The Virgin's Daughter (Tudor Legacy #1)(56)
“France,” she said, with pardonable skepticism. “The King of Spain is urging me to consider a French marriage?”
“At least the Duc d’Anjou is a Catholic, and only twenty-five. I believe your mother’s council would be willing to consider him. It has been a generation since the last proposed French match ended so tragically.”
One could say that—with the King of England blithely overthrowing the Duc d’Anjou’s older sister for an English commoner who had in turn spurned him. One could trace the late king’s fall to that remarkably bad choice.
Anabel considered what she knew of Anjou. The youngest of Catherine de Medici’s numerous brood, he had been born Hercule but changed his name to Francis when his oldest brother died. Now his brother Charles was King of France, and with no children yet, Anjou was his heir. He had reportedly been scarred heavily by smallpox as a child, but that was neither here nor there in terms of politics. And indeed, England might well consider him as a possible match. For one thing, he had taken sides with the Protestants during this last decade of religious warfare.
But she was suspicious. If the Spanish did not want England and Scotland matched, even less would they want England and France united.
“I suspect,” she said lightly to her father, “that you are only offering names in the belief that I will instinctively choose in opposition to your wishes. You should know better. I am the daughter of the two cleverest, wariest monarchs of the last hundred years, and though I may have instincts, I will always consider carefully before making my choice.”
“And if it were truly your choice, cielita? If you were not who you were and married solely for your own pleasure?”
“My pleasure is England’s pleasure, as well you know. Do not worry for me, Father. I shall be the princess I have been bred to be.”
And that, she thought, is what worries you. Because that might well end in my personal opposition to Spain. And that would be a conundrum indeed. Which did Philip honour more—his religion or his daughter?
—
Mary perused the latest missive from France with a thrill of satisfaction. She never felt more alive than when engaged in conspiracy, and she had not had such an endeavour to occupy her since the Throckmorton plot. That, granted, had ended badly, but she had learned from her mistakes and did not mean to repeat them. And how could she fail with such an ally as Spain on her side?
Nightingales are everywhere, the letter ran. Europe has not seen so many in years. Soon, very soon indeed, we expect to hear the same of England.
Under cover as coming from a de Guise cousin whom she had not seen since her early years in France, the letter was signed once in the copperplate handwriting carefully copied from said cousin. And then, more subtly and more truly signed in the upper right corner of the top page. A tiny but perfect ink miniature of a nightingale in outline.
Mary did not actually know the identity of the Nightingale mastermind. Plots were always best when kept discrete, its separate parts unable to betray any but themselves. She trusted the clerics through whom Nightingale had come to her attention and looked forward to the day when she could meet—and thank in person—the man behind the plot that would finally see her free of English captivity.
It was never supposed to be this way. When Mary had made her daring escape from Loch Leven in 1568 and the Protestant lords who had imprisoned her—including her half brother, Moray—there had been those who urged her to ship immediately for France and her de Guise relatives. But Mary, knowing how little the Queen Mother of France liked her, and trusting a fellow Queen Regnant—not to mention cousin—could better serve her, had instead impulsively crossed into England and remained there.
She had thought to be taken direct to London to speak with Elizabeth face-to-face and begin the process of returning to her proper place. But Elizabeth had failed her. Surrounded by men as rigid and distrustful as those in Scotland, the English queen had dithered and delayed and allowed Mary’s flight to England for aid to become, instead, a prison.
Mary was a woman of strong passions. She once had thought to be Elizabeth’s greatest friend. Now she was prepared for implacable enmity.
Even alone with her confessor, she spoke guardedly and in coded terms. Gracious or not, Tutbury remained a prison. One that she intended to leave very soon.
“There has been concern expressed for my plight by the Spanish?”
“We understand that you have, indeed, been discussed in council. Of course, one would not expect much from that particular kind of talk.”
Mary didn’t expect anything at all from talk. But Spanish talk meant Spanish thoughts, and that was all she needed to know.
“And the talks will dissolve…when?”
“Philip and his entourage intend to sail from Portsmouth the first week of August. Matters should be resolved before summer’s end.”
They would not, of course, move while Philip himself was in England. Too risky. He needed to be well out of reach of Elizabeth’s anger. When she learned that Spain had conspired to free the Scots queen…well, everyone knew what terrible rages Elizabeth’s father had been prone to. Not to mention Anne Boleyn’s colder wrath. Still, if all went as planned, Mary thought, she could be standing directly in front of Elizabeth and not fear so much as a slap.
It was a perfect plan. All that waited was the passage of time.