The Virgin's Daughter (Tudor Legacy #1)(32)
And clearly she was willing to prick right back. Nicolas inclined his head in acknowledgment of the hit and changed the subject. “I understand your parents are at court just now. An unusual event, as I recall.”
“Yes.”
“And your siblings?” Though he knew perfectly well where all three of them were.
“Stephen is at Tutbury, with Queen Mary Stuart. Kit and Pippa are also at court with my parents.”
“But principally in attendance on the Princess of Wales, no? I remember how close the three of them were, even as little children. I could never be certain who was the most mischievous—your brother Kit, or Princess Anne.”
That wrung a smile from her. “They incite each other in the worst way. At least Pippa is levelheaded enough to keep them from the worst excesses.”
“And do you think it a good idea that the princess is kept so separated from her own father?” Nicolas didn’t really know where he was going with this line of questioning. He trusted that anything Lucette said of importance would make itself known.
For some reason, this last question displeased her. With a slight stiffening, Lucette replied, “Fathers and daughters are always complicated. Who can say if their relationship might not be the better for the distance?”
He lapsed into silence after that, allowing Lucette to draw Felix into delighted conversation. He could not care less about Anne Tudor’s relationship to her father, except insofar as her birth made her valuable. And because of that value, the princess would always be closely guarded. The man who could manipulate the nature of that guard…that man would hold a critical piece of European power in the balance.
They made a quick tour of Fleury’s highlights: the eleventh-century Tour de Gauzlin, the square tower built by the abbot who was also a bastard son of King Hugh Capet; the Gothic north portal with its black pointed arch and stunning reliefs; the spacious sanctuary with its Roman mosaic floor in polychromatic marble; and the tomb of King Philip I and the shrine of St. Benedict himself.
On the return ride, Nicolas dropped all politics and history and simply made himself agreeable to Lucette. He might not have used those skills on a lady like herself for many years, but he had not forgotten. His charm was not as natural as Julien’s, but it sufficed to bring colour to her cheeks and no doubt remind her that she had once thought him the very pinnacle of male perfection.
That she had been ten years old then hardly mattered—he knew how to play on a woman’s emotions.
But all that playing left him in an uncomfortably aroused state. When they returned to the chateau, he ate alone at a small round table in his bedchamber, then wrote two letters for his personal groom to hand deliver to Paris. After midnight, when he was sure the household was mostly sleeping, he sent for Anise.
The girl was country-pretty with her fresh skin and natural figure. Nicolas had anticipated her assignment to attend Lucette and begun cultivating her several weeks in advance. Now the maid was all too ready to gossip between kisses. About Lucette’s curiosity. About her questions concerning the family…but mostly Julien. And most intriguingly, about the casket Lucette kept in the bottom of her trunk. Anise had been frankly shocked to discover it contained a dagger. Nicolas had been less shocked.
The maid would be useful for a time. And when she wasn’t? Nicolas had ways of ridding himself of women who got too near.
19 June 1580
Hampton Court
We leave the day after tomorrow for Portsmouth to await the Spanish. I would prefer not to make the trip, since all will return here soon enough, but Elizabeth has asked me to come. For her sake. “I had to go to Philip without you when I married him,” she said plaintively. “Because Stephen was an infant at the time,” I retorted, but she had wrung my heart and so I agreed.
Just as well to keep an eye on the twins—or really, to keep an eye on Kit. Pippa was born wise, a trait she surely did not inherit from me. And also I will go for Anabel’s sake, though she has not asked me. She is high-strung, like her mother, and vulnerable, like her uncle. I have loved her dearly from her birth, and if my presence in the background is a comfort, I am happy to provide it.
Besides, it will keep me from fretting about my older children. Lucie has written only twice since leaving Dover, dutiful letters that break my heart with their courtesy. I have written to her, of course, but I have also written to Renaud, asking him to use his judgment and perhaps speak to my daughter of the pain she has carried since Elizabeth gave her that damned necklace of Tudor roses.
Stephen writes more often and warmly, but no less evasively than Lucie. Whatever he is truly doing at Tutbury, I do not think it confined to playing gracious attendant to Mary Stuart. Whenever I see Walsingham at court, I eye him balefully and wonder what games he is up to with my son.
Life was much simpler when I was the one conspiring with powerful men and women. But then, I knew everything when I was twenty. Don’t we all?
Julien was finding it seductively easy to enjoy himself at Blanclair and forget about the many balls he traditionally juggled in Paris. Another reason not to come home, his professional mind scolded. But since he was here—and, as far as the Catholics were concerned, on legitimate business—he let himself be lulled into the pleasures of a simple life. Family, home, gardens and horses, swordplay and swimming with Felix. They were headed to the river for the last when Renaud delayed his second son.
“A word, Julien?”