The Virgin's War (32 page)

And pray God we are right,
Kit wrote,
and the western landing is not as large as the one we expect in the east. Make Lord Scrope and the Maxwells work together if you have to chain them to one another, Stephen. Because we will need as many men to join us as quickly as we can get them, to keep the Spanish from breaking out in the east.

Beneath all the work and worry and the still-fresh grief of missing Pippa lurked a superstitious fear of the dark closing in. Tonight, James Stuart would cross the river to be feasted at Norham and then led to his wife's bed to set a seal on their union. Kit thought he could not bear it, not this first night. He would ride for Berwick as soon as the king was on English soil.

An hour before James was expected, an anonymous courier rode into Norham. From the state of both his horse and himself, the man had ridden far and fast. He carried no papers, only a verbal message, which he declined to deliver to any but Anabel herself. Kit might have disputed the matter, except that he knew the courier. He was from Tiverton, a squire long assigned personally to Minuette Courtenay's service.

Kit led the man to the private study where Anabel and Robert Cecil were working in close concert. Madalena took one glance at their faces and let them in.

Anabel looked up, alarm flashing briefly across her face. “The king is not expected yet.”

“It is not the king. This man carries a message for you from the South.”

Anabel held out her hand, and the courier shook his head. “It was not written, Your Highness, for fear of falling into the wrong hands.” He cast a wary glance at Kit, Robert, and Madalena. “Would you prefer to receive it privately?”

“I trust these three with my life,” she answered coolly. “What is the message?”

“It is directly from the Duchess of Exeter, and in her words.” The courier cleared his throat, and then, obviously quoting, delivered his news. “The queen's party, while riding to Canterbury, was surprised by armed men on the road. In the assault, an assassin slipped through and shot the queen at close quarters with a musket. She was returned to Leeds Castle, where she has continued unconscious for hours.”

He faltered, no doubt aware of the numbed silence he'd created. Then he continued in his own words. “Though the musket ball has been removed, it is feared the queen may not ever wake. The physicians will not commit themselves, but Lady Exeter said she has seen their faces and knows how to read despair when she sees it.”

In the aftermath, Kit thought he had gone deaf, so quiet was the chamber. He was the first to recover his voice. “When?”

“They were attacked Monday. I left Leeds Castle that evening.”

No wonder the man looked ready to drop—he'd ridden four hundred miles in five days.

Despite shock, despite fear, despite uncertainty, Anne Tudor would always rise to what must be done. She must have seen the same exhaustion and dedication in the courier that Kit had, for she said with a valiant attempt at normalcy, “We thank you for your service. Madalena will find you accommodations and food.”

When they had gone, Kit looked to Robert Cecil. What were they meant to be saying to the princess? Comfort, or truth?

Anabel took the decision, for truth. “My mother may already be dead. For all we know, another rider is even now on his way north with that news.”

“It must not get out, Your Highness,” Robert Cecil said urgently. “The queen has held this country together for almost thirty years. We are on the brink of the most dangerous threat to England this century. If it is known—”

“That the country has been left in the hands of a twenty-four-year-old girl? My mother was only twenty-five when she came to the throne.” Though Anabel spoke neutrally, Kit could see her eyes were glassy with shock.

“We don't know,” he agreed with Robert. “And so we must behave as though everything is as it should be. The queen holding the South, the princess holding the North. The people need that assurance.”

“What if I cannot manage to give it to them?” Anabel asked as Madalena slipped back into the chamber.

Kit could not answer, but Madalena did. “You will,” she said firmly. “But that is not our immediate concern. Do not anticipate difficulties, Your Highness. Begin at the beginning, and do one thing at a time. We will help you.”

Anabel visibly steadied herself, and Kit took the cue. “Right. The first thing we've already noted—keep this information to ourselves. Second, we proceed as planned. From Berwick to Carlisle, the beacons are burning, announcing the immediate threat of invasion. Tomorrow morning, you march with King James to Berwick. For if Berwick falls—”

“It will not fall.” She sounded almost herself now. “I did not get married this morning for nothing. I sold myself to Scotland for an army, and I mean to wield it. Nor will I squander Pippa's death. The news of how the Spanish murdered her is spreading like wildfire and swaying the uncommitted to our side. We will fight this war and we will win.”

19 July 1586

Leeds Castle

I have never been so frightened as when I reached Elizabeth's bed yesterday and found her unresponsive and already growing fevered. Not even when I surrendered myself to Will, or watched Dominic marched away in chains. Those events, grievous as they were, constituted only a personal disaster. This disaster is England's.

I sent three of my most trusted men with verbal reports—one to Dominic, one to Burghley and Walsingham in London, the last much farther north, to wherever Anabel is to be found.

And now I do what it has so often fallen to me to do—I wait.

22 July 1586

Leeds Castle

Lord Burghley arrived late this evening, looking grey and greatly aged. He has left Walsingham in London to control information; he will do the same from here. The intention is to preserve the illusion that Elizabeth is suffering from only a slight injury and continues to direct both the war and her government. The members of her guard present at the attack have been sequestered here…and there were no survivors left from the enemy force to tell tales. Every person both entering and leaving the castle is being most carefully scrutinized. But I am under no illusions—our efforts will, at best, only delay the news.

She has opened her eyes a handful of times, but without recognition. The surgeon has removed the ball, but the wound is weeping and red and her fever is unabated.

24 July 1586

Leeds Castle

As I sit by Elizabeth's bedside, I am often swamped with sense memories of Hever Castle more than thirty years ago when I performed the same office for Queen Anne. Sickrooms have a distinct smell, both astringent and sweet, and physicians still prefer to keep the windows closed no matter how stuffy a room becomes. I have taken to ignoring their protests and throwing wide every window I can, if only to ease Elizabeth's fever a little.

I begin to fear that she will never wake. And though I still worry for the loss to England and the particular grief to Anabel—I confess that my chief lament is: What will I ever do in a world without Elizabeth?

25 July 1586

Leeds Castle

Tonight, Elizabeth came to her senses for a time. She is weak and still burning with fever, though Carrie and I have relentlessly scoured the wound in an attempt to keep it from festering. And though it remains red, there are no ugly streaks toward the heart or stink of decomposing flesh. It is only that the fever will not break.

But she knew me when she woke.

Is it any surprise that her first question was not about any one person? “The war?” she asked.

“No landings in the South. Drake and the navy have kept them well harried.”

“The North?”

“No word from Anabel,” I assured her. It is the strictest truth—Anabel herself has not sent word. But the Spanish ships were landing men at Berwick when last I heard, and surely there has been some sort of battle.

And I have had word about the West from Maisie. There were Spanish troops heading for Carlisle when she left it two weeks ago. Stephen will have been in battle by now. I can only pray my son is safe, and that Carlisle holds.

T
he Battle of Carlisle took place on a late July day of steamy heat and sudden gusts of wind that sent banners changing directions without warning. Stephen and his company were in the van, with Lord Scrope on the right flank and Scrope's son to the left. It was a near classic battle of thrust and repulse. The English had been able to persuade a few hundred Maxwell men to fight with them, though Stephen did not trust them far. There were more Spanish troops than he'd been expecting, but despite the imbalance of numbers, the English were much fresher, not having had the crossing from Ireland to cope with nor the physical and mental drag of having already fought in a hostile country for months.

Stephen and his men broke the center of the Spanish line in a mere half hour. It was hard to escape the conclusion that the Spanish who came from Ireland, at least, did not have their hearts in this fight. Stephen stood tall in his stirrups to survey what he could see of the rest of the field. To his left, Scrope's son was engaged in fierce fighting, but looked to be making gains. On the right, Lord Scrope's flanking attack was in disarray. Stephen left his second-in-command in charge of the van and took a third of his men to aid Scrope against the Spanish.

Except Scrope wasn't fighting the Spanish—not entirely. The officers might have been King Philip's men, but even before Stephen could make out the badges or colours of the enemy soldiers, he could hear a distinctive sound that sent shivers through him: men yelling orders, men screaming in defiance, men who did not speak sibilant Spanish.

Gaelic. Spain had recruited soldiers from their Irish allies.

No wonder they were not giving way before Lord Scrope. The Spanish were fighting, perhaps reluctantly, under orders. But the Irish were fighting for vengeance.

Stephen threw his men into the flank with a few commands, then let himself be swept into the violence. There was an almost physical split that happened in battle, he had learned over the years, so that his body operated best without being slowed by thought. He had worked hard to attain the sort of skill that meant he could still command in such a state.

Finally, under the combined assaults of Lord Scrope and Stephen's mercenaries, the Irish flank shivered and began to splinter. The Spanish officers retreated first, and most of the Irish began to give way as well. But not quite all of them. A tight knot of disciplined fighters held fast, and Stephen set his horse to confront them.

He was nearly upon them, perhaps fifteen men in all, before he recognized the Irish leader. Dark and bristling, the grim face just recognizable despite the blood splashed liberally across it. A face Stephen had last seen on another battlefield, across the sea in Ireland. Cutting through the noise of battle, he heard an echo of the man's voice from years ago:
He is English. No way in hell I'll trust him…

Diarmid mac Briain Kavanaugh. Ailis's husband.

Stephen directed his men to surround the group, ordering them not to kill if possible. No doubt Diarmid would gladly have spent his life here, but some of his men were a little less fanatical. Stephen recognized several of their faces as well.

He knew the moment Diarmid recognized him, for the man swore vividly in Gaelic. Still defiant, despite the fact that he was surrounded and could not resist without condemning himself and his men to death, Diarmid spat eloquently.

“At least you're where you belong this time,” he growled. “And not pretending to be on our side.”

“Go home, Diarmid. This is not Ireland's fight.”

“The hell it isn't! If Spain loses here, they pull out of Ireland and we're left to England's mercies once more.”

“Spain
has
lost here, in Carlisle at least. Don't compound the loss with needless death.”

“If you're looking to take hostages, you're a fool. We haven't the gold to redeem prisoners, you know that. Better you kill me where I stand.”

Stephen dismounted and threw the reins to one of his men. He was not surprised that Diarmid had managed to infuriate him in such short order. Confronting the hostile Irishman, he repeated, “Go home, Diarmid. Our fight is with the Spanish. I have no stomach for killing men I don't have to.”

“Don't tell me you don't have the stomach to kill
me.
She's my wife, after all. You'll gladly kill me for Ailis.”

“Once, maybe. Now?” Stephen shrugged. “Go home to your wife and your children. Take your men and retreat to the ships. If you move fast, you can set sail before anyone here follows.”

He turned away, noting that the other Kavanaugh men had already taken him at his word and were leaving the field in ones and twos.

“Damn you!” Diarmid shouted from behind him. “Did you care so little for her that you can spare me your contempt?”

Stephen did not bother to answer, not aloud.
I cared for Ailis more than I'd ever cared for anyone before. I loved her.

Then.

Ailis was his past. Mariota was his present and his future. His love and his hope and the only person he carried with him every moment of the day.

Stephen remounted and wearily set off to help clean up the remains of the enemy. His immediate job was done. Carlisle had held. England would stand in the West.

Plainly, James Stuart had to be told of the English queen's grave injury. For many reasons, not least among them—from Anabel's point of view—that it allowed her to delay the consummation of their marriage.

“I haven't the time,” she said plainly as the two of them were closeted alone in Norham. “Or, frankly, the interest. My mother may be dead. Your mother is almost certainly on one of those ships outside Berwick. You shall simply have to take me at the word I gave you in the church today.”

James wasn't pleased, but he also wasn't stupid. Another sort of king—another sort of man—would have insisted. She didn't have time? It could be accomplished in very short order. She had other things on her mind? It wasn't her mind he required.

But James was canny and clearly wanted a marriage that would not break down in the first year as had his parents'. So he conceded her point and was only mildly condescending about allowing his army to march on Berwick before Anabel had completely fulfilled her part of the marriage bargain.

He even behaved politely to Kit, who of necessity joined the larger conversation about military tactics. James and the Earl of Arran would lead the Scots; Lord Hunsdon commanded the English forces. But as Hunsdon was eight miles away in Berwick, harrying the Spanish who had already landed, Kit spoke at the moment for the English troops. Mostly those they had stripped from the Middle March garrisons in desperation.

Fortunately the exigencies of the situation kept the men focused on matters other than personal. Only when Kit was dismissed to round up those English troops at Norham and ensure that all was in order, did he spare a personal smile for his princess.

He had his back to James and Arran, so only Anabel could see him. She might have expected a grin and a wink—but instead Kit's smile was as gentle and achingly intimate as his touch had been last night. Almost, she forgot herself.

But only almost. She was the Princess of Wales and the Queen of Scotland. And if fortune continued black—perhaps even the Queen of England.

Anabel was quite certain that no one at Norham slept that night. Already some of the Scottish troops had come across the river. The rest would move rapidly east under the command of Alexander Home, poised to pour across the Tweed next morning and help surround the Spanish outside Berwick. Anabel forced herself to lie down for a few hours, mostly to please Madalena, but in that time she stared into the dark and imagined she was speaking with Pippa.

I married James. Did you know I would do that, Pippa?

I told you I could not see that far.

Right. Because it was after…Why are you dead? We need you.

All I ever did was show you what already lay within. You can do this, Anabel.

I don't know that I can.

That was still the fear pounding at the base of her skull when she rose two hours before dawn and dressed for riding. The troops gathered here would be leaving soon, to reach Berwick before the sun was fully up. Anabel would ride well behind them—the most she'd been able to persuade her captains to allow—surrounded by guards prepared to whisk her south and out of danger if needed. Her fallback position would be Middleham, which was built to withstand sieges and battles. She could only pray it would not come to that.

But before the men left, she would mount her horse and ride amongst them. Giving them hope, giving them courage, perhaps merely giving them the symbol they needed to remind them what they were fighting for: their homes and their children, their rights and their hopes. Word of her mother's condition was locked down tightly, but that didn't mean men could not sense the underlying tension beyond just this one battle.

She must speak to them, encourage them, and not for a moment let them see her own doubts and fears.
It is not the men I doubt
, she reminded herself.
It is only myself.

And then she heard a silent voice in sardonic answer. Not Pippa, this time—her mother.
You are my daughter. There is no doubt of your abilities.

“Ready?” Madalena asked, after making the last adjustment to Anabel's new dress.

It was not a practical riding gown, because that was not its primary purpose. She would change again before embarking on her careful journey to Berwick, wear something darker and plain. This gown, however, was meant to be seen. It was mostly tissue of cloth of silver woven in a subtle pattern of the double Tudor rose. She wore no jewels save Kit's enameled green panther and her mother's locket ring. Her red hair was loose, caught back from her face with a ribbon of black velvet.

Over the bodice of the gown went a finely beaten and damascened corset of armor that her mother had gifted her—after a similar piece fashioned for the queen. Anabel studied her image, accustoming herself to the unusual strictures of movement, and said, “Bring them in.”

Those members of her council present at Norham—Robert Cecil, Matthew Harrington, and the chaplain, Edwin Littlefield—entered with Kit. Both Matthew and Kit were dressed for battle. Though she had always known her treasurer as a man of numbers and finance, his father had been a notable soldier, and Matthew had been raised alongside the Courtenay boys. And he would never forgive the Spanish for Pippa's death.

Littlefield offered a blessing and a prayer upon the endeavour—which he would repeat in a less personal manner for the troops—and then there was no more chance of delay. When she stepped out that door, Anabel must be in perfect command.

Panic rose, its wings beating so hard it threatened to break her bones and fly out. “I don't think I can do this,” she found herself saying. And though there were others present, she was speaking to one man only. “I am not my mother, Kit. She would know what to say. She would have prepared it perfectly. But I…I am merely lurching from crisis to crisis. What if I fail? What if England falls because I do not know what I am doing?”

“You are not alone. You have councilors and generals and admirals of great experience and greater loyalty.”

She didn't say it, but she thought it:
Queen's men. My mother's men. Who fights for me?

Kit gave her the personal answer she craved. “Stephen will hold the West. My father will hold the South. We will not lose you England.”

“And the North?”

“The North will fight for you, Anabel. Pippa saw that. It is why she brought you here. ‘I will light the fire, but you will command the flames,' ” Kit quoted. “The fire lit by Pippa's death is burning. Command it.”

The panic, cowed by his confidence, retreated into a tight knot that she could ignore. “You will stay by me?” she asked.