The Virgin's War (20 page)

Not the ideal way to begin a marriage. But for all that, Stephen could not bring himself to regret it.

The Spanish court passed Christmas at El Escorial, the beautiful palace wrought almost entirely from King Philip's imagination. The only thorn in the season was the continuing silence as to Mary Stuart's current whereabouts. She must have left Waterford by now, even with the worst of seas. She could not mean to spend all winter in Ireland, not with Spanish troops concentrating along the east coast in preparation for supporting the English invasion. There would be, at least, no shortage of ships and soldiers able to defend her, but no commander wanted a royal woman to protect in such a delicate situation—and certainly not a woman as politically dangerous as Mary. Philip told himself the ships escorting her back to Spain would have had to sail quite far south in order to avoid drawing too near England's coast, thus causing the delays…but he was grateful that he had not given in to her pleas to send Alexander with her.

Christmas with children was enchanting, and Philip took great pleasure in the time he spent with his sons. His time with Anne had been so circumscribed by distance and cirumstance that he had few memories of playing with her. He'd had another child once, though…a boy who, even at the age of four, had been dangerously willful. Independence was a trait to be cultivated, but reckless violence was not. Carlos had given far more hours of heartache than he ever had of joy, and his death almost twenty years ago had not been greatly regretted. But every now and then, when Philip saw a flicker of familiarity in the tilt of Charles's head or the high pitch of Alexander's chatter, he recognized the cost of being a king first and foremost. Before even a father.

Anne had written to him, a rarity that he marked down to Christmas goodwill. She had said nothing of Ireland or the Netherlands, nothing of her mother, nothing of religion. So many topics were banned between them that her letter had been little more than polite inquiries about her half brothers' health and gossip from her own household. Philip had shaken his head when he learned of Philippa Courtenay's hasty wedding to a man not of her class, but Anne was clearly touched by the romance of it. Though she had added, in words as tart as her mother's:
She's a braver girl than I, to run the risk of offending the Duke of Exeter. But then, some fathers are prone to forgive their daughters any manner of sins.

Not like you,
ran the unwritten corollary.

The correspondence from Tomás Navarro was more revealing. The priest's letters from Kenilworth Castle arrived in a bundle on the second day of 1586, and Philip read them alone. One had to sort through the Jesuit's prejudices, but otherwise his reports were concise and clear.

The queen and the princess were not more than civil to one another in public…spent no time speaking privately…When the queen expressed dissatisfaction with the attendance of the Earl of Arundel, the princess forbore to listen…the princess quarreled with Lord Christopher Courtenay and he rode back to the Scots border on his own…they say there was a woman in it…

About damn time, Philip thought in a rare burst of profanity. He'd begun to fear that Christopher Courtenay was that rarest of creatures—a man so devoted to a single woman that he could not be swayed by any temptation. When the Courtenays had visited Spain several years ago, Philip had gone so far as to offer the boy a Spanish bride. And when the Duke of Exeter declined on his son's behalf, Philip had waited fatalistically for his daughter to make an enormous error.

He should have trusted her. Anabel not only had his own moral character, but Elizabeth's strong pragmatic streak. That didn't mean he wasn't grateful for whomever the unknown woman was who had finally persuaded the strong-minded Christopher Courtenay from the path of hopeless devotion.

On the other hand…this might be just the crack in Anne's certainty that could be profitably exploited for her own good. Philip took his ponderings to Mass at his private chapel in El Escorial. While the monks sang service, their voices floating from behind the sail vaults of the church, Philip sought the will of God. For his daughter. For England. For the souls of all the people wandering so far from the paths of light.

And when Mass was finished, Philip knew what he would do next.

Not only for Anne's sake. This was more than a matter of battle plans and troop movements. This was a crusade. And one did not launch a crusade without meticulous and wide-ranging preparation.

After Mass, Philip retired to his private study and the hours of daily and solitary work ahead of him. He loathed traveling and, other than to England four times during his marriage, had not been out of Castile in twenty years. To compensate for his lack of personal presence, his governors and generals and advisors abroad sent long, detailed reports almost daily.

These
consultas
formed the basis of his control of the far-flung Spanish Empire. His soldiers in Ireland had been disentangled from Irish engagements and held themselves ready to support the Enterprise of England. Philip had allotted five hundred soldiers to bolster the Earl of Desmond in holding what they had gained from England. Frankly, Philip didn't much care if Desmond held on. Not politically, at least. And as for religion—well, all he need do was defeat England and Ireland would be preserved.

The news from the Netherlands was less encouraging. The rebels had been fighting for fifteen years and showed a continuing reckless disregard for Spain's strength or God's truth. His nephew, Alessandro Farnese, had been Governor-General there since 1578, following in the footsteps of his mother, Margaret of Parma. Margaret, Philip's illegitimate half sister, had served him well enough in her time, but he never trusted anyone wholly. Not even his own blood.

But the month's most shocking news did not come in the form of a
consulta
. It was hand-delivered from a courier who was covered in sweat and grime from his desperate ride to El Escorial. Clearly he had known the significance of his message, if not its details. The details were shocking and desperate enough to make even Philip lose his control and exclaim aloud.

Mary Stuart, Queen of Spain, being overtaken in the Irish Sea, has been forced into harbor at Dumbarton, Scotland. It is not yet known if she will be welcomed by her former subjects, or if resentments against her still run high enough for her liberty to be constrained.

He had warned her this Irish venture was a bad idea. But though Philip would protest furiously any affront to his pride and his queen, he could not bring himself to be personally enraged. He had always known Mary was her own worst enemy. Perhaps the Scots would do him a favour.

3 January 1586

Wynfield Mote

After the tense and intentionally difficult council at Kenilworth Castle between Elizabeth and Anabel, Dominic and I remained at Wynfield for Christmas. I consider myself accustomed now to the absence of our grown children, but Christmas is difficult without them. There are so many memories here of excited faces and high voices and bare feet dashing across cold floors in play. Or, sometimes, fighting. And not just Kit and Stephen. Pippa was always a peacemaker, but Lucie could more than hold her own against her brothers, and she never hesitated to use her lofty superiority as the oldest to remind them so.

It is much quieter now. And yet, there is still the heart of my happiness, for Dominic has always been the foundation of our lives. Mourning for the past is tempered, as always, by the security of his love.

We will remain here until the weather breaks or until events force us back into the world. It will no doubt be sooner than we would wish.

12 January 1586

Wynfield Mote

Thankfully, Lucie has begun writing to us again—as her parents, not as the queen's supporters. And although she has never entirely regained the lightheartedness of her childhood, I can detect once more the laughter and sparkle beneath her dry wit. It can mean only one thing—she has made her peace with Julien. That is one less worry in the troubles to come.

As for Pippa, she is keeping her own counsel more than she usually does. Her reticence might be nothing more than being wrapped up in her new husband, but I doubt it. Does she not understand that my imagination supplies much worse scenarios than whatever the truth is? One day my children will be parents and then perhaps they will begin to comprehend.

Kit writes short missives sent from his constant travels along the border. I know better than to expect personal outpourings from him. And Stephen has sent only one letter since he left for Ireland.

Time to shut the door on the outside world, even that of our children. Those who think passion must necessarily die with age…well, they are not married to Dominic. Or me.

15 January 1586

Wynfield Mote

So much for the closed doors. A messenger arrived from Kit in the North, riding as though the devil were on his heels. We expected more news about Mary Stuart and her enforced stay in Dumbarton while King James decides what is to be done with her. But the news was much more shocking than that. For though the messenger was sent through the Warden of the West March, the message itself was from Stephen.

On January 2, I married Mariota Sinclair. I apologize for the shock. We intend to come south as soon as can be arranged.

I hardly know what to think. Are we such frightening parents that half of our children dared not risk coming to us in advance of marriage? Or even wish our presence at such a moment? Dominic and I may have married in secret, but there were hardly any adults we might have asked! Only Dominic's mother, who like as not would not have known her son in any case.

Where I was the one most upset to miss Pippa's wedding, Dominic has taken Stephen's secrecy much more to heart. It is hard for him, missing his sons. Perhaps because he always found it more difficult to tell them how he felt.

22 January 1586

Wynfield Mote

We are riding tomorrow to Compton Wynyates to spend a week with Lucette and Julien. If the weather holds, Pippa and Matthew intend to join us. I don't know which topics will be the most delicate—political or personal.

After that, Elizabeth wants us back in London. Spring will be here before we know it. We must be prepared for whatever comes.

T
he Sinclair mercenary company spent nearly a month in Dumbarton after reaching the Scottish port in December. Officially, to ensure against reckless action before someone in authority could give orders as to what to do with Mary Stuart. With a complement of Spanish officers from the unlucky ship under uneasy confinement as well, the governor was glad to have additional military support, and Stephen was happy enough to offer help. It couldn't hurt to do anything that might dispose King James to gratitude just now.

Behind his professional demeanor, Stephen was savagely glad that Mary Stuart was once more under threat of confinement. She deserved that and more for the deaths of Renaud LeClerc and Duncan Murray.

The delay in Dumbarton gave Stephen and Maisie time for their banns to be posted the required three Sundays in the local parish of the Church of Scotland. Stephen spent nearly every day of that wait certain that Maisie would change her mind. But soon enough, on a day of high winds and freezing snow, the two of them stood before a Calvinist priest and made their vows. The marriage service of the Scots church was not as appealing or musical to Stephen's ear as that of Elizabeth's prayer book, but the essentials were the same. Perhaps a little more dwelling on the physical nature of their vows—ironic, Stephen thought, for a church that seemed to find such relations distasteful.

One body, one flesh, one blood…the husband has no more right or power over his own body, but the wife…and therefore to avoid fornication every man ought to have his own wife…and they twain shall be one flesh, so that they are no more two but are one flesh…

Stephen preferred the Church of England service, which dwelt with rather more tolerance—even joy—on the union of husband and wife.
With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship…

Just as well to have the sterner version, since there was little chance of him being allowed to worship Maisie in that particular manner. If his bride was at all worried about the service's command to keep each other from harlots—after she had given him carte blanche to seek them out—she gave no sign of it. From the subdued wardrobe she'd taken to Dublin, Maisie had chosen a gown of wintergreen more suited to a sermon than a wedding. But her hair was dressed less severely than normal, and the silver gilt fairness was a celebration of its own.

She allowed him a brief kiss after they were pronounced man and wife, but other than the pearl ring he'd purchased in Dumbarton for her to wear, their relationship resumed its normal businesslike course without disruption. Maisie wrote and received letters—taking care not to announce her marriage to Edinburgh; she preferred to do that in person—and Stephen trained his men as much as possible in the January weather and sent a brief notice to his parents of the wedding.

At last, a royal clerk arrived with instructions from King James.

As you are in Dumbarton with a military company under your command, we desire you to protect and guard our mother, Mary Stuart, from Dumbarton to Blackness Castle near Linlithgow. We trust you to keep the journey swift and quiet, as it would not do to cause Her Majesty trouble along the way. Keep her apart from the people; there will be royal guards to provide discreet shelter and aid along the way.

We urge you to remember her feminine nature, her false charm, her perversity in acting from impulse. Do not be swayed.

That was hardly likely, Stephen thought grimly. In fact, he would wager the Scots king knew perfectly well the history between his mother and Stephen Courtenay. During the last months of her imprisonment in England, Mary had welcomed him into her household and shown every sign of liking him. Then she had recklessly and carelessly put both Anabel and Lucette in grave danger, and Stephen had revealed himself in the aftermath to be Walsingham's agent.

I was always your enemy, lady.
Never more so than now, with the murders of two innocent men sacrificed to her pride. No, Stephen would not be susceptible to Mary Stuart's charms. Which argued that this would be a particularly unpleasant journey across Scotland in the snows and biting winds of winter.

He was not wrong.

At first Queen Mary flat-out refused to leave Dumbarton with Stephen. Or, as she called him haughtily to his face, “a false-tongued heretic with the heart of a serpent.”

When he informed her that her assent was not required, she switched tactics and decided she wanted nothing more than to see her son, and treated Stephen and his company as a royal escort of honour. If Maisie had not also been traveling with them, Stephen would have lost his temper before the first day was scarcely begun. But Maisie's dry wit and mordant sense of humour pulled him back from the edge of rage and outright insubordination.

It took eight miserable days to cross Scotland. He grudgingly admitted that it must be painful for Queen Mary to return to the landscape of her nation, despite the fact that she had spent far more of her life outside Scotland than within it. She became quieter the closer they drew to Edinburgh. On the last day, as they approached Linlithgow, she clearly expected that palace to be her destination.

When they passed it by, she sent a guard for Stephen. With a sigh and a curse for King James, who had cravenly left this final announcement to an Englishman, Stephen halted the company. He dismounted to speak to the queen.

“Why are we not entering Linlithgow?” she demanded imperiously. “It is nearly nightfall and we must recover before going on to Edinburgh.”

“We are not going to Edinburgh.”

“Has my son come to meet me? If so, surely it is at Linlithgow Palace. He knows it would mean much to meet him again where I myself was born.”

Mary Stuart had indeed been born at Linlithgow in December 1542, and it was there just six days later that word had come of her father's death and her new role as Queen of Scotland. A significant place. Too significant to allow Mary entrance.

“The king is in Edinburgh,” Stephen said curtly. “He has prepared quarters for you at Blackness Castle until such time as decisions are made as to your meeting.”

“Blackness!”

Well might she look horrified, for Blackness Castle was best known in this century as a state prison. Cardinal Beaton, the Earl of Angus…Blackness was not a comforting destination for a woman whose last months in Scotland had been spent either as a prisoner or on the run from her own subjects.

But she had no choice. And say what you like about Mary Stuart, she was undeniably royal in her bearing. She made no further protest. It was an enormous relief for Stephen to lead the queen's carriage and a small party of his men—and Maisie—onto the spit of land that jutted into the Firth of Forth. There, Blackness Castle perched forbiddingly.

It was known colloquially as “the ship that never sailed,” for the castle was shaped to fit its site, with north and south towers like a stem and stern and a central tower called the mainmast. Designed primarily as an artillery fortification to protect the royal port from the English, the castle was not intended as a pleasure spot. Stephen shivered as they passed through the curtain wall and rushed through the ceremony of handing Mary over to John Maitland, King James's principal secretary. The queen did not deign to thank him for the escort.

Maitland invited Stephen to remain for the night, but he declined with almost offensive quickness. “You don't mind?” he asked Maisie as they remounted in the cold.

Her small frame swallowed up in fur-lined cloak and gloves, she peered at him like a little owl from the depths of her hood. “If you had agreed to stay at Blackness, I would have gone on without you.”

He laughed. “I sent the sergeant to secure us chambers at an inn. I'd prefer to avoid royal residences as much as possible.”

“Hopefully the king will allow us to continue to do so.”

“Are you worried?” he asked. “I don't think King James is the sort to lightly break a marriage. All we have to do is convince him this works to his advantage.”

“Right.” Maisie smiled wanly. “That's all we have to do.”

At the last moment, Pippa almost begged off going to Compton Wynyates. Matthew would have approved. She could truthfully have claimed illness, though she had been better in the five months of her marriage than she had for a long time.

That didn't mean she was well. The coughing fits might be in abeyance, but it was temporary. Each day she felt a little more tired, a little more unfocused, a little less pulled together. And each day, her moments of not-quite-thereness grew more frequent. Throughout her life she'd mostly been able to control them, or at least to deflect away the attention of others, but that control was slipping. When her vision grew dark around the edges and the voices of those present went mute—not once, but five or six times a day—it was difficult to pretend all was perfectly well. Matthew was the first to notice. He must have had a word with Anabel because the princess began keeping Pippa at her side as much as possible.

Matthew never forced her to talk, but he remarked as they rode into Compton Wynyates, “It will be a relief to be away from Navarro. I don't like the way he looks at you.”

It was not jealousy speaking. No one could interpret Navarro's interest in Pippa as sexual. He was not the handsome priest bound to vows of chastity while secretly burning for a woman he could not have. No—Navarro eyed her as a predator would its next meal.

Three months ago Navarro had stopped her on an empty staircase at Middleham and asked about the black streak in her golden hair.

“My father is black-haired,” she had answered. “My mother told me it grew from the spot where he kissed my head when I was born.”

“To bear such a mark from birth is not a blessing,” Navarro had pronounced stonily. “It is a curse.”

Bruja.
He had not spoken the word, but Pippa had heard it loudly at the time—and every time he'd looked at her since.

Witch.

Lucette met them outdoors, her face glowing with the cold and her eyes lit up with pleasure. Though Pippa had been fairly confident of her sister's healing, seeing confirmation of her regained happiness was an enormous relief.

“What fun we are going to have!” Lucette announced, laughing, as she pulled Pippa into the warm and welcoming hall. “Mother and Father are already here and she has been writing to Kit in Carlisle, asking him to come and drag Stephen with him. It seems she wants the whole family together.”

Pippa's vision grew black and she heard what had become almost second nature to her this last year: a mix of Scots and Spanish voices, talking above and around her. But this time she could decipher a few of the words.
Send for her family. They will want to say goodbye.

Her husband had grown quick to recognize her spells, and it was his hand on her elbow that brought her back to the surroundings of Lucette's hall. Her sister had not missed the moment—her sharp gaze made that clear—but she did not choose to pursue it just now.

“Fun, indeed!” Pippa said brightly, returning to the subject at hand. “Father has always had an equable temper—at least where we are concerned—but we have certainly tried it severely this last year. How do you suppose Mother is soothing him?”

Lucette arched an eyebrow, a trick remarkably like Queen Elizabeth. “In this matter,” she said darkly, “it is the other way round. Mother has opinions, and she is determined to share them. I do not envy Stephen.”

Pippa thought of her older brother and the young Scots woman, of the way the air tightened between them as though the very elements of the earth were conspiring to bind them together. “I think,” she said, “that Stephen is fully as opinionated. He will apologize for hurting her, but never for his choice of partner. Rather like Mother, in fact.”

“I wouldn't say that to her,” Lucette warned.

“I won't have to. Mother will see it for herself.”