The Virgin's War (22 page)

In mid-March, Kit was back in the West March helping to police a hot trod. Having had nearly a thousand cattle lifted by a band of Maxwells, the English Grahams sent a hundred armed men into the Annan Valley to trace and reclaim their property in the six days allowed them by border law. Such trods were meant to be reported to—and policed by—the local wardens, though most families managed to forget that step. But this time Lord Scrope had been alerted, and he sent his captain to ride with Kit and enough of the garrison to keep order. The men rode with the Grahams through the many folds of Scottish hills and valleys where reivers had been hiding stolen herds for generations.

As an exercise it had much to recommend it in preparing for war. If the Spanish tried to take England from the North, their disciplined troops would be at a severe disadvantage against borderers who knew how to fight in highly mobile, smaller groups that could come at them in ambushes through a landscape foreign to the invaders. It also had a great deal to recommend it as a way to relieve stress, and allowed Kit to simply do what he was good at rather than fret about all the things he couldn't control.

They managed to find both Maxwells and cattle on the fifth day. Though Kit didn't have major experience on the border, the Captain of Carlisle did. Kit watched Captain Bell, listened to his questioning of both Maxwells and Grahams, and knew that something was not right. He instinctively kept his mouth shut and let Bell organize the return across the border. They stayed with the Grahams until the family was safely back into Cumberland, then led the garrison back to the castle.

When he and Captain Bell were alone, Kit asked abruptly, “What is it?”

The man was experienced enough not to waste time in pleasantries or false protestations of humility. “I doubt it was Maxwells alone who planned this raid.”

“Why?”

Bell grimaced. “Not any one thing I can put my finger on. Instinct, more than anything. They led us a merry chase, but they know that landscape well enough to keep from being found at all. It was like a game—far more than usual, I mean. Did you not note how cheerfully they surrendered the animals? I'm not saying I wanted fighting, but in fifteen years, never have I seen such an easy end. Not with Maxwells and Grahams involved.”

“If not the Maxwells…who?”

“Could be one of the other families, shifting blame, but border families scorn hiding their mischief. They're proud of it, rather. I'd sooner believe this was a feint, meant to draw our attention to Annandale just now.”

Kit inhaled sharply. “Draw our eyes while…what? If I've learned anything about reivers, it's their practicality. They know the English Marches are stronger than they've been in years.”

“They also know that war with Spain is looming, and that English strength is being hoarded for that fight.”

“Still doesn't explain a halfhearted raid. There's been no word of other violence in the West March?”

“Not yet. I've sent word all along the border. What worries me is not open violence.”

Kit had reached the same point in his thinking. “If not immediate violence…Lord Maxwell recently had his wardenship revoked by King James for suspicion of his loyalty. Do we know Maxwell's present location?”

“Perceptive. No, we do not. And none of the Maxwell men were talking.”

“You think the raid was designed to allow Lord Maxwell—a noted Catholic—to…what?”

“Mary Stuart is still in hold at Blackness Castle. If it were me, I would ensure King James is alerted to Lord Maxwell's disappearance.”

“No more soft speaking,” Kit said flatly. “You have another reason for suspicion. What did you find?”

Bell pulled out a fragment of paper and tossed it on the table. Kit didn't even have to read the words to know what the trouble was. All he needed to see was that the words were written in Spanish.

“Spanish orders?” he hazarded. The fragment held only partial sentences, the rest ripped away, and only a few at that. Kit found himself supplying any missing letters as he read: [re]
frain from open violence…keep the garrisons bus
[y]
…in hold at Lakehill H
[ouse]…[pay]
ment in full when she is fre
[e].

Lakehill House? Why did he recognize that name? He ran through all he'd learned of the recusant families in the North and came up blank. But still the name fretted at him even as he asked Bell, “I presume the man who held this fragment has been arrested?”

“We didn't find it on a man,” Bell said evenly. “It was in a pack that no one claimed.”

And I could hardly detain all of the Maxwells with just our small force from the garrison,
ran the captain's unspoken defense.

Kit left it at that. This was not Bell's responsibility. It was the warden who answered to the queen. Or, in this case, the Princess of Wales. It was Kit's job to know what to do next.

“Damn it,” he said softly. He stowed the fragment in the pouch at his belt. “This goes no further than this room,” he ordered. “Understood?”

“Understood. You'll be heading to Middleham?”

“Yes. Once I send a courier to my brother. As current Warden of the West March, he can deal most quickly with King James. Also, Stephen has some experience with Mary Stuart. He will take any possibility of a rescue attempt seriously.”

Royalty thrived on secrets and conspiracies. There were, Kit decided mordantly, entirely too many kings and queens and princesses in this whole affair for his liking. Give him a plain, honest enemy on the battlefield any day.

Since Christmas, Philip had felt a rising sense of urgency, as though each day that did not see the Enterprise of England launched was a day closer to failure. He had always been cautious, prone to remarking that “Time and I are two,” but now nothing could be accomplished quickly enough for him. It was God, he knew. Having brought him to this point of destiny, God needed him to launch into action.

God did not seem to care about complications. After weeks of exchanging letters with Admiral de Bazan in Lisbon, where he had been preparing the armada, Philip received word that Bazan had collapsed from illness. He could not possibly command the armada this year.

Working unexpectedly fast, Philip immediately appointed Don Alonso, the Duke of Medina Sidonia, to take charge of the fleet. The duke had kept the king's peace in Andalusia, overseen defenses against pirates (many of them English), fulfilled his responsibilities with a mildness that would not offend his immediate subordinates, and, most importantly to Philip, was a man of impeccable moral character and a devoted son of the Church.

He was also humble, a fact that Philip would have appreciated more if it didn't lead the duke to reply with a polite demurral.

My health is not equal to such a voyage,
Medina Sidonia wrote,
for I know by experience of the little I have been at sea that I am always seasick and always catch cold…Since I have had no experience either of the sea or of war, I cannot feel that I ought to command so important an enterprise.

When Philip replied sharply, Medina Sidonia capitulated and at once took himself to the port of Lisbon. Philip knew the preparations were not perfect. Admiral de Bazan had written often, lamenting that he did not have enough ships, enough money, enough men (Bazan had scoured prisons, hospitals, and fields around Lisbon to make up his crews), and, always, not enough time.

Philip was finished with excuses. Only with the greatest reluctance did he accept that the armada could not be ready to sail in March—possibly not in April—and when Medina Sidonia pleaded the paucity of heavy guns amongst the ships, Philip and his war council managed to find the money to send him. But he would not agree to demobilize the men to any degree, insisting that they remain on ship while in harbor so as to be prepared for immediate action.

And always—always—he was watching the English navy. They had greater numbers, though smaller ships, and they were fast. They could form and reform at sea in a day, or dash back into port without warning. The greatest advantage the Spanish possessed was surprise. The sooner they could launch, the better.

No, Philip corrected himself, our greatest asset is not surprise. It is Anne.

For he had on his desk, amidst the reports and cost sheets and lists of ships' repairs, a letter from his daughter. The most personal letter to him she had composed in years.

Father,

I thank you for your very kind letter of last month. I was, as I'm sure you can imagine, considerably taken aback by your offer. I know how deeply you have wished me to marry a good Catholic. That you would be willing to consider Christopher Courtenay…it argues a care for my happiness I did not expect.

Tomás Navarro has been most assiduous in your service. And as I have immersed myself outside of London, I have found a great faith and deep devotion in many English Catholics that humbles me. If there is aught I can do to ease their burdens…I have spent much time in prayer pondering what God would have me do.

I do not want war. But if war must come, then I will do whatever lies in my power to ensure it ends quickly.

HRH Anne Isabella

It was as close as his cautious, clever daughter could safely go in a written communiqué. Reading between the words, Philip felt confident that northern England would be easily taken, leaving the bulk of his forces to seize London and the South.

Spain could not have hoped for more.

“W
hat will you do now?”

Anabel studied the fragment of Spanish orders in her hand, the red haze of anger slowly fading from her eyes, until finally Kit's question penetrated her awareness.

Her first instinct was to drag Tomás Navarro before her and let fly her fury at Spain's damned interfering ways. If Spain had paid the Maxwells to provide a distracting raid, it pointed straight at the Jesuit in northern England who would gladly see Mary Stuart freed to wreak havoc in Scotland. How dare a foreigner meddle so brazenly? How dare he complacently assume he could do what he liked and she would simply swallow it?

“Anabel,” said Kit, warning in his voice.

“I know!” She rubbed her forehead. “I know,” she said more moderately. “This is a time for diplomacy, not temper. But I will not forget…nor forgive.”

He nodded. “So again I ask—now what?”

“Now I invent an errand that will take Navarro away from Middleham for a time so I can convene a council without his presence. You will report this to them. And then those I trust most will give me their advice.”

It was not a full council, of course, that convened the next morning in Anabel's privy chamber. Arundel was rarely there, in any case, but Lord Scrope could have easily made it if asked. But considering that she expected some delicate and possibly inflammatory discussion about the Catholics, better keep him away. Better keep all the northern, sectarian interests away, in favour of those trained to take a wider view. In the end it was those few whom Anabel trusted completely: Sir Christopher Hatton, her secretary; Robert Cecil, her Master of Horse; her chaplain, Edwin Littlefield; Matthew Harrington, treasurer; Pippa and Madalena, whom Anabel would never consent to leave out where at all possible. And Kit.

Once Kit had made his dispassionate report on the hot trod and the suspicion of Spanish payment to the Maxwells for their cattle raid—and possibly a rescue attempt of Mary Stuart—Christopher Hatton led the queries. At forty-six he was the oldest member of Anabel's inner circle by more than ten years. Unusually, he rarely used that fact to claim superiority. Which made Anabel more willing to grant it to him. He had served in important government posts in London for twenty years before being released to the Princess of Wales's household. His only real fault was how little he liked the North.

“You've alerted King James?” Hatton asked Kit.

“Through my brother, Stephen. I also had the Captain of Carlisle send out inquiries to the other marches about suspicious people. Which, I grant you, is not all that easy to separate from the usual borderers.”

“Any word back?”

Kit shook his head. “Nothing yet. Most of the garrisons report everything as normal. But then it would be, if we believe Lord Maxwell will use only his own people for any rescue attempt.”

“Spanish agents would be highly noticeable in the borders,” Hatton noted drily. “This isn't London. And frankly, there are plenty of Spanish who might be happy to never see Mary Stuart again. She tends to bring trouble wherever she goes.”

“Trouble,” Madalena pointed out, “could be precisely what is wanted just now. We know the armada will launch in the coming weeks. What better way to distract Scotland and northern England than the Catholic Queen Mary running loose stirring up dissent?”

“The problem of Mary Stuart is for Scotland and King James to handle,” Anabel said flatly. “No one could be more wary of the woman than those Scottish lords who drove her out twenty years ago. There is nothing we can do about that.”

“Perhaps it is time to bring everything into the open,” Littlefield said. The chaplain had always been the one most uneasy about Anabel's deception with her mother.

Her reply was swift. “No. It is too early. I will not waste the last two years by panicking so near to the end. The sacrifices we have all made must be worth it.”

“Then we simply wait?” Hatton asked.

“Did I say so? What we do is deploy our less obvious weapons.” Anabel smiled. “Why do you think we have spent so much effort seducing the North? For precisely a situation like this. Now our chief seductress will reap the benefits of her efforts.”

She heard Matthew Harrington shift in his seat. Was he going to protest openly? she wondered. If he meant to, his wife forestalled him.

“I don't think I've ever been called a seductress before,” Pippa said with just the right touch of amusement. “I'll begin making the rounds tomorrow. Surely, if there is anything to know, someone in one of the northern Catholic households will have heard. Even if it's only a whisper.”

“Which means someone might go to serious lengths to prevent you learning it,” Matthew pointed out. In a matter of just a few words, he managed to sound both worried and threatening.

“Of course you will go with your wife,” Anabel said. “And the point is not to flush anyone out. I trust you both to be discreet and not raise any alarms. All I want is information. The decisions are not in your hands.”

Pippa laid a hand on Matthew's arm in restraint. “Of course, Your Highness.”

“Don't spook anyone,” she warned Pippa. “Be charming and subtle and naïve.”

It was at this moment that Kit said suddenly, and apropos of nothing, “Lakehill House!”

Everyone turned to him. Even Pippa, who looked nearly as startled as everyone else.

“Do you have something to add?” Anabel asked.

“I knew I'd heard that name. Now I know why I couldn't remember. It's in the North, true, not far from Kendal, but it's little more than a farm with no significant ties to any northern power.”

Everyone else continued to look blank, but Pippa said, “Of course. How could I not have seen that at once?” Her words were little more than a murmur, as though asking herself.

“Kit?” Anabel prompted.

“Lakehill House,” he announced, “was given by the crown some thirty years ago to the youngest son of the Duke of Norfolk, Giles Howard. When he died, it remained the property of his widow. Eleanor Percy.”

At once, Anabel grasped the meaning. Eleanor Percy: mistress of the late King of England; mother of the king's daughter, Nora; the woman who had held Dominic Courtenay prisoner at the king's command at…yes…Lakehill House.

Christopher Hatton asked skeptically, “Why would Eleanor Percy mix herself up in all of this? She has no morals, I'll grant you that, but she's never made trouble beyond breaking up other marriages.”

“Perhaps she simply hasn't had the chance,” Anabel answered. “But in the recent past the Earl of Ormond has sent her back from Ireland, the queen commanded her to remain away from court at—as Kit pointed out—little more than an isolated farm…My mother once told me not to underestimate Eleanor's ability to cause trouble.”

“Also,” Pippa said drily, “Eleanor Percy hates no one on this earth more than she hates Minuette Wyatt Courtenay. Until now our family has kept to ourselves except when under the queen's direct protection at court. No longer. Kit and I are in the North, Stephen is in Scotland, my parents are far out of reach in the South…yes, Eleanor might go far to cause Minuette's children trouble.”

“This is not trouble,” Christopher Hatton pointed out to Anabel. “This is treason.”

The Tudor smile could never have been mistaken for warm. “I can think of no more suitable response than for Minuette Courtenay's son to arrest Eleanor on charges of treason. Go to Lakehill House, Kit. Travel quiet and swift so she won't see you coming. Then throw her in the deepest cell you can find.”

The council chamber emptied swiftly after that. Kit did not wait even to say goodbye—he would be halfway to Kendal by dark. But when Pippa moved to join Matthew, Anabel stopped her with a touch to the wrist. She could feel the fineness of Pippa's bones and marked the increasing sharpness of her friend's cheekbones. Caught in stillness, there was a pallor to her skin that Anabel had not noticed before.

“Are you sure you're well enough to do this, Pippa? It's a lot of ground to cover in the next weeks,” she said with concern. “You're not…I mean…You've been married seven months. I have no wish to jeopardize your health.”

“I am not with child,” Pippa assured her. “It will pass, Anabel. Better for me to work through it. Let me be useful. That is all I wish.”

“You will let me know if the strain is too great? Or no, of course you will not. But Matthew will. I will not have you suffer in my service, Pippa.”

“If I suffer, I assure you it will not be from too great service. That I promise.”

Anabel did not find that as reassuring as she'd hoped.

The mood in London was rather like that of a cat mincing across hot stones: edgy and irritable. In late March, Elizabeth settled in at Whitehall, turning the usual seat of her government into a functioning war council as well. Although Walsingham was Lord Secretary, in this crisis she deputized Lord Burghley to stretch his role as treasurer to oversee England's civil government until further notice. That left Walsingham free to exploit his truest talents at working in the shadows and bringing her the information she craved.

Of course, that didn't stop him from exploiting his second great talent as well—that of annoying her with his freely offered opinions.

“Why is the Spanish ambassador still in London?” he groused.

“Because Mendoza is useful,” she snapped back.

“Not any longer. We have learned all we can from his coded communications with Philip. And he knows it. Even he is openly wondering what you intend to do with him when the battles begin.”

“Perhaps I will execute him.”

“That is hardly helpful.”

“But wouldn't it make you feel better, Walsingham? You cannot lay hands on Philip, no matter how this war turns out. Wouldn't you like to punish as many of his trusted servants as possible?”

She was only partly teasing. She herself would find it satisfying to wipe the smugness from Mendoza's eyes. It was the smugness she loathed—the superiority of self-righteousness that made her want to snap and snarl in a man's face. Or, better yet, smile coldly while she won the game in which they thought she was too slow—and too female—even to compete.

“The only issue now,” Walsingham said with greater than normal patience, “is whether we manage to expel Mendoza before he is formally recalled by Philip. Don't lose the opportunity to make a statement, Your Majesty. Send for Mendoza and give him a personal message for the Spanish king. I guarantee all of Europe will be watching for it.”

“It is not all of Europe that matters. It is my people.”

“Your people are only awaiting your word.”

“Which is why I have been hesitant to give it. I do not want merchants and honest men and women to be punished for the sins of others. I will not have London turn on those Spanish who reside here honestly. Is that clear, Walsingham?”

“We will do what we can. But war, of necessity, breeds chaos.”

“Not in London.”

She trapped his gaze until he nodded, his dark eyes grave. “We will do our best. Other than Mendoza, the immediate aspect to consider is the security of Calais. I've no doubt the French will take their chance to seize it while we are engaged with Spain. The question is—how far will you go to hold on?”

The queen had thought long and hard about the threat to Calais. Its loss thirty years before had been a personal scar whose pain Elizabeth had never anticipated. And when Spanish troops had in turn liberated it from the French—and Philip offered its return to her as a betrothal gift—it had been very nearly the deciding factor in her acceptance of the marriage. She did not want to lose Calais again.

But she could afford to lose Calais. She could not afford to lose England.

“I will send no further strength to the garrison. They must hold with what they have. And if the French move against them in force, I do not want a needless slaughter. Better far to retreat and retrieve what strength we can back across the Channel.”