The Virgin's War (28 page)

Pippa answered the unvoiced question in her friend's mind. “Yes, I knew it would be needed someday. No, I did not know why.”
Not precisely,
she amended silently. She had known even then that it would be for a dangerous purpose.

With the distinctive matter of hair settled, it was then a matter of dress and bearing. Pippa had always dressed well at court, but no one dressed as well as the Princess of Wales. Even when the fabrics were similar, a royal gown had an edge to it. And a gown chosen for a royal surrender must be especially splendid. Cloth of gold, so overembroidered with metallic thread as to be nearly as thick as leather. Silk velvet in a shade of blue-green that moved like water beneath the overgown. A ruff large enough to be ornamental but restrained enough to make riding practical where necessary. Pearls clustered in drops along the neckline and cuffs. With each layer and ribbon and lacing and button, Pippa felt herself being pressed into the royal mold.

They pinned the red-gold of her wig high on the crown and left the rest loose beneath a cap of velvet and satin. The hair was her banner, her safe-conduct to the Spanish ship at Hull. With her would ride Matthew and Madalena. There had been some talk that Navarro would find it odd that Matthew had come, but he cut it off firmly. “Once Navarro sees me, he'll be close enough to see
her
and know she isn't the princess. I'm going.”

When Pippa and Anabel were finished, they came together once more, each surveying the other with frank curiosity.

“Do I really look so haughty?” Anabel asked.

“You are being forced to deal with a man who is blackmailing you. I thought haughtiness was a given.” Pippa studied her friend, attired in a blue taffeta gown trimmed in navy velvet. It was one of Pippa's favorites, and she had worn it often enough for people to associate it with her. It was disconcerting to see that streak of black in the blonde wig opposite her—a streak that was as much the marker of Pippa as Anabel's red-gold.

That was entirely the point.

“Just remember to be concerned,” Pippa advised.

“I won't have to remember that.”

It was not the time nor place for more than matter-of-fact farewells. “Be safe, Anabel. And move quickly—I would prefer to spend as little time in Navarro's company as possible.”

When they had embraced, Pippa turned to the much more difficult farewell—her twin. Kit knew something vital had been left unsaid in all this. Pippa could not afford to let him know what it was, or he might hesitate to do what he must.

So she spoke rapidly, with the confidence she'd had years to practice. “It will be raining after midnight,” she warned Kit. “Get down to the river behind the Council House. There's a skiff there big enough for the two of you. Dress in dark clothing and you won't be seen.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Pippa.” Kit caught her arm when she tried to turn away. “I don't like this.”

“There is nothing to like. There is only what must be done.”

“What are you not telling me?”

She shook free of his hold and put both hands to his face, pulling it down to look him squarely in the eyes. Those beautiful hazel eyes that both her brothers had from Minuette—a constant shifting of brown and green and gold. In his worry, Kit's were darker tonight than she ever remembered seeing them.

“One thing at a time, twin mine. Get her out of the city. Get her to Stephen's troops. Alert Lord Scrope. Once those three things are done, you will know what to do next.”

“Don't taunt Navarro, Pippa. He's going to be furious—worse, he'll be humiliated. He won't like being fooled by a girl, especially not one he considers—”

“A witch?” Pippa said lightly, but there was a shiver of unease along her spine. “I may not be the Princess of Wales, but my name still has value. He cannot lightly hurt me.”

“There won't be time,” Kit declared flatly. “Lord Scrope and his men will see to the safety of York. Stephen and I will be coming for you.”

“I know.” She smiled brilliantly and kissed him on each cheek, to hide the two words that pounded hard behind her eyes, so desperately was she working to lock them away from Kit's mind.

Too late.

In the event, it was far easier than anyone could have predicted—other than Pippa, who knew that fate had led to this path and it would unfold before her without difficulty. The Spanish guards in York were all strangers, and within two minutes it was obvious they saw what they expected to see: a young woman of twenty-four with a shining fall of Tudor red hair and the bearing of a princess born to two ruling monarchs. Surrounded by guards, the English group rode south twenty miles to Howden, and then took to the River Ouse in a barge hastily converted for the purpose of transporting a royal princess who was something between a prisoner and a guest. The guards were not inclined to be talkative, and Pippa kept Matthew and Madalena close around her to protect her privacy.

By the time they reached Hull, Pippa had herself in perfect balance for what lay ahead. She felt as though nothing could surprise her, nothing shock her, nothing hurt her. She had been born for this. She would not fail.

There were three Spanish ships in port at Hull, the largest with the banner of Mary Stuart flying proudly. There was no question of the English group being allowed to remain on land. The Spanish would want Anabel where they could not only protect her, but remove her swiftly out of English hands if she proved troublesome. The illusion of the princess being there willingly was rapidly vanishing.

At the base of the dock leading up to
La Santa Catalina,
Pippa straightened her back, squared her shoulders, and disdainfully eyed the soldiers arrayed above to greet her—or guard her. Black as grim death in their midst stood Tomás Navarro. Though he had always dressed as a proper Jesuit, in this element he looked…more. As though bolstered by the weight of his office when surrounded by men who could enforce his will with violence.

Pippa counted silently as she walked. How many steps before Navarro realized?

One…two…three…
She felt Navarro's satisfaction beating in the air, delighted to have brought the proud Princess Anne to heel.
Four…five…
Matthew's presence behind her was as reassuring as his touch.
Six…
Madalena was breathing silent prayers that brushed against Pippa's awareness like moths.

Ten feet away from Navarro, Pippa lowered her arrogant chin a fraction and met his eyes unblinkingly.

The priest opened his mouth to make the Princess of Wales welcome.

And froze.

When Navarro moved, it was with sudden violence that made everyone but Matthew startle. Matthew simply moved very, very close behind Pippa. Not touching, but letting her know he was prepared to sweep her out of reach the moment she wanted him to.

Navarro used one hand to grab her, closing the remaining space between them, and held her hard as fury replaced disbelief. “Witch,” he said in English under his breath…or perhaps the word began with a harder consonant.

By now the Spanish had begun to stir, their commander striding forward to intervene. “Father Navarro, you must remember that the Infanta is our guest.”

“This isn't the Infanta,” Navarro snarled. Then, with a visible effort of will, he controlled his temper. He released Pippa, but only to put his hands to her hair and, painfully, jerk the wig loose.

“This,” he pronounced, looking from the red hair lying loose in his hands to the tightly plaited and coiled blonde hair that had lain hidden beneath, “is the Infanta's rejection of our kind offer. Seize this traitor and her party and confine them below.”

Before they took Pippa away, Navarro breathed a warning into her ear. “It was a mistake to send you.”

It seemed to take forever for night to fall. Anabel paced, feeling confined by Pippa's dress and the heavy wig. They had used Pippa's increasingly frequent bouts of illness to explain her staying out of sight, but really, where else could she be? The illusion of English freedom still held, but did not change the fact that there were Spanish soldiers in York, watching the gates that led into and out of the city.

Anabel and Kit were not leaving by a gate. When finally—finally—twilight bled away into darkness and rain began to fall, the two of them followed Pippa's instructions to the letter. Out a side door of the Council House and through the wet gardens to the river. The skiff was there, and Kit handily and quietly rowed them upstream. Anabel's tension, which had been cutting into her head and shoulders for hours like a vise, eased fractionally the farther west they got.

It was not practical, nor fast enough, to row all the way in the dark. Kit found the spot along the riverbank that Pippa had indicated and helped Anabel out of the skiff. Thanks to the rain, it now had several inches of water in the bottom. Her cloak and skirt hems were sodden, but she barely noticed the weight or the chill. They took to horses now, with a young groom who'd been waiting for them, to ride through the trackless dark to the nearest armed support.

Of all the Courtenays, Anabel had always known Stephen the least. Unlike Kit, he had been remarkably self-contained from an early age and never inclined to edge into what might be seen as his younger brother's territory. But when he met them at the edge of his camp, torches flaring high now that the rain had paused, Anabel had never been so relieved in her life. Stephen Courtenay had his father's air of self-possession—a confidence that whatever happened, he was well able to not only meet it, but match it. After the long day and night passed in Kit's strung-up company, Anabel found Stephen refreshingly straightforward.

He wasted no time apologizing to her for the lack of royal comforts in his camp. The three of them met alone in Stephen's tent, a little larger than those of his men, in order to accommodate the table and stools needed for communication and council.

His first question was to Kit. “Is Pippa all right?”

Anabel knew that most of Kit's taut temper through the day had been the consequence of intense focus on the thread that bound him to his twin. He nodded at Stephen. “Unharmed. But the masquerade will only last until she meets Navarro. Assuming they reached Hull by sundown, we must anticipate reactions in York soon after the sun comes up. Hopefully no one will think to check on us”—he indicated himself and Anabel—“until the alarm is raised.”

“When it is? Tell me about the Spanish forces in York.”

The talk turned technical then, not that Anabel couldn't follow the military terms, but the brothers had blood and experience on their side. They possessed the kind of shorthand available not only to family but to men who had fought together. The largest concern, for all of them, was what York itself would choose to do.

Stephen chewed his bottom lip thoughtfully. “Some of the Spanish in York will have to leave the city to try and trace the princess. From what you say, there aren't enough men there to hold the city at the same time. So they leave, and the city has a breathing space before reinforcements can arrive from Hull. The question is…will York open their gates to the Spanish?”

“No,” Kit objected loudly. “The ‘question' is how fast can we reach Hull and get Pippa away from the Spanish!”

“You don't have to tell me that!” Stephen shouted back. “But we have to think of England as well.”

“Stop it,” Anabel commanded wearily. “We will do both. You know we prepared for this, Kit. I must ride on to Lord Scrope's forces and get them moving toward York.”

“It's not safe.”

“And leaving York in a skiff was? I must alert Lord Scrope and ride back with his men to York. The city will open its gates to me—and I can ensure they are kept firmly shut against the Spanish.” She tipped her chin up. “And Stephen will take his mercenary force as fast as they can move to Hull and get hold of Pippa.”

“I'm going with Stephen,” Kit announced. It was a measure of his fear for his twin that he would consider leaving Anabel.

It was Stephen who protested. “No. The princess needs protection.”

“You have any number of highly trained soldiers at your command.”

“And I will release some to attend her, but are you really proposing to put the safety of the Princess of Wales in any hands but your own?”

“But Pippa…”

Anabel held her breath. She wanted Kit with her—so badly that it hurt—but she would never put him in the position of having to choose between two loves.

Stephen managed it neatly for her. “I will get to Pippa. You can trust me for that, Kit. Get Anabel to Lord Scrope and then march his army to York as fast as you can. The Princess of Wales must reach the city with armed men before the Spanish, or this war will begin with a major disadvantage to us.”

The struggle was evident on Kit's face, but fear and old jealousy and sibling rivalry was submerged beneath the stern sense of duty that Dominic Courtenay had instilled in his children. Kit bowed to the wisdom of Stephen's logic with as much grace as he could manage.

“Give us a dozen men,” he said. “And let Anabel sleep for a few hours. We'll leave at first light.”

She was the one with the last word, as she nearly always was. “Stephen, if I were to win York and lose Pippa…”

“I will bring her back,” Stephen promised. “Besides, she has Matthew with her. Anyone who wants to hurt Pippa will have to get through her husband first.”

I
nitially Pippa was kept alone in a cramped cabin below deck. But someone more cautious than Navarro—perhaps someone who knew that King Philip had a fondness for his daughter's friend—must have protested, for within hours Madalena was allowed to join her. She reported that Matthew was being questioned by the ship's captain. That was no worry. Pippa was not afraid of the Spanish military. Professional men were not usually fanatics.

Navarro was another sort of man entirely. Freed now of the need to ingratiate himself with Anabel and her household, his contempt burned bright each time he entered her makeshift cell. It was comfortable enough, for a ship, belonging as it did to the first lieutenant. Presumably Mary Stuart had taken over the captain's quarters. There had been no question—yet—of securing Pippa bodily beyond putting her behind a guarded door. But there was a porthole maybe wide enough for a woman in her shift to wiggle through, and Pippa wagered these men would not guess that she could swim. So could Madalena. If necessary, Pippa would force her to leave that way. She herself would go nowhere without Matthew.

Besides, her hour had come. Now that it was upon her, Pippa met it with an equanimity that, if not perfect, gave a good imitation of being so. She slept through the night, and when daylight came, began counting the hours of her confinement. She simply wanted to get on with things.

She did not flinch when the door opened to again admit Tomás Navarro.

Now free to be wholly himself, the priest was more physically attractive than she had ever known him. There must be women who at one time or another had regretted his spiritual calling. But Pippa knew a lot of attractive men. She was not disturbed by beauty.

“If only you knew,” Navarro said softly, “how I have longed for this. To face you as you are, stripped of royal protection. And without any need on my part for a pretense of civility.”

“If past encounters were your idea of civility, I cannot imagine how unpleasant you will be now.”

He ignored her sarcasm. “In all England, there is no opponent more dangerous than a pretty girl with a serpent's tongue…and a witch's charms.”

“You underestimate our soldiers, not to mention our navy.”

“Princess Anne was meant to be England's salvation. But how could she ever see her true path, with a bastard heretic for a mother and you, dripping your honeyed lies into her ears at every turn? She is stubborn and must be chastised. But you?”

Navarro smiled, the first time Pippa had ever seen him do so. It chilled her to her fingertips.

“ ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live,' ” he quoted. “Who am I to gainsay Holy Church?”

“Holy Church says even a witch must have a trial.” Not that Pippa liked the thought of the Inquisition, but all she need do was delay. Someone would come for her.

“You have been on trial since the moment I met you, Lady Philippa. Coming here—this little deception of yours—was the final piece of evidence against you. The moment I realized that you kept Princess Anne from doing her duty, the verdict was delivered. You are guilty, my lady. And it is my place to punish the guilty.”

“By burning me at the stake for heresy on English soil?”

“You are on a Spanish ship. If I wish, I can send you to Spain for proper punishment.”

“But you won't, because once King Philip is aware of my detention, he will ensure I am not harmed.”

“I don't have to kill you to punish you. And it will take some time for King Philip to become aware.”

Madalena finally made her presence known. In her low, beautiful speaking voice that seemed always to hint of warm skies and fragrant trees, she said in Spanish, “It will take very little time for English soldiers to arrive. Do you think Her Highness would willingly put her dearest friend in danger without a plan to get her back?”

“Then,” Navarro said, “we have no time to waste.”

He opened the door and summoned two soldiers inside. “Take Lady Philippa above. I want the English to see what happens to heretics and witches.”

That did not sound promising. Philippa wished she could see all the steps between now and her final vision. But she had never been able to command her gift so far. She knew the end, but not everything along the way. All she could do was continue to shield Kit from as much of what was happening as possible to ensure he was not distracted from his own tasks.

Before they took her from the cabin, Navarro made her change into something resembling a penitent's robe. Drab grey wool skirt and short coat, with the riding shoes she'd worn. She was momentarily surprised that he ordered Madalena to loosen Pippa's hair from its tight plaits, but then she understood. He wanted that black streak to be clearly seen—the mark of the devil, as he thought it.

They took her off the ship to the courtyard of Hull Castle. There was no gallows present (not that she'd really expected one) nor even a platform, just a cleared space around one of the stone walls. The crowd was restive behind the cordon of Spanish soldiers. Pippa saw the Earl of Arundel near the front; he looked away as she passed him.

Matthew was there. She did not have to look at him to know his hands and ankles were chained. They would never have been able to keep him from her otherwise. She kept her head high and her concentration fixed. Led to the space next to the wall, she saw there were chains hanging from the stone above her head, and she knew suddenly what Navarro intended.

He would strip her to her shift, likely—surely he wouldn't require more than that?—then, facing the wall, her hands would be pulled high above her shoulders and chained so she was held fast. And then he would whip her.

He would do it himself, of that she was certain. She noted that he had also changed for this occasion—the severe Jesuit robes removed to show equally severe shirt and hose. He held the whip, lightly flicking it against the ground as he pronounced her crimes and sentence.

You are making mistakes, she noted as he spoke. Your hatred has made you irrational…and one thing that will always turn an Englishman's stomach is irrational emotion. Not to mention the circle of foreign soldiers threatening an English woman. An English girl…it suddenly seemed important for Pippa to make the most of her youth and fragility.

It wasn't difficult to emphasize it when they removed her skirt and short coat, leaving her shivering in only her cambric shift despite the late spring warmth. She could feel Matthew's rising anger and need to act, and so sent to him what comforting thoughts she could manage. She had asked Madalena to keep as near him as she could and remind him not to get himself dragged away or knocked out.

Then there was nothing to do but to divorce her awareness as much as possible from her body. She'd had practice these last months through her increasing illness, and thought herself prepared.

Until the first lash fell. The whip was not barbed, thank the heavens, but it was wicked enough and she gasped aloud at the shock of pain. In her life, Pippa had never been touched with anything but affection. Navarro had specified a dozen lashes. The second fell…the third…

With the fourth stroke, Pippa's control breached and she could not keep from crying out. The focus she was so proud of deserted her, and only dimly was she aware of the murmur of the crowds, the shouts of her husband ringing the loudest. Navarro struck her a fifth time and she knew she would never remain conscious to the end. Why had this never been in her visions?

Six…and then a pause that stretched out so long that Pippa was slowly able to focus on something besides her bleeding back. Voices raised—angry voices—Navarro and…who? Not Matthew. And not Spanish. This particular voice was familiar, cultured English, the meaning of the words a jumble through the pain.

Then her arms were unchained and competent hands supported her to the ground. A light weight—a shawl or cloak—settled over her hunched shoulders and that same voice was speaking.

It was the Earl of Arundel. “I will see to her injuries myself,” Philip Howard said to a furious Tomás Navarro. “If you try to return her to the ship, I suspect you'll have a riot on your hands. You've sent the rest of the ships and more than half your men to Berwick, and I'm not sure Hull can hold out against a determined uprising. So let me settle everyone's tempers by taking charge of her.”

She thought it was in the balance whether Navarro would agree, but even through the fog of pain, Pippa could sense the growing discontent amongst the watchers. And not just the English—the Spanish soldiers were uneasy with Navarro's fanaticism. If he ordered them to resist Arundel, she wasn't sure what would happen.

Clearly, neither was Navarro. He gave in grudgingly, and next thing Pippa knew, Madalena and Matthew had replaced Arundel around her. As lightly as though she were a child, her husband lifted her in his arms and followed Arundel into the castle.

In five years of fighting and commanding in various countries, Stephen had lived through many difficult days and nights. This mission was different. It had the same furious intensity as the summer of 1580, when he and Kit had ridden with Mary Stuart in order to secure Lucette's release as a hostage. Now it was Pippa, deliberately placing herself in peril, trusting to a belief in fate that Stephen himself rejected. He saw Kit and Anabel on their way with two dozen of his best men, then moved the rest of the company east. They rode fast and light, and because they had trained for such things, covered the ground with ease.

In under three hours Hull came into view, with three Spanish ships in harbor. Stephen drew up his company a mile from the town. He did not intend to make an assault unless pushed to it, so he gave his orders and rode alone and anonymously into the city.

There was a small contingent of Spanish guards at the city gate, but Stephen had experience in lying smoothly and got himself admitted with little trouble. They even directed him to the castle, where he had seen the standard of the Earl of Arundel flying. Best to start at the top. Besides his openly displayed sword and the dagger at his belt, Stephen had a smaller knife concealed in his jerkin. He would use it if he had to, even against an Englishman.

He surrendered his horse into the care of a castle groom, who sent a messenger ahead for the earl that an Englishman with information to sell wished to see him. That would at least get Stephen into Arundel's presence without revealing his identity beforehand. Stephen crossed the courtyard, the usual bustle of castle life passing around him, but stopped dead when a conversation caught his attention.

“Mad he is, that Spaniard…”

“Never saw a priest whip a girl like that…”

“Thought her man would rip out someone's arms to get to her…”

“Brave thing, she is, for all the priest's talk of witchcraft…”

Stephen strode into the knot of three men talking, and irritation quickly gave way to wariness as they looked at his face. “What are you talking about?” he demanded.

The oldest of the three, a tough-looking Yorkshireman in his thirties, said gruffly, “What's it to you?”

Stephen tried hard to remember that he was posing as a Catholic sympathizer at the moment. “If Tomás Navarro has been reduced to venting his frustrations against a mere girl, that doesn't argue well for our ability to convince the country that we wish only to secure our rights.”

The eyes of the quiet two flickered between themselves as the same man replied. “It was all the Spanish, we had nothing to do with it. His lordship himself stopped it and took her away.”

“Stopped what?” He prayed that he had overheard that single word wrongly.

He hadn't. “The priest whipped her, here in the yard. Claimed she was a witch. I couldn't see it, myself. Just a woman, and I reckon that priest doesn't think much of women.”

Stephen had turned on his heel while the man was still speaking, and he had to flex his hands at his sides to keep from drawing his weapons as he grabbed the first boy he could find inside to take him to Lord Arundel. If he let himself think…let their words conjure up a picture…