The Virgin's Daughter (Tudor Legacy #1)(30)
Either way, she wouldn’t be able to lay her hands on anything in the way of physical evidence.
She returned to her chamber and, before the family returned from church, wrote a brief note to Paris. This time she created an equation that, when solved for x, gave the number seven. Creating the resultant code in an apparently innocent letter kept her ruthlessly focused on the business at hand, leaving no time for qualms of conscience.
When deciphered, Dr. Dee would read the following message: The house is full of secrets, none of which may be relevant. I shall look to the village for more information.
—
Elizabeth received her daughter in royal state at Hampton Court Palace on the first stage of the court’s progress to Portsmouth. Anne arrived by barge to all the fanfare and pomp accorded the Princess of Wales, and as she watched her daughter approach, Elizabeth felt for a moment that if she blinked, she would be the princess presenting herself to the king, her brother…
But Elizabeth was a master of time and memory, and she knew perfectly well who she was. Anne made a gracious obeisance and, at her mother’s command, drew ahead of her attendants to walk alone with her mother toward the palace.
“You look well,” Elizabeth said, and heard an echo of her own youthful impatience at her mother’s formality thirty years ago. Why can we never talk about any but trivialities? she’d wondered then—and wondered now. And it wasn’t simply the conversation. Sometimes she wished that she had not given her mother’s name to her heir, for Anne Tudor occasionally manifested the brilliant, biting wit of her grandmother. Not to mention her stubbornness, although that could also be easily explained by either of her parents.
“I am delighted to return to court, my lady mother.” Anne always knew to the precise word and shade of tone how to judge her conversations. Today she meant to come near to intimacy.
“I should think so,” Elizabeth replied tartly. “Seeing as how you have been hounding me and my ministers for months.”
Anne slid her gaze sideways. “It was you who taught me the virtues of judicious pressure applied with a modicum of charm.” Her grin, which flashed and vanished, was so redolent of William that Elizabeth nearly faltered.
“Very well,” Elizabeth conceded. “We two are here and as alone as we are likely to be anytime soon. Let us speak plainly. You are at court to ensure your father’s welcome and ease the discomfort of our divorce. Philip will want to assure himself of your health and education and, no doubt, the firmness of your religious sentiments. You know as well as I do that your father’s first order of business upon leaving England will be to remarry. He has no heir for Spain as long as you remain firmly Protestant and firmly in England. Encourage him, Anne, to marry quickly. It will be to your advantage.”
“To have a royal stepmother?” she asked lightly. “Perhaps. And you, Mother? Shall I soon be required to endure a royal stepfather?”
“Don’t be impertinent. I am wed to England, and always have been. That is why my marriage to Philip has faltered—no man can endure a rival.”
“And what of my marriage, Your Majesty?” Nicely judged use of her title, for Anne knew that her marriage would be decided by the monarch and not the mother.
“I am pleased with how you have begun your correspondence with James. I will be pleased if it continues in the same vein. Equally, there will be more than one English noble in our entourage to meet Philip who might be seen as a possible domestic match for you.”
“Francis Huntingdon and Robert Devereux.”
“Naturally. As well as the soon-to-be-invested Earl of Leicester, Brandon Dudley.”
Anne stopped walking abruptly. Elizabeth did not. The Queen of England did not alter her stride or her destinations for anyone. She counted to twelve before Anne caught up with her once more, this time with an attitude edging toward insubordination.
“I am not going to marry Brandon Dudley, Mother.”
Or perhaps throwing herself right off the edge into absolute insubordination. “You will do as you are told,” Elizabeth said coldly.
“I apologize, Your Majesty.” Anne knew how to pull herself back. “I meant to say that I cannot envision the political advantage of matching the Princess of Wales with a newly made noble. Particularly one born in the Tower, and whose father and grandfather both met their ends at the hands of a royal executioner.”
“You must learn to see the wider view, daughter, and not simply details. Brandon Dudley will make people nervous, particularly your father. That makes him useful in this context without any commitment to a final outcome.”
“Are you trying to make people nervous,” Anne asked with low intensity, “or are you trying to re-create your own past? You know people say that Brandon only flourishes because of his resemblance to his uncle Robert. Is it wise to give further ammunition to such rumours?”
No one spoke to Elizabeth of Robert Dudley—absolutely no one. “That is enough. You will behave with impeccable courtesy to every member of my court and will not presume to tell me what is wise.”
She knew that particularly intent look on her daughter’s face meant she was thinking furiously. Philip looked the same when he was about to propose something unexpected.
With perfect humility, Anne curtsied. “I am, as always, yours to command. My lady mother, I would never presume to know more than you, but may I make a request?”