The Virgin's Daughter (Tudor Legacy #1)(20)
Pippa, of course, noted it. “Which gives you time to be young and foolish. And to see if you cannot persuade one of your parents into allowing you a different marriage. Or, no, it is not an early marriage you are longing for. What you want is your independence.”
Anabel gave a small, secret smile. “I am only eighteen. My mother was not married until she was twenty-six. Why should I be rushed from childhood to marriage bed?”
“As you say, there will be precious little rush about any of this. And really, your mother has shown remarkable restraint in not betrothing you until now. Most future monarchs are matched in the cradle. Not that most of them end by marrying those first matches.”
“Like Mary Stuart and my uncle William? Now that is a path for musing: how might the world be different today if England had married Scotland thirty years ago? I would wager Mary Stuart has wondered that. For if she had married my uncle, and if her son had been William’s rather than Lord Darnley’s…well, then, she would now be Queen of England and her son would rule a united island.”
“And you would never have been born,” Pippa pointed out caustically.
“I didn’t say it was a history I regretted. Only that, on such personal matters as marriage and children do kingdoms rest.”
“And that is why your mother will do the dance of royal betrothals for your sake. Because she, not Mary Stuart, is Queen of England, and on her life and yours rests the security of the kingdom.”
Anabel sobered. “I know,” she said, and those two words were weighted with the knowledge she’d had almost her whole life—that England as an independent and Protestant state depended wholly on the fragile Tudor line. Elizabeth could not afford to keep Anabel single until she was twenty-six. By that age, she needed to have borne at least one son, if not more, to give breathing room to this country she so passionately loved.
Still, she would maneuver for what freedom she could. And being the only child of parents who ruled two different kingdoms meant that she had more pieces of gameplay at her disposal than most royal women. She intended to gamble this summer, but like all good gamblers, she knew that the key to winning was to never wager more than you were willing to lose.
And Anabel would never risk losing England.
—
“I shall miss you,” Lucette said fervently as she hugged Dr. Dee goodbye. He would remain in Paris while she set out for Chateau Blanclair this morning, and she was suddenly much more anxious than she’d ever expected to be at the thought of leaving her last link to the English court.
What if she needed advice? What if she got in over her head? What if she was lonely?
At that last, she drew herself up sharply. You’re not a child, she lectured herself sternly, and you’re hardly going into battle. All you have to do is keep your eyes and ears open and see if your mind can make a pattern out of anything gleaned.
And possibly betray Renaud LeClerc’s hospitality and Charlotte’s friendship by damning someone in their family into the hands of England’s spymaster.
Lucette didn’t have a clear idea what Walsingham would do if she confirmed the connivance of a LeClerc in the plots against Elizabeth’s life, but she was uneasy. Walsingham was not a gentle man where Elizabeth was concerned. And it would be poor repayment of their hospitality to bring ruin to Blanclair.
Dr. Dee held her by the shoulders. “Remember,” he said, “I shall be waiting to hear from you at least every other day. Renaud LeClerc will expect no less, for he knows your father well. Keep your missives brief and remember your equations. I shall know how to solve them.”
Of course he would, for it was Dee himself who had taught her their idiosyncratic ciphering system based on algebraic equations. Whatever number answered the equation attached to one of their letters would be the number used to decipher the coded message in a seemingly innocuous communication. And it would look like nothing more than a demanding tutor and his apt pupil studying mathematics from afar.
They had also agreed on three key phrases in case she needed to write in a hurry and could not be troubled to create a code: I am keeping up with my reading in German meant “all is well.” There is a new argument in Aristotle I am eager to debate with you meant “I have uncovered evidence.” I long for Wynfield Mote at this time of year meant simply “get me out of here.”
Like any good teacher, Dr. Dee spoke to her deepest fear before she’d even put it into words to herself. “Do not be afraid of making a mistake, Lucette. You are not the only asset Walsingham has attempting to uncover the Nightingale Plot and all its links. It is not on your word alone that any man will be condemned. Trust your instincts and your natural intelligence and you will have no reason to doubt yourself.”
“I shall endeavour to do you proud.”
“Just come back safely when you’re finished. That is all the result I, or anyone who loves you, will ever need.”
But for all his comforting words, Lucette was three hours south of Paris before she was able to breathe freely and begin to enjoy her surroundings. The road to Orléans was broad and well-traveled, and Lucette had to admit the company was pleasant. Charlotte was not with them—she and Andry would come on to Blanclair with their children the last week of June, “giving you time to work your charms,” Charlotte teased—but Renaud rode beside her all that morning. Their pace was easy and Lucette felt her spirits rising to something close to euphoria the farther they got from Paris and the last remnants of both parental and royal authority.