The Virgin's Daughter (Tudor Legacy #1)(55)
He looked unbearably smug. Of his siblings, he looked the most like his mother, all honey-gold hair and hazel eyes. Despite the heat, he wore a leather jerkin casually laced and his grin was pure taunting.
“I beat everyone else,” she retorted.
“Because they let you.”
Brandon Dudley took up another arrow. “Doesn’t mean I’ll let you beat me, Courtenay.” He sighted and loosed his arrow only slightly off Kit’s.
Light applause came from behind, and there was Philip, with that cynical smile that was so unreadable. “Bravo to the sportsmen…and women,” he added in heavily accented English, bowing to his daughter.
“Finished already?” Anabel replied in Spanish, which she spoke rapidly and colloquially. “The council meetings continue to grow shorter. Is that because all the decisions have been made?”
“The council meetings, as you well know, continue long after Her Majesty and I depart. There are details that our advisors will wrangle about without us.”
“And in all that wrangling, have you expressed your opinions on my future husband?”
Philip eyed her keenly, and Anabel wished she had spent more time with him, that she might more easily know what his expressions meant. Then, with a considered acknowledgment of those around her, he said, “Perhaps that is a subject for private discussion. Would you care to walk with me, daughter?”
She forced a smile. “Gladly.” Surrendering her bow to Kit (who, despite opinions to the contrary, knew when to keep his mouth shut), Anabel left her friends and fell sedately into step beside the King of Spain.
It struck her suddenly at times, like now, that the mother and father she knew were also reigning monarchs. Easier to adjust herself to Elizabeth, but here was the most powerful king in the Western world, with the wealthiest kingdom, and nothing he’d rather do at this moment than walk with an eighteen-year-old girl.
Except she wasn’t just a girl. No matter that she could nearly forget herself in the company of friends—mostly the Courtenays—Anabel knew perfectly well who she was and what it meant. And just now she was determined to discover what her father had in mind for her future.
First, it seemed he wished to discover what she knew of Elizabeth’s intentions. “Is it true,” he asked, “that you are writing to the King of Scotland?”
“At my mother’s request, yes.”
“Not at your own desire?”
“He is a thirteen-year-old boy. My desires do not enter into it.”
He cast her a sideways glance. “As your father, of course, I would rather your desires never enter into your thoughts of boys or men.”
That was not a comfortable topic, so Anabel continued on the theme of James. “It is hardly surprising that England should consider pairing me to Scotland. And surely James must be in favour. The island would be united and one day, God willing, there would be a half-Scottish monarch on England’s throne. How could even Mary Stuart disapprove of that?”
“But she does disapprove. So I hear.”
Anabel shrugged. She had little time to waste thinking of a woman who had been imprisoned for the last twelve years. Mary might occupy her mother’s conscience, but not hers. “Her opinion does not enter into the matter.”
“And does mine?”
“If you care to express it, of course I shall always consider your opinion, Father.”
“There are many on the Continent who would feel compelled to resist the combining of England and Scotland, particularly with your religious inclinations.”
“You mean the Catholics fear a stronger Protestant state.”
“Yes.”
“And what do you fear, Father?”
The expression of melancholy was one she recognized. Philip was in many ways more thoughtful than her mother, or at least more likely to show it. “I know religion is not a comfortable topic between us, cielita, but you must know it is not merely a political topic for me. I truly fear for the state of your soul. England has wandered far from God’s path thanks to both heretics and ambitious men. Your late grandfather laid a heavy price on his country and his descendants when he broke with Rome.”
“Rather good that he did, or neither my mother nor I should ever have been born, or at least not born to rule.”
“I could never wish you unborn, Anne. But I could, and do, wish you willing to consider the truth from which your mother has turned away.”
She held her tongue, then said finally, “You are right. I dislike the topic of religion. If that is your main objection to James, then I can assume none of the English candidates have your blessing, either?”
“The candidates are all devout Protestants. I might like an Englishman in the manner of, say, Henry Howard or Thomas Arundell. Men closer to the Catholic cause. Of course, I should very much prefer it if you would consider a Spanish husband. The women in your family have not found us entirely lacking.”
She stooped to snap a blossom between her fingers. “Replace one Spanish lord with another? I do not think there’s any chance the council would approve. And would it not lend weight to any faction wishing to be named your possible heir in Spain? Unless you have given up all hope of more children, I would not think you ready for such a step.”
“You are as quick as your mother, and nearly as outspoken. If not England or Spain or Scotland…”