The Virgin's Daughter (Tudor Legacy #1)
Laura Andersen
PRELUDE
June 1568
Elizabeth Tudor—Queen of England, Ireland, and France; Supreme Head of the Church of England; estranged wife of King Philip of Spain; warrior savior or bastard heretic depending on one’s point of view—walked the grounds of a quiet country manor in company of the woman once her dearest friend, and allowed herself to be at ease.
Or relative ease for, of course, a queen could never entirely unbend. Not when there were so many eager to relieve her of her crown.
But today was not a day for such concerns. Elizabeth would once have linked arms with Minuette Courtenay, Duchess of Exeter, as they walked, but that was many years and even more choices ago. But their steps still matched and so did their thoughts.
“The boy is besotted with you,” Elizabeth noted drily.
Minuette’s amused laughter rang as clear as childhood. “Julien LeClerc is sixteen years old. He’s besotted with every female he lays eyes on.”
“Does Dominic take his infatuation as lightly as you do?”
“Are you implying my husband has cause for jealousy?” There was the slightest edge to Minuette’s teasing question. She had always been highly protective of Dominic.
“I am implying only that your husband’s sense of humour has never been highly developed, least of all where you and other men are concerned.”
Even a queen occasionally slipped in her choice of words; a shiver passed between them and Elizabeth was grateful when Minuette neatly changed the subject. “It is good of you to allow Anabel to come this summer, despite our French guests in residence.”
Only a handful of people used that particular name, for Anabel was properly Her Royal Highness Anne Isabella, Princess of Wales and only daughter of the Queen of England and the King of Spain. At six years old, Anabel was already a precocious mix of Elizabeth’s cleverness and Philip’s cold-blooded practicality. She had her own household mainly based at Ashridge, but for the last three summers Elizabeth had sent Anabel to the informal Courtenay household at Wynfield Mote. She wanted her daughter to have some warmth in her childhood, and no one better to provide it than Minuette. It also provided Anabel with friends, for Minuette had four children of her own, including twins born the same month as the young princess.
Elizabeth dismissed her generosity with a wave of one hand. “I owe Renaud LeClerc a debt for his care of you. And I can use every possible ally wherever they are placed. A French general and vicomte is a useful friend for England just now.”
They had reached the practice yard, a cleared section of fields by an indolent river where today Dominic and Renaud supervised a training bout of swords between Renaud’s sons. Julien, the sixteen-year-old whom Elizabeth had watched turn bright colours every time he looked at Minuette with what he thought was studied nonchalance, was already taller than his eighteen-year-old brother, Nicolas, but he was less disciplined. Julien scored hits more by virtue of luck than skill, something that Renaud pointed out to his younger son in caustic French. The smaller children were ranged round the outside of the yard, cheering indiscriminately both young men, who in age and privileges were almost godlike to those ten years behind them.
Minuette’s sons followed every move of the older boys and their swords with rapt attention. Eight-year-old Stephen and six-year-old Kit were as different in temperament as in looks, but they shared an affinity for weapons and tactics. From the boys, Elizabeth’s gaze skipped over her daughter hand-in-hand with Kit’s twin, Pippa—the girls in nearly matching shades of blue gowns, Anabel’s subtly more splendid and artful—and rested where it most often did whenever she saw the Courtenays.
Ten-year-old Lucette Courtenay was the eldest of the younger group, a curious, intelligent girl with dark brown hair underlaid with tones of red. From the time she could walk, Lucie’d had a restless, impatient air, as though she could not drink in the world fast enough.
There was something poignantly familiar about that impatience.
But it was Lucette’s eyes that Elizabeth dwelt on. Where Minuette had hazel eyes, and Dominic’s were deep green, their eldest daughter surveyed the world from eyes of the brightest sea blue, a stunning combination with her dark hair and pale skin.
“No.” Minuette interrupted Elizabeth’s musings.
Though they did not even look at one another, Elizabeth knew that Minuette had heard the unasked question. It was the same question—and answer—they had been tossing between them for years.
Have you told her?
“You cannot keep it from her forever,” Elizabeth pointed out, as she so often had. “There is no mistaking those blue eyes. When once Lucette is introduced at court—”
“Who says she will come to court?”
“The eldest daughter of the Duke of Exeter? She’ll be at court.” Elizabeth spoke with the confidence of a monarch accustomed to obedience. “People have long memories, Minuette. And when they see your daughter’s eyes, she will hear the stories. Do you not prefer she hear it from you?”
Minuette turned her back, a rudeness that only Elizabeth’s oldest friend could get away with. “She is my daughter, and it is not your concern, Your Majesty.”
Elizabeth watched her friend walk away and thought, The niece of the Queen of England is very much the queen’s concern.