The Virgin's War (6 page)

“I doubt it. And anyway, I'm not going to England.”

“So eager to be relieved of my company?” Kit tried to tease.

“I do not want to see Julien or your sister. Why should I? She promised to marry my father. I thought that when they all came back, I would have a mother. But no one came back, save my uncle. And only long enough to ruin my life. Julien killed my father and Lucette married him as reward. Why would I want to see either of them?”

The words might have been adult—Kit suspected rehearsed many times—but the voice, already shaky, broke more than once. And there were tears standing in Felix's eyes.

Kit shivered, but from an instinct to treat the boy as he would have wished to be treated, he let the moment pass without pushing. Better to think on it and decide how best to approach Felix's pain. He tried not to feel that he was simply taking the coward's way out…

Without speaking, they gathered up the knives and returned to the stable yard that included the arms stores and blacksmith's space.

Murray did not come out to greet them, which was slightly strange. Despite his rough manner, the man was devoted to Felix LeClerc. The door to the armory was open. Kit stepped inside and froze.

He heard Felix on his heels, and keeping his voice light and steady, asked, “Felix, will you go get Stephen for me?”

The boy might be young and troubled, but he was quick. He melted away, and Kit hoped Stephen was smart enough to keep him from returning. Just in case, Kit stayed where he was in the door, to prevent the boy from seeing the body of Duncan Murray, faceup on the ground with a sword pinned through his heart.

When Felix ran into the study and told Stephen that Kit wished to see him, there was something in the brittle tone of voice that caught Stephen's ear. He rose straightaway from the letter he'd been finishing to Maisie and said, “What is it?”

The boy's face was pale beneath his shock of dark brown hair. “I don't know. Only he wouldn't let me pass into the armory.”

In the field, one was accustomed to making rapid decisions. In this case, Stephen decided that leaving Felix alone in the house—feeling unwanted and useless—would do greater harm than whatever nastiness Kit had discovered. “Show me,” he said, and was rewarded with a slight easing of Felix's tension.

When they entered the stable yard, Kit looked round from where he stood in the armory entry and even from across that distance, Stephen knew his brother meant to object to Felix's presence. He shook his head slightly, and it was enough. If the brothers had learned anything in the last two years, it was how to communicate with one another.

“Kit?” he asked as he crossed the yard, as calmly as though he were requesting a report from a junior officer.

With only the briefest hesitation, Kit said, “Duncan Murray is dead.”

There was no need to specify it was unnatural—Kit would hardly be guarding the doorway if the man had had a fit or heart attack. “Let me see,” Stephen ordered.

Kit stepped back to let Stephen pass, but kept Felix outside with him. Stephen squatted next to Murray's big body and touched the old man's forehead in respect.

Besides the short sword driven into his chest—one Stephen recognized as belonging to the Blanclair armory—Murray also had a bloody wound a little higher up. It was the kind of wound an arrow made, when pierced into flesh and then ripped free.

“Shot from cover first?” Stephen mused barely loud enough to hear himself. “And when Duncan dropped, the sword to finish the job. But why?”

Why, indeed, kill a man past the years of the kinds of passionate grudges that made men murder? Besides, those were usually committed in haste, and messily. This had been deliberate. Planned. Professional.

Stephen pulled the sword free, noting that the blood flowed sluggishly. He must have been killed just after Kit and Felix left with the knives. He squatted back down, hands searching for anything on or around Murray that might leave a clue. Surprisingly, there was a paper. Half shoved into his jerkin, it had only faint stains on the right edge where his heart's blood had met it. If Duncan had been carrying it before he was shot, it would have been much bloodier.

Stephen had to carry it to the open doorway for the fast-dying winter's light. An anonymous seal closed off the folded paper. And there, in the bottom left corner, something drawn in ink…

“Shit,” Stephen pronounced clearly.

“What?” Kit asked.

He turned the back of the letter to his brother and pointed. It took Kit a minute to understand. “Is that—”

“A nightingale.”

Their eyes met and decisions leaped from mind to mind. “Inside,” Stephen said abruptly. “Now.”

Felix protested. “What about Duncan? We're not just going to leave him there?”

“I will explain inside. Go with Kit.” And, when Felix once more opened his mouth, Stephen again said sharply, “Now.”

At some point Stephen had acquired his father's gift for infusing commands into single syllables. Kit and Felix vanished; his brother, Stephen was glad to see, with a hand on the dagger at his belt.

Stephen drew his own dagger and pulled a sword from the armory walls. Thus doubly armed, he drew a deep breath and set out to search.

Twilight was fast deepening, and both logic and Stephen's trained senses told him that whoever had been here had already faded away. He made a quick circuit of the inner walls, but to little purpose. Blanclair was not meant to be a defensive keep. It was a manor house. There were any of a dozen places an assassin could have crept into the grounds. And with most of the household as well as the men-at-arms away, the killer had risked little today.

Especially if he had been watching the house long enough to know how empty it was.

Stephen rounded the chateau walls once, then came in through the kitchen door and barred it behind him. The cook and scullery maid eyed him in surprise. “It's all right,” he told them reassuringly. “Just closing things up early. You've no need to go outside again tonight?”

The cook knew better than to believe his assurances, but she simply answered, “No, my lord. We've all we need here.”

“Good.”

Next, Stephen found the steward. He gave a list of rapid orders that the man, though not a soldier, accepted without comment. One learned to do that in Renaud LeClerc's household.

Then he found Kit and Felix in the chamber he'd so recently left, his unfinished letter to Maisie still sitting on the table by the fire. Kit prowled the perimeter of the room, while Felix had dropped into a chair and sat apparently memorizing the pattern of the Turkish carpet at his feet.

Stephen set the sword down and returned his dagger to its sheath. Kit stopped moving and Felix looked up.

“Well?” Kit asked.

“Looks clear, but…?” Stephen shrugged eloquently, and pulled out the letter from Murray's jerkin. “Let's see what message we've been left.”

“ ‘An eye for an eye,' ” he read aloud. “ ‘Nicolas LeClerc and Richard Laurent died martyrs in a righteous cause. Their blood demands recompense. This is the first.' ”

At his father's name, Felix froze. Stephen felt the boy's eyes on him, demanding an explanation.

“So,” Kit mused. “Someone Catholic. Maybe some of the Catholics Julien worked with have figured out he was never their man after all. Now they're coming after Blanclair since they can't reach him in England?”

“Maybe.” But Stephen didn't believe it. This had a different feel. An overheated, manipulative, melodramatic feel. If he was right, then all of this was his fault.

Kit had learned to read him too well in the last months. “What?” he asked, eyes narrowing.

Stephen sighed, and darted a glance at Felix. But the boy had a right to know—to be honest, the most right. Blanclair was his home and he'd known Duncan Murray all his life.

“I would wager all of the property I no longer own that whoever killed Duncan was hired. And if we traced payment, I expect we'd find it in the form of Spanish gold.”

Kit choked. “Mary Stuart?”

“Mary Stuart.” Their eyes locked.

Felix looked between them. “The Spanish queen? Why?”

You have made an enemy,
Mary Stuart had told Stephen.

I was always your enemy, lady. You just didn't have the wit to see it until now.

“I spent some months with her during her final months of English captivity.” Stephen spoke carefully. “She was…unhappy when she learned that I had not been entirely honest with her.”

“She hates him,” Kit simplified. “Queen Mary thinks every man is hers to be charmed and those who resist must be punished for it.”

“ ‘This is the first,' ” Felix quoted. “So who is the next?”

“I don't know.” Stephen drew breath and let it out more shakily than he'd intended. “For tonight, we secure the house. All windows that can be are shuttered, all doors barred, and the remaining staff told not to go outdoors unless Kit or I are with them.”

“And tomorrow?”

“Give Kit and me an hour, and we'll let you know.”

Felix stood up, and with a sarcastic intonation so like his Uncle Julien that Stephen shivered, said, “I suppose I should keep my dagger with me.”

“I suppose you should.”

Stephen just prayed the boy wouldn't have to use it.

T
he last day of February, Pippa set out from the Princess of Wales's court at Middleham to ride the short distance to Bolton Castle. Her visit was, officially, no more than social. Unofficially, she was Anabel's ambassador to the Catholic recusants. In the last two years she had been over most of the northern landscape—from Hexham south to Sheffield, and all along the Scots border from Berwick to Carlisle. She often traveled with Madalena, whose Spanish Catholic credentials carried weight despite the fact that she had been known to attend Anglican services with the princess.

On this particular visit, however—as ordered by Anabel—her companion was Matthew Harrington.

To be fair, Anabel had only resorted to ordering when Pippa would not be persuaded by softer words.

“Why so opposed?” Anabel had asked. “You're the one who wanted Matthew in my household in the first place!”

“For his abilities and his good sense,” Pippa said with considerable exasperation. “Not to flirt with.”

“That's a relief, because he's barely had more than ten words from you at a time since we came north. Why, Pippa?”

“Do not meddle with my privacy, Your Highness.”

At that, Anabel's face had darkened with temper. But her eyes held a gleam of far-too-uncomfortable understanding. “The visit to Bolton Castle has nothing to do with your privacy. And as the Earl of Arundel is one of those likely to respond better to a man, then Matthew goes with you. Am I clear?”

So here they were, cantering uncomfortably across the frozen ground without a word exchanged until they reached Bolton Castle. The medieval structure was a perfect example of a rectangular castle and loomed over the surrounding landscape ominously. Inside the walls, though, all was warmth and welcome.The gatehouse guards drew back to allow Pippa, Matthew, and their eight men-at-arms to ride through the portcullis. They were met in the courtyard by grooms, one of whom Pippa allowed to hand her down from her mare.

“Lady Philippa!” It was Henry Scrope, tenth Baron Scrope of Bolton Castle, striding across the yard to greet them. “Such a pleasure to have you grace my home again.” Pippa had always liked the baron, his humour and good sense a blessed counterpoint to the border violence he'd spent much of his life controlling. More than fifty years old, he was as vigorous as men twenty years younger, and still wore his hair long and swept straight back from his high forehead.

“The pleasure is mine, Lord Scrope. I believe you've met Matthew Harrington, household treasurer for the Princess of Wales?”

The men shook hands, then Scrope suggested, “Let us escape the weather and take refreshment in the upper solar.”

In the solar awaited Scrope's quiet visitor, who had taken the trouble to travel north with only a handful of men and with neither banners nor livery: Philip Howard, son of the late fourth Duke of Norfolk, himself now the twentieth Earl of Arundel. Where Scrope was of an age with Philippa's parents, the Earl of Arundel was just five years older than herself. Slim and handsome, he greeted Philippa with courtesy.

“My lady, thank you for taking the trouble to ride to Bolton.”

“I believe all the thanks are due to you, my lord. The burden of travel has been yours.”

After five minutes of general courtesies and arranging seating with trays of delicacies laid to hand, they began their negotiations in earnest.

Pippa led the way. “Princess Anne respects your faith, as you know. She is aware of the burden imposed on the recusants and desires to meet with as many as possible to share their concerns.”

“To what end, my lady?”

“Discussion is not an end in itself?”

“Discussion is nothing but a sop used to distract from the lack of real reform.”

Scrope intervened. “They are serious, Arundel. Listen to what they offer.”

“So there is something on offer?”

Matthew stepped in, for it was true that Arundel would take a man more seriously. In his calm, resonant voice, he said, “Her Highness is offering two seats on her privy council to those of the Catholic faith.”

Stunned silence. Pippa had never seen the elegant Philip Howard so ruffled. He huffed a laugh, as though waiting for the joke to be revealed, but the rest of them merely looked steadily at him.

“You must be mad. Does the princess know what rash promises you are making in her name?”

“Listen to them, Philip,” Scrope counseled. “What have you to lose?”

From his widow's peak of brown hair above a wide brow to the narrowing of his chin, Arundel looked darkly affronted. “My father lost his life to the present queen for his faith—why should I trust what her daughter's servants say?”

Matthew said sharply, “The Duke of Norfolk lost his life for attempting to kill Queen Elizabeth and put Mary Stuart on her throne. With himself as her husband.”

“None of that is relevant,” Pippa interposed, since Arundel looked ready to stalk out in offended pride. “Her Highness is entirely serious about this, Lord Arundel. She will be in York this spring for the Council of the North. From amongst those Catholic lords who attend her at that time, she will name two to her council.”

“Why?”

“Because you need representation. If you do not have it, England will continue to split along religious lines. The Princess of Wales does not intend to come to her throne many years from now to rule only part of this people.”

Arundel's expression remained wary. “The queen will never allow it.”

“The queen is not here.”

“Does Her Highness have men in mind?”

“Why do you think we are meeting with you?”

There was a long, considering silence before Arundel shook his head. “I am afraid I must refuse. I do not intend to be in the North this spring.”

And now came their trump card. Very gently, Pippa said, “Because you intend to sail from England in April.”

A slight flicker of the eyes, but the answer came pat. “I don't know what you mean.”

“You need to take better care with your servants, Lord Arundel. One of them is not as loyal as you think. We are aware that you plan to flee to the Continent in the spring and leave England behind for good.”

Arundel admitted to nothing. “Would not the queen be glad to see the Catholics gone?”

“Others may be able to flee unnoticed, but not Philip Howard. The queen will stop you; you must know that. If you try to leave England, you will be arrested and taken to the Tower. Would you not rather have the chance to counsel Her Highness on the condition of Catholics in the realm?”

“You must consider it, man,” Scrope intervened. “This offer will never come from London. But Princess Anne is the daughter of His Most Catholic Majesty, King Philip. One of her chief ladies is a Spanish Catholic. The princess is the best chance we have of bringing a peaceful end to this religious conflict.”

“Does Princess Anne intend to turn Catholic?”

“Princess Anne intends to heal the divide amongst her subjects.”

“That is sophistry.”

Pippa leaned forward and replied with all the intensity of which she was capable. It was a great deal. “Then I shall speak plainly. England will never return to Rome. It is far too late. Even were a Catholic monarch able to obtain England's throne, they would not be able to hold it. The sentiments of the people are too strongly opposed. That does not mean there cannot be a great deal done to ease the suffering of English Catholics.”

“How?”

“That is what the princess's privy council is meant to decide.”

At long last Arundel gave a begrudging smile. “You present an interesting proposition, Lady Philippa. You will not object to my taking time to consider it?”

She was swept by relief, for she had been afraid of outright rejection. “If you must. We look forward to hearing from you shortly.”

And that was that. They said their muted farewells and Baron Scrope led them back to the courtyard. “You will not stay and let us entertain you further?”

“Her Highness will be anxious to hear our report. And also,” Philippa studied the iron sky, “it looks as though it's going to snow again. Thank you, Lord Scrope.”

As Philippa prepared to mount, Matthew neatly cut off the groom waiting to help her. He offered his linked hands and said softly, “Well done, my lady.”

She paused. “I wish you wouldn't call me that.”

“What should I call you?”

“There was a time when you called me Philippa.”

He drew up to his full height, so that she had to raise her head quite far to see his expression. It was forbidding. But he never raised his voice. “And there was a time when you talked to me about things besides Princess Anne. When you are ready to confide in me again, I will call you by your name. My lady.”

Then he bent once more and she allowed him to help her onto the horse.

The seven miles back to Middleham passed in frozen silence.

If their time in France had accomplished nothing else, it had taught the Courtenay brothers to work together. As Kit had learned to respect his brother, he thought that Stephen in turn had learned to trust him.

They needed all their combined talents in the aftermath of Duncan Murray's murder.

They sent couriers to track down Renaud. As the vicomte had not told them exactly where he was going—only in the vicinity of Poitiers—four couriers left to cover different routes, but each carrying the same message:
Come home.

The next set of messages extended leave for the household servants. No sense having more civilians to worry about until they knew what was going on. The men-at-arms returned, however, and one week after burying Duncan Murray, Stephen summoned the men to present the current situation. Felix was also present; as the only LeClerc in residence, he could technically be said to be in charge.

Kit sat next to Stephen, where he could watch the room. His brother stood and spoke evenly and calmly, in a manner Kit had often heard their father do.

“You know of Duncan Murray's death, and the written threat that accompanied it. It was not, however, the first indication of…hostile attention. I had no reason before to suppose that attention was directed at anyone beyond me. Now that we know to what lengths our opponents will go, I am not prepared to simply sit and wait.”

Coolly, calmly, as though discussing the weather, Stephen continued, “We've heard from three of the four couriers sent after the vicomte. Though they had not as yet located his present whereabouts, two of them reported that it appeared he had been summoned to meet privately with Henri of Navarre.”

There was a murmur at this news, for Navarre was the de facto leader of the Huguenots in France. The French Protestants had suffered greatly ever since the St. Bartholomew's Day massacre in Paris twelve years ago. And with it looking increasingly unlikely that King Henri III would sire an heir, Henri of Navarre remained the nearest successor to the Catholic throne.

For a man as supposedly apolitical as Renaud LeClerc to meet with the Huguenot leader was indeed a surprise. Kit's first reaction to the news had been,
No wonder Renaud didn't tell anyone where exactly he was going
.

“One of the few things we can know for sure about Duncan Murray's killers is that they are committed Catholics and prepared to kill those even remotely attached to the Protestant cause. If they have been watching Blanclair, they might also have followed the vicomte to Henri of Navarre. The fourth courier is now three days late in reporting. That is possibly nothing serious. I do not like the possibility that I am wrong.”

“And so?” asked the sergeant in command of the men-at-arms.

“And so, at daybreak tomorrow, Lord Christopher and I will ride in the direction taken by the missing courier in hopes of meeting either him or the Vicomte LeClerc along the road. Those of you here are charged with protecting the house in our absence.”