The Virgin's Daughter (4 page)

So Pippa knew—somehow—of the cover story concocted by Walsingham to explain her trip to France. For now, how Pippa knew was less important than that she had opened her mouth and now her
mother and Dominic were looking at Lucette, obviously expecting an explanation.

She breathed deep and let it out, prepared with her mix of truth and lie. “Charlotte is pressing me to visit. She wants me to meet her husband, Andry, and her daughters. Dr. Dee is planning a trip to Paris in late May to spend some weeks in consultation with scholars and in search of old manuscripts. He has offered himself as guardian and companion to France and back. If it’s agreeable to you,” she added disingenuously, looking at her mother. Though Dominic’s would be the final word, it was Minuette he would listen to.

Her mother’s eyes were narrowed as though seeing beneath Lucette’s easy flow of lies to the truth. “What else does Charlotte want?” she asked shrewdly.

“She thought I might like to visit Blanclair.”

“And would you?”

For the first time, Lucette considered what she would feel if this were simply a personal visit and not a royal assignment. “I think…” She hesitated, always careful about letting her composure slip. “Yes, I think I would.”

“We could go with you.” It was Dominic who offered, his voice low and curiously rough.

“There’s no need.” Lucette hoped she sounded cool and indifferent, though the thought of attempting to spy while in their company was horrifying. “Dr. Dee will travel with royal guards and I’m hardly a child myself. I shall be quite safe.”

“Going to come back with a French husband?” Kit, Pippa’s twin, teased.

“Leave her be,” Stephen interceded. He was always quick to take Lucette’s side, if only to oppose Kit. The brothers, of the same mettle beneath their differences, seemed to relish opposing one another. Kit because he was younger and envied Stephen’s title; Stephen because Kit was everything he was not—impulsive, lighthearted, and just a bit dangerous. Not that they wouldn’t turn just as fiercely on anyone from the outside who dared insult the other.

“Boys.” The single word from their mother was enough to silence them. Minuette looked at her husband and then her daughter. “We needn’t decide today,” she said finally. “We will consider it.”

Lucette bit back the urge to snap that it was
her
decision, not theirs, and was surprised at her resentment. Of course they could stop her, or try to, but then the queen would become involved, and the last thing Lucette wanted was a power struggle between her parents and the queen, with herself in the balance.

But knowing that her parents might try to stop her from going to France finally convinced her that it was what she truly wanted. If she didn’t, would she feel so desolate at the thought of it not coming off?

—

Mary Stuart had been a queen since she was six days old, and just because she had spent the last twelve years in a curious state of half imprisonment didn’t mean she was any less certain of who she was and what was owed her. She behaved with perfect courtesy to her various hosts—currently the Talbots, Earl and Countess of Shrewsbury—appreciative when they were kind but understanding when they were not. They had their own prickly queen to attend to, and everyone knew that Elizabeth Tudor was a difficult woman to please. Mary was quite happy to show herself above the pettiness of personal dislike.

But there were some issues on which Mary Stuart would not bend. Chief among them was her desire to leave England. She had fled Scotland expecting Elizabeth to aid her—as a fellow queen, if not as a cousin—but politics and Elizabeth’s stubbornness meant that in twelve years the two women had never been within a hundred miles of each other. But if Elizabeth was not eager to help Mary regain Scotland’s throne, there were Catholics aplenty in Europe who would do nearly anything to aid her.

Mary knew how to wait. How to work behind the scenes. And most importantly, how to turn men to her cause.

So she received her newest guard, seconded to her household at Tutbury from Elizabeth’s court, with interest. Stephen Courtenay was young, only twenty, but he bowed to her with impeccable courtesy and he met her curious regard with equanimity.

“The Earl of Somerset,” Mary said thoughtfully. “Is it not? I have met your father, the Duke of Exeter, years ago in France.”

“Yes, Your Majesty. He told me of your grace and beauty.”

Did he indeed? Mary wondered. It had been nearly twenty-five years ago, before her marriage to the French dauphin, and she remembered Dominic Courtenay as a serious man who’d had more to think of than the beauty of a young girl. But he’d managed to survive the murderous fury of England’s late king, so no doubt he’d learned how to tell useful lies in the interim.

His eldest son had his father’s height and broad shoulders and dark colouring, but there was something about the set of his eyes and mouth that spoke to Mary of the lighthearted, joyous girl who had also been in France years ago. “And your mother?” she asked abruptly. “I recall a lady of grace and beauty herself.”

“My mother is well, Your Majesty.”

“Your family has no concerns about your service here, Lord Somerset?”

“Why would they?”

“I am aware of how close your family is to my dear cousin, Elizabeth.”

“And so they rejoice in any service the queen requests.”

Mary smiled, thinking that twenty years ago she might have been very taken by this young man. Or possibly not. He had none of Darnley’s easy charm, after all, or Bothwell’s arrogance. But Mary had lived long enough to learn to respect other qualities in men: steadiness and loyalty were of greater use to her now than flattery.

But fascination still had its uses.

“May I call you Stephen?” she asked with a smile. When the boy nodded, Mary said confidingly, “I take it as a mark of great honour
that my cousin Elizabeth has seen fit to send you to me. I know how dearly she holds your family. I hope you will not find your service here…unpleasant.”

As she was clearly prompting him to do, Stephen Courtenay kissed her hand. His smile was, like everything else about him, reserved. “What greater pleasure can I have than to serve two queens?”

Perhaps not such a boy. For there was a wry intelligence in his eyes that hinted at his understanding of her games.

A worthy companion, then. And one worth cultivating. Certainly those as close to Queen Elizabeth as the Courtenay family were worth cultivating, but Mary thought that Stephen might be almost an enjoyment for her skills. If she could bend him to her uses…well, that would be a success worthy of her talents.

—

Somehow they managed to reach the last week of March without the subject of France arising again at the Courtenay household. After calculating the chances of a refusal, Lucette went ahead and wrote to Charlotte to accept her invitation, making plans to meet in Paris in late May. Then Lucette waited for the confrontation.

There was plenty to keep her occupied in the meantime. The Courtenays were among the wealthiest families in England, thanks to the gifts of two monarchs, and with that wealth came responsibility. Perhaps there were some nobles who did not care overmuch for their estates, save for what riches they could provide, but the Duke of Exeter was not among them.

The family seat was Tiverton Castle in Devon, near the River Exe, with some of the buildings on the estate stretching back four hundred years. Parts of it were grim, indeed, dark stone and brick anchored to the earth against whatever weather the West Country could throw at it. Though it was a Courtenay inheritance, Dominic had not grown up there. His father had been a younger son, who had died in the Tower under suspicion of aiding in the treason against Henry VIII that cost his brother his head. But the last king had
overlooked the elder brother’s son and restored the estates to Dominic, also increasing the title from Marquess to Duke.

Lucette knew enough of the past to know her father would have been happier without Tiverton and all it came with. But whatever task was set him, he would fulfill to the limits of his ability, and so Tiverton was meticulously run, its tenants prosperous, its soldiers well-trained, and its sometimes unhappy history relieved by the presence of a happy family.

They spent, on average, seven months of the year at Tiverton—from harvest to planting—with the summers passed at Minuette’s family home of Wynfield Mote near Stratford-upon-Avon. Lucette preferred Wynfield, with its small manor house and only a dozen tenant farmers to worry about, but Tiverton had its charms. She liked the towers and the bleak half-ruined walls and the corners around which one felt a ghost might be lurking at any moment, and also liked having responsibilities of her own.

When Lucette and her siblings turned fourteen, their parents had gifted each in turn a small manor and farm of their own from the larger estate. They were expected to be good stewards, to know the details of their servants and crops and livestock, to turn a profit to be returned to the upkeep of the manor and farm. To run a manor as though it were a kingdom of its own.

That last might be stretching things, but Minuette had trained her daughters how to run a household and estate of hundreds, and it was no small task. Part of each day, Lucette was expected to help with the necessary mending and sewing for the family and to take turns with Pippa visiting those in need. The rest of the time was hers, for study or sport. The first was generally mathematics or languages—occupied in large part with correspondence between herself and Dr. Dee—and the second was most often hawking or long rides with Pippa.

The girls were always accompanied on their rides by at least two grooms and often by one of their brothers. With Stephen already gone north, Kit offered to ride with them on a chilly Thursday the
beginning of April, but Pippa turned her twin away before Lucette could as much as open her mouth.

“Just the grooms, Kit,” his twin said. “I know you were set on going into Exeter today.”

“Take Matthew along, at least. He won’t mind.”

No, Lucette thought, Matthew won’t mind in the least. The only child of Dominic Courtenay’s right-hand man and her mother’s closest attendant, Matthew Harrington had been devoted to Pippa since childhood. He was the only person, apart from Kit, who seemed to understand every twist of her sister’s mysterious mind.

But Pippa dismissed the idea at once. “Matthew needs to study. Lord Burghley has agreed to take him on in the treasury. He’s to go to London next month, I won’t have him disturbed.”

Perhaps Pippa’s insistence on riding without familiar company should have alerted Lucette that she meant to pry. But her little sister always managed to take her by surprise.

“So why are you really going to France, Lucie?” Pippa asked as they walked their matching dappled horses in tandem.

“Why don’t you tell me?” She meant to be lighthearted, but thought she sounded suspicious instead.

Pippa’s face lit up with the sudden, dazzling smile of their mother. Lucette had always envied her that resemblance, though her eyes were the jewel-green of Dominic’s. “What if I said you ended with a French husband after all? Would you stay home?”

“Depends on the husband.”

“Poor Julien LeClerc. Why did you so take against him all those years ago?”

How did Pippa know that? They’d all been children then—all right, Julien had been sixteen, but she had been ten years old during that visit and Pippa no more than six.

But then, Pippa always knew far more than anyone should. Except, perhaps, for Dr. Dee.

Why don’t you teach my sister?
Lucette had asked him once.

She doesn’t need me
, he’d answered.

Lucette narrowed her eyes now and said crossly, “I promise you that my very last purpose in going to France is to secure a husband.”

“I know,” Pippa said serenely. “But you are so much fun to tease.”

“Are they going to oppose me?” she asked. No need to specify her mother and Dominic.

“Do they ever oppose you?”

No, Lucette thought, not since I was fifteen. Because they were afraid that, pushed to a choice, Lucette would choose court and Elizabeth.

“What will you do this summer?” Lucette asked abruptly. “Other than Anabel’s visit to Wynfield Mote.”

“I’m not entirely sure Anabel will be allowed at Wynfield Mote this summer. I suppose it depends on how events proceed with King Philip’s visit.”

“So you will not see her?”

“No, I will. Kit and I will ride on to Pontefract to join her when you leave for court.”

They rode a little way in silence, then Pippa said suddenly, “Father fears that if you go to France, you will not come back. He thinks you will choose a French husband simply to avoid having to return home.”

“Told you that, did he?” Lucette asked it drily, but could not help the twitch of her eye.

Instead of answering the (admittedly rhetorical) question, Pippa asked instead, “Are you ever going to call him Father again?”

Keeping her face averted and her voice steady, Lucette retorted, “What makes you think he wants me to?”

“Talk to him, Lucie. It’s been years since the queen’s mischief. Time is only hardening your pride and his fear.”

The queen’s mischief—a neat if understated phrase for what Elizabeth had wrought on Lucette’s fifteenth birthday. When the queen had presented her with an elegant necklace of enameled Tudor roses “because your father would have wished it” and then told Lucette to ask her parents why.

But that had not been the final breach between Lucette and Dominic. No, that she had wrought wholly herself, with only her folly and pride to blame. And that she had never told Pippa.

Not that one had to tell Pippa.

“I have no doubt at all that he will insist on accompanying me to court and Dover when I sail,” Lucette said finally. “Perhaps we will talk then.”

And perhaps horses would fly her across the Channel to France.

13 April 1580

Pontefract Castle

Dearest Father
,

Thank you for the silks. The colours are lovely and will make gowns such as are rarely seen in England. Which was surely your intention
.