The Virgin's Daughter (Tudor Legacy #1)(31)
“You may ask.”
“If your intent is to unsettle the king, my father, and give room for all manner of speculation throughout Europe as to my future marriage, then I would suggest one more addition to the royal party.”
“And that would be?”
Anne met her gaze steadily. “I want Kit.”
“Christopher Courtenay?” Elizabeth barked a laugh. “I hardly think a second son would be considered a serious contender for your hand.”
“The second son of England’s wealthiest duke, and with the closest of personal ties to the throne. Besides, I rather thought you were fond of Kit.”
Elizabeth was very fond of Kit Courtenay. Precisely because he was so little like his father. Stephen Courtenay was exactly what one would wish for in an eldest son and future duke—steady, serious, and contemplative—in other words, a perfect mirror of Dominic. But Kit…ah, Kit Courtenay was Minuette reborn. Tumbled blond hair, laughing hazel eyes, and charm enough to spare.
It was precisely for those reasons that Elizabeth did not want Kit Courtenay tied, even obliquely, to her daughter as a possible mate. That would never do.
But beneath her discomfort and dislike of being manipulated, Elizabeth grudgingly conceded Anne’s point. Also, it would keep her daughter amenable, which was not a gift to be overlooked.
“I suppose, as Philippa Courtenay is wherever you are, that we might as well include her twin.”
Anne smiled, and it was so like her grandmother that Elizabeth nearly shuddered. Anne Boleyn had looked just as unnerving when she’d got her way. “Thank you, Your Majesty. I promise to give you no cause to regret that decision this summer.”
Only later did Elizabeth remember the subtle emphasis on the last two words.
EIGHT
Nicolas’s customary life at Blanclair since 1572 had been one of solitude and contemplation. Not a natural state, and one to which he had only disciplined himself from sheer necessity. He had become a reader these last years, though he knew himself for only a dilettante scholar. Though he could still ride and hunt and hawk, he’d found less pleasure in physical activities after St. Bartholomew’s Day. Each one served in some way as a reminder of what he’d lost.
With Julien in residence this summer, at least Felix stopped pressing him to come to the practice yard. With Julien in residence, the child paid not the least attention to his father.
That was hardly a new experience. Julien had always been the more engaging of the two, the more openhearted, the more likely to make friends. It hadn’t bothered Nicolas when they were younger because he had plenty of companions of his own and ways to pass the time. After Paris, there had been several very bad years, but then Nicolas woke up to his new life and found new means of entertaining himself.
And now here was Lucette, going out of her way, it seemed, to entertain him.
In her second week at Blanclair, Nicolas spent part of each day with her. What might have been merely a chore was actually something close to a pleasure. If only this were before Paris, he might have seriously considered proposing to her. He could never entirely predict what she would say or how she would respond, and after eight years spent with so few people, Nicolas took great delight in the unexpected.
On Thursday the sixteenth of June, Nicolas invited his son to ride with him and Lucette on an afternoon excursion. The boy could hardly contain his excitement, only slightly dampened when informed that his uncle Julien had work to do and would not be accompanying them. (Nicolas knew that work of his brother’s would involve being shut up in his chamber writing mysterious letters to mysterious people for a mysterious purpose. Though not so mysterious to Nicolas.)
“Very well,” Lucette said with spirit as they rode out of Blanclair, “where is this surprise tour taking us today?”
Felix looked to his father to confirm, and Nicolas nodded once. With a near-shout of joy, Felix burst out, “We’re taking you to Fleury Abbey!”
Nicolas didn’t know why he was so excited. Though, with Lucette to ride next to, Felix would probably have taken similar joy in simply circling the stables for several hours.
The purpose of the afternoon wasn’t really the abbey, though Nicolas was never less than perfectly prepared and had a host of stories with which to entertain her. The purpose was to insinuate himself further into Lucette’s graces, and to glean as much about her family and England as she could be manipulated into sharing.
It was only four miles to the abbey—a distance they could easily have walked—but the brief ride was enlivened by Lucette’s intelligent questions and seemingly genuine interest in their destination. Nicolas told their guest of the founding of the Benedictine abbey, and of how the bones of St. Benedict himself had been brought there in the seventh century from Monte Cassino.
“That’s how the abbey and the town got its name,” Nicolas pointed out. “St. Benedict on the Loire,” he pronounced in careful English. Then again in French, “Much of the building is Romanesque, but there was a good deal of damage inflicted by the Huguenots in 1562. Still, it is true that England’s abbeys suffered destruction on a far greater scale,” he ventured, willing to prick her Protestant heart a bit.
“So they did,” she agreed. “It is a pity that beauty cannot be considered safe from sectarian violence. Still, better to lose art and architecture than lives. England at least has not had religious massacres.”