The Virgin's Daughter (Tudor Legacy #1)(51)

Sure enough, it was Ribault’s emissary lying dead on the riverbank. Julien swore vividly, and knelt by the corpse to make a hasty search. The last thing he needed was something incriminating turning up now.

But the man was clean. Only a handful of francs, no paper, no letters, nothing even to identify him. Could Julien get away with denying any acquaintance? Lucette could hardly claim differently without revealing that she had been in that inn as well. There had been others in the tavern who must have seen them speaking, but Julien knew he could probably get away with insisting the man had been a stranger striking up conversation about nothing at all.

It was, as always, Lucette who was the open question.

With a resigned sigh, Julien shuffled the coins in his hand before dropping them back in the man’s pockets. No need to be a petty thief as well as a traitor.

But his eye was caught by one of the coins. No, not a coin at all. It was lighter, more oval than circular, and imprinted with something other than a king’s image. He plucked it up and held it to the sunlight, squinting to see details. It was reminiscent of a pilgrim badge, but he couldn’t immediately identify from where. Was that a bird? With a single word above it…

NIGHTINGALE.

—

The first official meeting of the English and Spanish took place in Elizabeth’s council chamber at Hampton Court. She and Philip sat next to each other in separate gilded chairs, with canopies of estate over king and queen. Where usually Elizabeth’s privy council would fill all the seats that radiated out in a circular fashion, she had handpicked the men to attend her in these matters, and they filled only half the circle, to her right. The other half was given over to Philip’s men. It was very much like the councils that had ended, twenty years ago, in their betrothal and marriage. For a moment she thought of herself as she had been then: twenty-seven, not two years on her throne, but firm in her positions and well-backed by her men.

But she had been young. And, as much as she could have expected, in love. Or at least, in desire. She had noted her attraction to Philip the first time she met him, when he came to England to meet with her brother, the king. The desire was not necessary for the bargain of marriage, but it was a pleasant enough addition. If her heart had been buried with Robert Dudley, her body had been willing enough to accept a distant second best.

But now she was forty-six and Philip over fifty, and neither hearts nor bodies would have any say in the matters of state.

Husband and wife sat rigidly royal five feet apart and never once looked at the other. The Spanish party, like their king, favoured black and their half of the council chamber resembled nothing so much as a flock of crows flown into the low-ceilinged chamber through the single window that overlooked the privy garden.

The Englishmen had more variety of colour to them, and more ostentation. Burghley and Walsingham might always wear black, but many of her hereditary nobles liked to adorn themselves in damask and velvet, slashed sleeves and jeweled robes.

But none in that chamber could match Elizabeth. She had always cared about her appearance, and as queen her appearance was as much a part of ruling as her edicts. The nobility wanted a woman they could admire and pretend to understand, and the people needed a figure of myth so that they might not remember that she was only a woman. She had chosen an overgown of royal purple today, edged in ermine and buttoned tightly to her stomacher with pearls.

If she had inherited anything from her father—besides his red hair—it was his sense of occasion and drama.

Lord Burghley, always at her right hand whatever his particular role might be, addressed the gathering. “We are here, Your Majesties, and lords all, to consider on the necessary business of dissolving the marital union between our two countries. With, of course, the desire to continue our union in friendship and mutual support.”

Elizabeth noted Dominic Courtenay, in the second row of seats. His expression didn’t change, but somehow he managed to convey the impression of rolling his eyes. She bit back a smile and was fiercely glad he had agreed to be part of this particular council. Dominic had consistently refused all other offers of leadership—a refusal she would not have brooked from any other man in her kingdom—but every now and then he would accept a brief assignment. Elizabeth thought his presence during these meetings probably had more to do with his fondness for her daughter than for his queen.

That might hurt, but she could use it.

Philip’s chief advisor, Cardinal Granvelle, expressed in English the Spanish party’s polite gladness to be present, and then, continuing to address Lord Burghley in Latin, said, “The first concern of our king—and each of us—is to protect the future of the Infanta, Princess Anne.”

Infanta was a loaded word, implying that Spain saw Anne as a legitimate choice to be Philip’s heir. In truth, it was a very tricky situation. Philip had had a son, Don Carlos, from his first wife, but that young man had died twelve years ago. Under admittedly mysterious circumstances. There had been no shortage of English gossip about Don Carlos’s vicious nature, how the prince physically attacked attendants even as a small child, and set fire to a stable full of his father’s horses. He had starved to death while being held in close confinement—whether on Philip’s orders or by his own perverted choice—but Elizabeth knew that Philip, whatever his sense of personal loss, had never once regretted the loss to the Spanish throne. Don Carlos would have been an absolute disaster as king.