The Virgin's Daughter (24 page)

“Finished already?” Anabel replied in Spanish, which she spoke rapidly and colloquially. “The council meetings continue to grow shorter. Is that because all the decisions have been made?”

“The council meetings, as you well know, continue long after Her Majesty and I depart. There are details that our advisors will wrangle about without us.”

“And in all that wrangling, have you expressed your opinions on my future husband?”

Philip eyed her keenly, and Anabel wished she had spent more time with him, that she might more easily know what his expressions meant. Then, with a considered acknowledgment of those around her, he said, “Perhaps that is a subject for private discussion. Would you care to walk with me, daughter?”

She forced a smile. “Gladly.” Surrendering her bow to Kit (who, despite opinions to the contrary, knew when to keep his mouth shut), Anabel left her friends and fell sedately into step beside the King of Spain.

It struck her suddenly at times, like now, that the mother and father she knew were also reigning monarchs. Easier to adjust herself to Elizabeth, but here was the most powerful king in the Western world, with the wealthiest kingdom, and nothing he’d rather do at this moment than walk with an eighteen-year-old girl.

Except she wasn’t just a girl. No matter that she could nearly forget herself in the company of friends—mostly the Courtenays—Anabel knew perfectly well who she was and what it meant. And just now she was determined to discover what her father had in mind for her future.

First, it seemed he wished to discover what she knew of Elizabeth’s intentions. “Is it true,” he asked, “that you are writing to the King of Scotland?”

“At my mother’s request, yes.”

“Not at your own desire?”

“He is a thirteen-year-old boy. My desires do not enter into it.”

He cast her a sideways glance. “As your father, of course, I would rather your desires never enter into your thoughts of boys or men.”

That was not a comfortable topic, so Anabel continued on the theme of James. “It is hardly surprising that England should consider pairing me to Scotland. And surely James must be in favour. The island would be united and one day, God willing, there would be a half-Scottish monarch on England’s throne. How could even Mary Stuart disapprove of that?”

“But she does disapprove. So I hear.”

Anabel shrugged. She had little time to waste thinking of a woman who had been imprisoned for the last twelve years. Mary might occupy her mother’s conscience, but not hers. “Her opinion does not enter into the matter.”

“And does mine?”

“If you care to express it, of course I shall always consider your opinion, Father.”

“There are many on the Continent who would feel compelled to resist the combining of England and Scotland, particularly with your religious inclinations.”

“You mean the Catholics fear a stronger Protestant state.”

“Yes.”

“And what do you fear, Father?”

The expression of melancholy was one she recognized. Philip was in many ways more thoughtful than her mother, or at least more likely to show it. “I know religion is not a comfortable topic between us,
cielita
, but you must know it is not merely a political topic for me. I truly fear for the state of your soul. England has wandered far from God’s path thanks to both heretics and ambitious men. Your late grandfather laid a heavy price on his country and his descendants when he broke with Rome.”

“Rather good that he did, or neither my mother nor I should ever have been born, or at least not born to rule.”

“I could never wish you unborn, Anne. But I could, and do, wish
you willing to consider the truth from which your mother has turned away.”

She held her tongue, then said finally, “You are right. I dislike the topic of religion. If that is your main objection to James, then I can assume none of the English candidates have your blessing, either?”

“The candidates are all devout Protestants. I might like an Englishman in the manner of, say, Henry Howard or Thomas Arundell. Men closer to the Catholic cause. Of course, I should very much prefer it if you would consider a Spanish husband. The women in your family have not found us entirely lacking.”

She stooped to snap a blossom between her fingers. “Replace one Spanish lord with another? I do not think there’s any chance the council would approve. And would it not lend weight to any faction wishing to be named your possible heir in Spain? Unless you have given up all hope of more children, I would not think you ready for such a step.”

“You are as quick as your mother, and nearly as outspoken. If not England or Spain or Scotland…”

“France,” she said, with pardonable skepticism. “The King of Spain is urging me to consider a French marriage?”

“At least the Duc d’Anjou is a Catholic, and only twenty-five. I believe your mother’s council would be willing to consider him. It has been a generation since the last proposed French match ended so tragically.”

One could say that—with the King of England blithely overthrowing the Duc d’Anjou’s older sister for an English commoner who had in turn spurned him. One could trace the late king’s fall to that remarkably bad choice.

Anabel considered what she knew of Anjou. The youngest of Catherine de Medici’s numerous brood, he had been born Hercule but changed his name to Francis when his oldest brother died. Now his brother Charles was King of France, and with no children yet, Anjou was his heir. He had reportedly been scarred heavily by smallpox as a child, but that was neither here nor there in terms of politics.
And indeed, England might well consider him as a possible match. For one thing, he had taken sides with the Protestants during this last decade of religious warfare.

But she was suspicious. If the Spanish did not want England and Scotland matched, even less would they want England and France united.

“I suspect,” she said lightly to her father, “that you are only offering names in the belief that I will instinctively choose in opposition to your wishes. You should know better. I am the daughter of the two cleverest, wariest monarchs of the last hundred years, and though I may have instincts, I will always consider carefully before making my choice.”

“And if it were truly your choice,
cielita
? If you were not who you were and married solely for your own pleasure?”

“My pleasure is England’s pleasure, as well you know. Do not worry for me, Father. I shall be the princess I have been bred to be.”

And that, she thought, is what worries you. Because that might well end in my personal opposition to Spain. And that would be a conundrum indeed. Which did Philip honour more—his religion or his daughter?

—

Mary perused the latest missive from France with a thrill of satisfaction. She never felt more alive than when engaged in conspiracy, and she had not had such an endeavour to occupy her since the Throckmorton plot. That, granted, had ended badly, but she had learned from her mistakes and did not mean to repeat them. And how could she fail with such an ally as Spain on her side?

Nightingales are everywhere
, the letter ran.
Europe has not seen so many in years. Soon, very soon indeed, we expect to hear the same of England
.

Under cover as coming from a de Guise cousin whom she had not seen since her early years in France, the letter was signed once in the copperplate handwriting carefully copied from said cousin. And then, more subtly and more truly signed in the upper right corner of
the top page. A tiny but perfect ink miniature of a nightingale in outline.

Mary did not actually know the identity of the Nightingale mastermind. Plots were always best when kept discrete, its separate parts unable to betray any but themselves. She trusted the clerics through whom Nightingale had come to her attention and looked forward to the day when she could meet—and thank in person—the man behind the plot that would finally see her free of English captivity.

It was never supposed to be this way. When Mary had made her daring escape from Loch Leven in 1568 and the Protestant lords who had imprisoned her—including her half brother, Moray—there had been those who urged her to ship immediately for France and her de Guise relatives. But Mary, knowing how little the Queen Mother of France liked her, and trusting a fellow Queen Regnant—not to mention cousin—could better serve her, had instead impulsively crossed into England and remained there.

She had thought to be taken direct to London to speak with Elizabeth face-to-face and begin the process of returning to her proper place. But Elizabeth had failed her. Surrounded by men as rigid and distrustful as those in Scotland, the English queen had dithered and delayed and allowed Mary’s flight to England for aid to become, instead, a prison.

Mary was a woman of strong passions. She once had thought to be Elizabeth’s greatest friend. Now she was prepared for implacable enmity.

Even alone with her confessor, she spoke guardedly and in coded terms. Gracious or not, Tutbury remained a prison. One that she intended to leave very soon.

“There has been concern expressed for my plight by the Spanish?”

“We understand that you have, indeed, been discussed in council. Of course, one would not expect much from that particular kind of talk.”

Mary didn’t expect anything at all from talk. But Spanish talk meant Spanish thoughts, and that was all she needed to know.

“And the talks will dissolve…when?”

“Philip and his entourage intend to sail from Portsmouth the first week of August. Matters should be resolved before summer’s end.”

They would not, of course, move while Philip himself was in England. Too risky. He needed to be well out of reach of Elizabeth’s anger. When she learned that Spain had conspired to free the Scots queen…well, everyone knew what terrible rages Elizabeth’s father had been prone to. Not to mention Anne Boleyn’s colder wrath. Still, if all went as planned, Mary thought, she could be standing directly in front of Elizabeth and not fear so much as a slap.

It was a perfect plan. All that waited was the passage of time.

FOURTEEN

I
n the days running up to Charlotte’s
bal masqué
, Lucette divided her time between dressmaking sessions with Charlotte, being entertained by Felix and his two little cousins, and avoiding Julien. When she realized the last, she argued to herself that it was because she needed distance to consider what she’d learned thus far, and time to properly place the puzzle of the murdered man on Blanclair’s grounds.

She had written to Dr. Dee, describing the man and his death and his appearance at the Nightingale Inn, in a painstakingly ciphered letter. She had not revealed that it was Julien he’d been meeting. That could wait until Dr. Dee himself arrived at Blanclair. As for herself, she found it difficult to imagine why Julien would have killed the man. More than that, why had Julien turned English spy in the first place? All for the pretty face of one Huguenot girl? Although she wanted to believe him (more than she found comfortable), she maintained a healthy skepticism.

At least, she remained skeptical whenever she was away from
him. Near him, even with half a dozen others present for meals, say, Lucette found herself dwelling far too deeply on how he’d kissed her. Admittedly, she did not have a wide range of experience, but there had been a handful of others besides Brandon Dudley, though none else had gone so far. Was her response to Julien simply because he was very, very skilled? Which he must be if the Paris reports passed through Walsingham and Dr. Dee and the Blanclair household were true. Was it that he was dangerous? She knew herself well enough to recognize that she might like the element of uncertainty in both his character and in predicting his behavior. She spent so much of her life surrounded by the predictable.

But he wasn’t the only unpredictability at Blanclair. Nicolas had become incredibly attentive since her illness, and part of escaping Julien meant turning to the older brother. Nicolas appeared perfectly willing to spend hours with her, riding or walking or simply allowing her to read in his study while he worked on account books. She’d caught him staring at her in contemplation, as though she were a thorny puzzle of logic he was trying to put right, and it made her uneasy. Renaud seemed uneasy about his elder son’s interest as well, which Lucette found puzzling. Did he not think her good enough for Nicolas?
What if I said you ended with a French husband after all?
Pippa had been teasing. Hadn’t she?

Felix, at least, glowed with pleasure whenever he saw his father and Lucette together, and Charlotte radiated approval. One evening before bed, she sailed into Lucette’s chamber ostensibly to discuss the progress of her feather gown for the masquerade, but mostly to launch prying questions that were parried only with difficulty.

Charlotte was determined to be smug. “I thought this was how it would be. Nicolas has been so determinedly solitary for so long that when he asked me about you at Christmas, I knew he must be serious.”

“Nicolas asked about me?” Surely not because of his fond memories of a clingy ten-year-old, she thought. Why, then? The puzzle pieces in her head began to vibrate.