split this kingdom in two have leverage. Turn your eyes elsewhere—and make Anabel believe it.”

Christopher Courtenay must always have known his days were numbered. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

Over the course of the next week at Kenilworth Castle, Kit applied himself to the task of womanizing. He couldn't decide what made it more uncomfortable—Anabel's presence or his parents'. He judged that at least his parents weren't likely to try and kill him because of it.

It wasn't that he didn't know how to talk to women. He'd always had a reputation for teasing charm and a lightness of heart that drew people to him. Though it had been tempered in the last years, it wasn't too difficult to remember how to flirt. And there were plenty of women willing to let him practice.

But he was older now. At twenty-three, most women expected more from him than flirtatious words or multiple dances. Almost at once it was clear that all Kit needed to do was start the matter. The women would finish it for him.

He let himself enjoy it. It wasn't so difficult—just stop paying attention to the critical voices in his head and let his instincts guide him. He was young and healthy and, unlike probably most men his age, a virgin. At last it was beginning to weigh on him.

Lettice Wixom quickly showed herself the most determined of those competing for his attention. The daughter of a prominent member of Parliament, Lettice was nineteen and merry and buxom. She'd been married at seventeen to an elderly Midlands landowner who had conveniently died after six months, leaving his young widow a wealthy woman looking for pleasure.

She promptly latched onto Kit to give it to her. He thought himself in control of the situation, until their fourth night at Kenilworth when she neatly managed to cut him away from the crowds and maneuvered him into an empty section of the loggia that led to the formal gardens. It was no hardship to kiss her, and if his conscience burned a bit at the thought of Anabel, it was not so difficult to submerge it in her warmth.

Her hands were skilled and far more experienced than his own. But he was a fast learner. Her giggles gave way to sighs of pleasure and at last she whispered, “I know a quiet way through the back of the castle. I have a private room,” she teased.

A little breathlessly, he said, “I don't think that's wise. Surely someone would notice.”

“My father was half drunk before we came out here. And he doesn't care.”

“Mine does.”

“Afraid of your father?” She breathed into his ear, her hands busy with the buttons of his jerkin.

“My mother, more like.” Despite his words, he kept her pulled against him, hands encircling the corseted waist. His mouth trailed from her lips to the line of her jaw and farther down. He knew there were reasons this was a bad idea, but they were rapidly flying from his head. Any moment now she could simply crook her finger and he would follow her without thought.

“They might be glad to have the gossip dispelled,” Lettice said. “And for certain, the queen will.”