The Virgin's Daughter (Tudor Legacy #1)(22)
But it was a fine warm day for September, and the long windows of the study were open. Lucette was small enough to fit beneath the windows and so not be easily seen by anyone inside.
Like most of her eavesdropping, it was more exciting in theory than in practice. But she had long ago learned that just because she didn’t understand everything she heard didn’t mean it wouldn’t quiet her mind to know it. So she squirreled away the people and places and concerns of her parents: Don Carlos…starved to death, they say…Burghley fears more…if Philip was involved…Anabel’s guards to be tripled…already the Catholics fear Mary Stuart will never leave England…Philip must press now, for another heir from Elizabeth or else a divorce…the weight of two realms resting on a little girl…
And all at once, like fireworks exploding, that collection of names and phrases arranged themselves into a startling, shocking pattern.
It was like stars suddenly arranging themselves into constellations, or disparate shapes of fabric sewn into the folds and pleats of a gown. Lucette could hardly breathe for surprise and pleasure as the wide range of her parents’ conversation rearranged itself into a coherent whole.
Mary Stuart was the easiest piece, for she was Queen of Scotland (or had been) but had recently fled into England from her rebellious subjects. Don Carlos, though, was King Philip’s son and heir to the Spanish throne, as Princess Anne was Philip’s daughter and Elizabeth’s heir. Don Carlos was dead. King Philip needed another heir. Either he would try to take Anabel to Spain, or he would need a new wife, for surely Queen Elizabeth would not have any more babies now?
Spain and England might become enemies. If they did, it wouldn’t be long before France was pulled into the fight.
And at this very moment a French family was resident at Wynfield Mote.
At last Lucette had something important to say to Nicolas LeClerc. News that would make the tall and handsome eighteen-year-old look at her with something other than indulgence in his expression.
Unfortunately for her, when she finally located Nicolas, he was in the stables with his brother Julien. Lucette was suspicious of Julien LeClerc. He laughed too much and smiled too often, and she’d heard one of the serving girls giggle, “His charm will be the death of him, like as not, as soon as he meets a father he can’t talk his way round.”
Besides, he teased her as though she were still a child, no older than Kit and Pippa. So when she heard the brothers talking, Lucette darted into the nearest stall while she figured out how to detach Nicolas from Julien.
And thus, once again, found herself eavesdropping. They spoke in French, which Lucette could follow almost as easily as English.
“So we’ll be off home sooner than later?” Nicolas mused. “Father won’t want to risk being caught between England and Spain if Philip moves against his wife.”
“Seems a pity to run when there’s trouble. Father might just as well decide to offer support to Lord Exeter.”
“You know better than that, Julien. Father and Exeter are two of a kind—men who know when to sit out trouble rather than rush to meet it. And I daresay Lord Exeter will be relieved to see the last of us—or at least of you.”
“What does that mean?”
“His wife. You’ve been panting after her all summer like a dog in heat. There’s a limit to the man’s forbearance—”
The sound of quick steps, and sudden violence. Lucette covered her mouth to stifle a gasp, but the brothers’ scuffle pushed them down the center aisle and directly into her line of sight. Julien’s wheat-coloured hair hung in his eyes as he shoved his brother. Nicolas, his hair several shades darker, was the first to see her.
“Hello,” he said in English, and the change of tone was enough to alert Julien, who dropped his hands and whirled round.
Lucette would not be cowed by Julien’s grim face, nor—more disquieting—the sudden smile like the sun blazing through a summer storm. “In faith you do get around, child. Everywhere I turn, you seem to be at my feet.”
“Not your feet,” she said, then stopped as her face flamed.
She wished she knew some bad words to hurl at Julien as his smile broadened. “No, of course not. Why would you haunt me when my brother is at hand? Nicolas is all that is good and pure. But sweet as you are, I don’t think Nicolas is quite so pure as to wait the necessary years for you to grow up.”
“Julien.” Nicolas, usually so mild, could make his voice whip like an adult’s when he wished it.
With a shrug, Julien lost interest. “Were you looking for me?” Nicolas asked her kindly.
As it was clear they already knew about the death of the Spanish prince, Lucette scrambled for something interesting to say. But her mind, usually so quick, supplied nothing. “I came,” she finally said loftily, “to look at the kittens.”
As long as she lived, she would never forgive Julien LeClerc for the slow, cynical smile that said, I see right through you, child.
SIX
“Thus far,” Elizabeth announced, “I have not found this June especially to my liking.”
The court was still at Greenwich, from whence it would soon set out on its way to Portsmouth to welcome the Spanish. Elizabeth paced the eastern gallery, resplendent in gold velvet and damask, the bodice and skirt encrusted with crystals. Her open ruff of lace rose stiffly to frame the coiled plaits and curls of one of her many wigs, and ropes of pearls swung to the pointed v of her waistline. Burghley and Walsingham were alone with her as she preferred when she was out of sorts.