The Virgin's Daughter (Tudor Legacy #1)(109)

Most unusually, Kit did not immediately respond. Anabel was used to his ready tongue and the quick wits that could spin any conversation a dozen dizzying directions without warning. But in the last months, his irritability had been accompanied by these bouts of reflection before speech.

Kit did not apologize; she had not expected him to. But he offered something of an explanation. “I am growing older, just as you are. I do not have a throne waiting for me, nor even a title. Stephen inherits my father’s riches. I must make my own path. And I would prefer to do it without undue favoritism.”

“And what of due favoritism? Do you expect me to appoint strangers to serve in my household?”

“I am not insensible of the great honour, Your Highness. But I have made other plans. The Earl of Leicester is bound for Dublin and has appointed me his secretary. I leave for Ireland in two weeks.”

“You’re going to Ireland with Brandon Dudley? To be a secretary?” Anabel laughed in disbelief. “Why not at least go as part of Stephen’s forces?”

“If I’m not going to accept your favours, Anabel, I’m hardly likely to go begging to my brother.”

That at least sounded like the Kit she had always known—irreverent and occasionally insolent. Although Anabel was as close to the Courtenay children as anyone, the princess occasionally studied relationships as an outsider and wondered if the pleasures of siblings outweighed the resentments.

“I don’t suppose there’s any chance you would reconsider?” There was a wistfulness to her plea she had not expected.

His quick, rueful grin was answer in itself. “You’ll be happier with someone more biddable, Your Highness. You and I should only spend our days arguing.”

But those are the best parts of my days, Anabel thought forlornly. Arguing with you.

She was still fretting about his uncharacteristic refusal that night when Pippa helped her change for bed. There were two other ladies moving silently about with her gown and kirtle and ruff, but Anabel ignored them.

“What is wrong with Kit?” she demanded of his twin.

Pippa continued to brush Anabel’s hair as she answered. “Kit told you the truth. For all his mischief, he is ambitious and proud. Is it truly a surprise he should wish to make his way independently?”

Pippa had her twin’s sharp cheekbones and eyes that tilted up on the outside. They both had their mother’s thick, wavy hair the colour of sun-warmed honey, but Pippa had a streak of black that framed the right side of her face. It made her look—not exotic, exactly—but otherworldly. It was not the only otherworldly aspect to her character.

But at the moment Pippa did not seem interested in sharing any of her unique knowledge, so Anabel contented herself with logical argument. “Being Master of Horse for the Princess of Wales would be an independent position. I don’t mean to tell him how to perform his responsibilities.”

“Kit does not wish to take your gifts.”

“Because he does not wish to waste time in my company?”

Pippa laid down the brush and, when Anabel made no objection, pulled a stool alongside her friend. Her voice was kind but implacable. “You know better than that. Anabel, what is truly bothering you?”

Your damned twin with his arrogance and pride and sudden wish to cut himself off from me. Kit was hers, as much as Pippa. What was the point of being royal if one could not keep hold of the people one wanted?

But not even to Pippa was she prepared to share the full turmoil of her thoughts, because beneath them lurked something that frightened her. An image—a memory—that came to her at night as she drifted between waking and sleep.

The expression in Kit’s eyes when he’d walked into Wynfield Mote a year ago to negotiate her out of the hands of a violent man.

Anabel had not seen that expression in the months since. Instead, Kit had been moody and unpredictable. And now he seemed so determined to get away from her that he was willing to go to godforsaken Ireland.

When it must have become clear that Anabel would not speak further, Pippa sighed. “Someday you will have to learn to trust yourself, Your Highness. I cannot do it for you.”

30 June 1581

Dearest Lucie,

When you traveled to France last year, I teased you about coming home with a Frenchman. Or half-teased. I did not know—I never know—for certain how events would play out. I knew there was danger and pain and loss all tied together with your happiness…but is that not the nature of life itself? One cannot untangle only the parts one wants. They are woven together too tightly.

How do I tell Anabel that? She is not prepared to admit, even to herself, that she knows perfectly well why Kit is leaving England. Having had the shock of confronting his own feelings for her so suddenly last August, Kit cannot go on taking her favours as nothing more than the friend he has always been. But nor will he press on her a love she is not prepared to accept. To serve in her household would be a daily insult to his pride, especially with the looming visits of the French and Scots representatives coming to vie for her hand. Kit knows perfectly well that Anabel is not meant for him.

What do I know? Only a tangle of paths and choices and troubles that lie ahead. England’s future is no more secure than Elizabeth’s or her daughter’s. If I knew how it would all turn out, I would truly be the witch some might fear me of being.

But I am only a girl who knows more than I wish.