The Virgin's War (5 page)

Stephen snorted with laughter. If Maisie was waiting for him to enlighten her actions, then she'd be waiting a long time. He couldn't even illuminate his own. Perhaps that was what they had in common.

He refolded the letter and reached for those from his family. As he shuffled through them, he discovered a small, square missive addressed in an anonymous hand he had begun to recognize. Though he knew what he would find, he still broke the plain seal and opened it to reveal the same thing he had found in every one of the ten similar dispatches he had received over the last six months: a meticulous ink sketch of a bird.

A nightingale.

T
he English court remained at Greenwich after Christmas, continuing the merriment into Twelfth Night and lightening the early darkness of January with masques and music and dancing. Amongst the guests this particular evening were Sir Francis Drake and his newly betrothed lady, Elizabeth Sydenham. More than twenty years younger than her famous affianced, she spent most of her time silent as Drake and Queen Elizabeth conversed.

With his trademark fervor, Drake extolled the beauties of Buckland Abbey, the grand manor he had bought with the fortune he'd made circumnavigating the globe. Elizabeth's own share of the prizes from that voyage had been equal to a single year's revenue for the crown; it meant she allowed Drake a certain freedom in conversing with her.

And she was not averse to his many stories about facing off against the Spanish. Drake's arrogance might border on being overfamiliar, but he was brilliant at sea.
El Draque,
the Spanish called him: the Dragon. After being separated from the others of his party during their circumnavigation, Drake and his single remaining ship,
The Golden Hind,
had raided at leisure along the west coast of South America, taking upward of thirty thousand pounds from Valparaiso alone. With the looming threat from her former husband, Elizabeth knew that Drake's talents would soon be needed for more than exploration and unofficial piracy.

Drake broke off in the middle of recounting a scurrilous rumour about a Spanish captain in the Caribbean to say, “My, my! I had heard she was back from Ireland. I did not know she would be at court.”

Even without looking, Elizabeth knew perfectly well whom he meant. Eleanor Percy Howard Gage Stafford (she had a gift for outliving husbands) drew male eyes wherever she went, no matter that she was nearing fifty. But then Eleanor had always had the trick of making the most of her assets. Women despised her, and men…well, many of them despised Eleanor, too, but that rarely interfered with what they wanted from her.

Elizabeth Syndenham laid a possessive hand on Drake's sleeve as Eleanor drifted just out of range. Brazen as she was, she could not approach nearer unless directed to do so by the queen. With an inner sigh, Elizabeth did just that with the slightest wave of her hand. Not that she wanted to speak to Eleanor. But being queen meant doing any number of things one did not want to do.

“Your Majesty.” Somehow, Eleanor managed to infuse the title with memories of thirty years ago, when she had been the king's lover and for a brief time wielded the influence of that position. It might have been even briefer—for William tired of her before long—save that Eleanor managed to give birth to a healthy daughter. William's recognition of Nora had ensured her mother's survival in a cutthroat world.

“Mistress Stafford,” Elizabeth said icily. “Have you come to apologize for your daughter's hasty and ill-advised marriage?”

A rhetorical question, for she knew perfectly well that Eleanor had been taken far more by surprise than she herself had. Though the queen's displeasure was not entirely feigned—her pride instinctively revolted at the lack of protocol in Nora and Brandon Dudley's wedding—the marriage was not technically illegal. Just very ill-advised. She waited with something like pleasure for Eleanor to defend herself.

She should have known better; Eleanor always took the offensive. “To be sure, Your Majesty, I was greatly grieved. But being separated from my daughter for such a long time, I naturally trusted that her royal relatives would ensure Nora's perfect care and keeping.”

Meaning:
Nora was in your daughter's household, so do not lay this at my feet.

Eleanor, wisely or not, would always push to the next insult. “Naturally, I do not suspect Princess Anne of encouraging such disrespect.”

Meaning:
Your daughter is almost openly defying you.

“But of course, Her Highness has in her household those who might think themselves above such matters as the queen's permission. Philippa Courtenay's parents,” Eleanor said delicately, “are hardly a model of respecting royal authority. Having lived with such latitude for so long, it is no wonder the Courtenay family feel themselves above protocol.”

Over Eleanor's shoulder, Francis Drake listened with fascinated interest. And those nearest in the crowd, sensing the atmosphere, had begun to fall silent.

What Elizabeth would have given to have Minuette here just now, for no one had ever been able to oppose Eleanor as wittily and decisively as she had. The two women had a natural antipathy that had only been strengthened through years of enmity.

But this, Elizabeth reminded herself, was not a personal affair. Not wholly. It was a matter of kingdoms and religions and watching eyes. Elizabeth always made certain that such eyes would see only what she wanted them to see.

“Children may believe themselves beyond their parents' reach…but no one is beyond the queen's. Because I do not act in haste does not mean I do not act. And my responses are all the more effective for being measured.” Elizabeth smiled, gracious and cold. “I do not consider Nora at fault in this matter, and I do believe her most sincerely attached to Brandon Dudley. They have prudently retired to his home at Kenilworth Castle, and I do not expect further difficulties from them.”

Eleanor answered as though she been handed lines to read. “But you do expect further difficulties from…elsewhere?”

Meaning:
So it is true…the queen does not trust her daughter.

As that silent thought passed from Eleanor to those watching, Elizabeth raised her hand in dismissal. “You have a house still at…somewhere near Kendal, isn't it? I am sure after the turmoils of Ireland, you will be glad to retire to a quiet life.”

It was a pleasure to see the patches of colour betokening fury on Eleanor's face. But the woman had not survived as long as she had without learning how to submit when necessary. “As Your Majesty wishes.”

Still, she would not be Eleanor without a parting shot. “Speaking of Ireland, your dear cousin Ormond sends his love.”

Meaning:
I've been sleeping with your dear Black Tom, so don't count me out just yet.

Elizabeth allowed Eleanor to curtsey and retreat, her own mouth tight to hold back words she must not say. As the crowd slowly began to pick up the threads of the evening, Francis Drake remarked, “It is a foolish woman who makes an enemy of you, Your Majesty.”

“It is not only women who make that mistake,” she replied grimly, satisfied that every word of what had occurred would soon be passed round the court with greedy pleasure. Spurring gossip was what she had intended with that unpleasant exchange. That it stung her pride to allow it was surely a small price to pay.

“Can't we forget chess?” Felix wheedled to Kit. “I'm bored. I've already done Latin and Greek and logic and mathematics today—wouldn't you rather be fighting than playing games?”

It had been a long winter already, with March still a few days off, and Kit quite sympathized with the boy's impatience at being shut up inside.

“You're too old to whine,” Stephen said from his seat by the fire where he was writing a letter. “Besides, what do you think fighting is but an elaborate game? Chess teaches you military tactics.”

“Then why aren't you playing with me?” Felix asked shrewdly.

Kit, sitting across from the board, laughed. “Stephen is awful at chess. Which might tell you something about the state of his military tactics.” He ducked as his brother threw an embroidered pillow at him.

Felix remained unconvinced. “You can't tell me you'd rather play chess than fight.”

Kit grinned, for there were parts of Felix that reminded him of himself when young. He had also been restless and easily bored. “Finish this game,” he promised the boy, “and we'll practice throwing knives after.”

“Don't spoil him,” Stephen said over his shoulder.

That was a laugh. If anyone spoiled Felix, it was Stephen. Once it might have made Kit jealous, how devotedly the twelve-year-old hung on Stephen's every word and action. Felix liked Kit, but the boy worshipped Stephen. Since Kit had learned both to appreciate his brother and to be certain of his own skills in the last few years, it did not bite as it once might have.

For all his complaining, Felix was a good chess player. Kit was better. He made the boy work the length and width of the board before finally cornering his king. “Checkmate.”

Felix bounced up, gladly conceding. “Knives,” he demanded.

The house was quiet as they passed through. Renaud had been gone for nearly two weeks, on a visit whose purpose he had kept obscured from the household. With just the Courtenays and Felix in residence, much of the staff had been given leave, including the men-at-arms. Kit and Felix left the echoing corridors of the chateau and went to the armory to claim practice knives.

The arms master and Renaud's personal soldiers had traveled with him, so the only one to greet them was the previous arms master, a Scot named Duncan Murray. For more than a hundred years Scotsmen had come to France to fight—the King's Scots Archers were known all over Europe—and it was not unusual to come across them in unexpected places.

Murray was an old man now, seventy if he was a day, but despite his gnarled hands and slower step, he still looked strong as an ox. Gruff as ever, he studied Felix with care, inspecting his hands and arms, before choosing the knives for the boy.

“Want to watch?” Felix asked the old man.

“Watch what? The two of you showing off for each other? I had enough of that with your father and uncle. And your grandfather before that.”

Felix's face darkened. “I am nothing like my father.” He turned abruptly on his heel and stalked away, leaving Murray to shake his head and Kit to draw a deep breath and follow.

Felix was not inclined to talk. They took turns throwing the knives at the thick wooden plank scored with marks from previous throws. Kit gave a few pointers to Felix but otherwise kept his mouth shut.

It was Felix who finally broke the silence. “You knew my father.”

In all Kit's time at Blanclair, Felix had never spoken directly of Nicolas LeClerc. The surprise of it knocked Kit off balance in more ways than one, and his next throw bit the wood wide of the target. “I met him,” he replied cautiously. “Spent several days riding in his company.”

Felix's throw was dead center. “Do you think I'm like him at all?”

The tall, lanky twelve-year-old anything like the fanatic, slightly mad, and wholly self-centered killer who had taken Kit's sister and the Princess of Wales hostage? What was he supposed to say to that?

“I know,” the boy said, dropping his arm and turning to face Kit, “that I don't look like him. I look like my mother. Or so I'm told. I just meant…” He struggled for words, then flung his arms wide as if in appeal.

“I know what you meant,” Kit said, and put his hands on the boy's shoulders. Slowly, Felix relaxed. “I think your father made choices. We all do. Often, we make the wrong ones. But I see no signs that you will make the kinds of choices he did—the kind that cause such destruction.”

“The kind of choices that force your own brother to kill you?” Felix asked with brittle composure. “I suppose it's as well I'm an only child, so it cannot be put to the test.”

Where was Stephen? Kit wondered. He was so much better at this sort of thing than he was. “Look, Felix, if you feel compelled to understand your father, why not ask your grandfather or uncle?”

“Grandfather does not care to be reminded. And Julien?” Felix shrugged. “Julien left.”

As clear as though he'd shouted it, the last word of that statement hung in the air:
Julien left
me.

“You know that your grandfather's asked me to take you to England in the spring for a visit. It will be good for you to spend time with Julien and Lucette. I think they might have some of the answers you are looking for.”