The Virgin's Daughter (22 page)

She knew the man. Bearded and mustached, looking subtly out of place in the countryside, with a scar down the back of his right hand.

The man Julien had been meeting at the Nightingale Inn the night she fell ill.

—

Julien had spent the morning in a state of uncertainty. When Lucette did not appear, he quizzed a maid who told him she was studying in her chamber. He could hardly knock on her door and ask if she was avoiding him, so instead he wrote several letters to Paris and then took Felix for a ride after the noon meal.

They were just returning up the lane—Felix’s horse only a little smaller than Julien’s, for he was a fierce rider for his age—and bickering about the relative merits of swords on horseback when Julien caught sight of Lucette’s unmistakable dark hair and figure in a dress that looked as though she had plucked flowers from the garden with which to adorn herself. She strolled next to Nicolas, and the two of them looked deep in conversation as they passed beyond sight into the terraced gardens.

For a seven-year-old, Felix was unusually observant. Or perhaps it was that he was nearly as besotted with Lucette as his uncle was. “I don’t suppose my father would like it if we joined them,” Felix said half hopefully, as though wanting Julien to disagree.

“No, I don’t suppose he would.”

Still, Julien helped brush down the horses, lingering in the stables as long as he could without arousing too much speculation, hoping to encounter them returning. When they did, it was with a haste he had not anticipated.

Julien stepped out of the stables into their path, bringing Nicolas to a sudden halt. Lucette’s eyes looked as though she were contemplating something far away.

“Julien!” Nicolas grasped his shoulder. “I’m glad to find you. I’ve sent the groom for Father. We need to make arrangements to bring the body up here.”

“Body? What do you mean?”

Nicolas drew a ragged breath and shook his head once, as though
to clear it. “Sorry, I’m still a bit shocked. There’s a man on the riverbank, with a dagger wound in his chest. Dead as can be, and most violently. I do not like the thought of it on Blanclair’s grounds.”

“Surely not one of ours?”

Nicolas shook his head, but it was Lucette who spoke up. “He looked like a city man. Down from Paris to meet someone, perhaps. He had the look of a man who frequents taverns.”

Her blue eyes locked on his, Julien felt the tingle in his spine. She was telling him who it was—though even she didn’t know his full identity. The emissary from Cardinal Ribault. A man who’d assumed Julien served the same master. And now he was dead, just when Lucette was trying to decide if Julien was a French traitor or an English one.

He wished Nicolas wasn’t here, but there was no help for that now. “Take her to the house,” he told his brother. “I’ll take some men and bring the body in.”

Several grooms followed him down to the river, bringing a wide plank on which to lay the body. What a disaster! Charlotte had the entire neighborhood and half of Paris coming to the chateau in less than two weeks; she was going to be very cross at this dead man disturbing her party atmosphere.

She might be less cross if Lucette agreed to marry one of her brothers. Marry me, Julien thought, even as half his mind scolded him for not focusing on the chaos of the moment.
If it’s anyone here, it will be me
. Nicolas might enjoy her company, but he could not marry her.

Sure enough, it was Ribault’s emissary lying dead on the riverbank. Julien swore vividly, and knelt by the corpse to make a hasty search. The last thing he needed was something incriminating turning up now.

But the man was clean. Only a handful of francs, no paper, no letters, nothing even to identify him. Could Julien get away with denying any acquaintance? Lucette could hardly claim differently without revealing that she had been in that inn as well. There had been others
in the tavern who must have seen them speaking, but Julien knew he could probably get away with insisting the man had been a stranger striking up conversation about nothing at all.

It was, as always, Lucette who was the open question.

With a resigned sigh, Julien shuffled the coins in his hand before dropping them back in the man’s pockets. No need to be a petty thief as well as a traitor.

But his eye was caught by one of the coins. No, not a coin at all. It was lighter, more oval than circular, and imprinted with something other than a king’s image. He plucked it up and held it to the sunlight, squinting to see details. It was reminiscent of a pilgrim badge, but he couldn’t immediately identify from where. Was that a bird? With a single word above it…

NIGHTINGALE
.

—

The first official meeting of the English and Spanish took place in Elizabeth’s council chamber at Hampton Court. She and Philip sat next to each other in separate gilded chairs, with canopies of estate over king and queen. Where usually Elizabeth’s privy council would fill all the seats that radiated out in a circular fashion, she had handpicked the men to attend her in these matters, and they filled only half the circle, to her right. The other half was given over to Philip’s men. It was very much like the councils that had ended, twenty years ago, in their betrothal and marriage. For a moment she thought of herself as she had been then: twenty-seven, not two years on her throne, but firm in her positions and well-backed by her men.

But she had been young. And, as much as she could have expected, in love. Or at least, in desire. She had noted her attraction to Philip the first time she met him, when he came to England to meet with her brother, the king. The desire was not necessary for the bargain of marriage, but it was a pleasant enough addition. If her heart had been buried with Robert Dudley, her body had been willing enough to accept a distant second best.

But now she was forty-six and Philip over fifty, and neither hearts nor bodies would have any say in the matters of state.

Husband and wife sat rigidly royal five feet apart and never once looked at the other. The Spanish party, like their king, favoured black and their half of the council chamber resembled nothing so much as a flock of crows flown into the low-ceilinged chamber through the single window that overlooked the privy garden.

The Englishmen had more variety of colour to them, and more ostentation. Burghley and Walsingham might always wear black, but many of her hereditary nobles liked to adorn themselves in damask and velvet, slashed sleeves and jeweled robes.

But none in that chamber could match Elizabeth. She had always cared about her appearance, and as queen her appearance was as much a part of ruling as her edicts. The nobility wanted a woman they could admire and pretend to understand, and the people needed a figure of myth so that they might not remember that she was only a woman. She had chosen an overgown of royal purple today, edged in ermine and buttoned tightly to her stomacher with pearls.

If she had inherited anything from her father—besides his red hair—it was his sense of occasion and drama.

Lord Burghley, always at her right hand whatever his particular role might be, addressed the gathering. “We are here, Your Majesties, and lords all, to consider on the necessary business of dissolving the marital union between our two countries. With, of course, the desire to continue our union in friendship and mutual support.”

Elizabeth noted Dominic Courtenay, in the second row of seats. His expression didn’t change, but somehow he managed to convey the impression of rolling his eyes. She bit back a smile and was fiercely glad he had agreed to be part of this particular council. Dominic had consistently refused all other offers of leadership—a refusal she would not have brooked from any other man in her kingdom—but every now and then he would accept a brief assignment. Elizabeth thought his presence during these meetings probably
had more to do with his fondness for her daughter than for his queen.

That might hurt, but she could use it.

Philip’s chief advisor, Cardinal Granvelle, expressed in English the Spanish party’s polite gladness to be present, and then, continuing to address Lord Burghley in Latin, said, “The first concern of our king—and each of us—is to protect the future of the Infanta, Princess Anne.”

Infanta
was a loaded word, implying that Spain saw Anne as a legitimate choice to be Philip’s heir. In truth, it was a very tricky situation. Philip had had a son, Don Carlos, from his first wife, but that young man had died twelve years ago. Under admittedly mysterious circumstances. There had been no shortage of English gossip about Don Carlos’s vicious nature, how the prince physically attacked attendants even as a small child, and set fire to a stable full of his father’s horses. He had starved to death while being held in close confinement—whether on Philip’s orders or by his own perverted choice—but Elizabeth knew that Philip, whatever his sense of personal loss, had never once regretted the loss to the Spanish throne. Don Carlos would have been an absolute disaster as king.

But it did mean that Spain was in a delicate position at the moment. As Anne was Elizabeth’s only child, so was she Philip’s. In another place and time, she might thus have risen to join two kingdoms, as her own great-grandmother, Isabella of Castile, had when wedding Ferdinand of Aragon. But in the modern world there was no chance of Spain and England combining into a single empire. Not only was there the impediment of religion, but Europe itself would never permit that degree of unity between two powers. There needed to be balance.

Which, after all, was the point of this divorce. If they’d had another child, then perhaps she and Philip could have split them to rule in different countries. But there was only Anne, and Philip needed to look to his own succession. Elizabeth knew there were wagers flying around court as to how quickly he would remarry. She
herself was certain it would be before year’s end. To a young and fertile lady, no doubt.

But that didn’t mean he would cut all ties with England. Philip was, if nothing else, a loving father. He would want his daughter well cared for. He might have lost the bid to make Anne Catholic, but he could press for her marriage to someone Spain approved of.

The question was, how far would that pressure go?

This first encounter was conducted almost entirely between Lord Burghley and Cardinal Granvelle. The two men were nearly of an age, both in their early sixties, and practiced similar wily approaches to state business. Elizabeth and Philip themselves sat silently watchful, and she could almost feel her husband’s amusement and intensity of purpose. It was possible to feel both at once. She often did.

Burghley pointed out that Anne, by English law, was Princess of Wales and her mother’s direct heir. The Spanish advisor pointed out that laws can be changed. Burghley replied that English laws were not susceptible to change merely for Spanish benefit.

At which point Granvelle changed tactics. “We do not dispute Princess Anne’s right to the English throne. However, it is a source of great pain to her father, the king, that she has never seen his country. May we not negotiate a visit from the serene princess?”

Absolutely not
, Elizabeth thought loudly, but she kept her expression neutral. Burghley handled it smoothly. “Our first and most pressing need is to discuss the possible marriage settlement of the princess. We have several possibilities in mind. No doubt His Majesty”—Burghley nodded to Philip—“has his choices as well.”

“He has.”

“I propose we each submit to the other a list in writing, with the possible suitors and their advantages to Princess Anne. We can reconvene in a day or two, while King Philip enjoys his daughter’s company.”

All very scripted and deliberate. Elizabeth wagered she could write the Spanish list as well as they could write the English one. But
formalities were what made it possible to rule. As both a lady and queen in her own country, she rose first.

“Thank you, gentlemen. Please enjoy our English hospitality until we convene once more.”

Once, Philip might have followed her out, but today he merely rose and bowed to her as she left the council chamber. She imagined he would be on his way to Anne, presumably to present a personal plea to his daughter to consider his choice in matches. Or to raise a fuss and press her for a visit to Spain.

Good luck to him, Elizabeth thought. Anne would be polite and friendly, and only afterward would Philip realize she had given away nothing. It cheered her to think her daughter had gotten that impenetrable facade from her.

As for Anne leaving England…never in her lifetime would it be considered.

THIRTEEN

19 June 1580

Hampton Court

Lucie
,

We leave tomorrow for Portsmouth to receive the Spanish. Anabel is nervous but will not admit it, even to herself. Is it condescending to admit that there are times I feel sorry for her? Well, I do. At least we have been allowed to grow up together as a family, difficult as that may sometimes be. I wonder if King Philip has any idea of the daughter he and the queen have created
.