The Virgin's Daughter (Tudor Legacy #1)(62)

“Perhaps merely for the pleasure of watching your kingdom turn upon itself.”

Elizabeth snapped her fingers at a lady hovering at the door. “Send word to Philip that I will see him in my privy chamber in one hour.”

No one played games with her people’s lives.

Having spent the hour being dressed and coiffed for battle, Elizabeth swept into her privy chamber, where Philip met her on his feet. They neither of them wasted time in pleasantries.

“Do you really think stirring unrest in London will gain you points with your daughter?” Elizabeth demanded of the Spanish king.

“One would say that your people live on the edge of unrest, and it hardly needs stirring for it to erupt.”

“What do you want, Philip?”

He hovered on the edge of an offhand retort, then his face darkened and she knew she was going to hear the truth. “What I want is a wife and daughter who are not determined to throw away their souls for the sake of pride. I loved you, Elizabeth, for yourself and not just your position, and well you know it. And Anne is my own flesh and blood. But you will not see reason. And thus I must tear out my affections to do what is right. England cannot hold out against the Church forever. Truth always wins, Elizabeth. I would not like to see you crushed in the coming fight, but that does not mean I will not wage it.”

“You are finished here.” Her voice was like a lash. “There is no point in further discussion. We both knew when we started how it would end: you will divorce me with the blessing of the pope and wed a faithful Catholic girl who will give you sons. And Anabel will follow me on the throne of England and hold firm against the threats of petty religious demagogues. England is not to be bartered over. It is mine and my daughter’s after me, and there is no place for you here.”

“I am sorry for it. I indulged myself in a dream these twenty years because I loved you and because I hoped persuasion would be of greater influence than force. I should have known you better.”

“If it is force you want, Philip, do your worst. England will never bend to Spain.”

With his dark eyes full of memories and melancholy, Philip bowed to her one last time. “Farewell, mi corazón.”

My heart. He had called her that on their wedding night, and on the day of Anabel’s birth. Elizabeth allowed herself one moment of private regret before resuming her mask as queen.

—

With very little fanfare, the Spanish left Hampton Court. They rode to Portsmouth under the courtesy guards of Elizabeth’s personal household, but there were almost no nobles to bid them farewell this time. Save the Princess of Wales, who’d had a flaming row with her mother and was finally permitted to spend the last days with her father before he sailed away for good.

With Anabel was Dominic Courtenay, who rode with Kit and had personal command of a dozen men of his own to keep her safe. The only other court official was Walsingham, who always made Anabel wary. She thought sometimes that the old man didn’t like her very much, but perhaps that was only because his devotion to Elizabeth was so absolute there was no room left for anyone else. Did his wife and daughter feel the same? she wondered.

Kit kept her entertained along the way, but it was to Dominic she turned for advice as Portsmouth came into view and the hour of her parting from her father was imminent.

Settling her horse into a walk next to Dominic’s, Anabel asked, “Have you any words of wisdom for this parting?”

She often thought Dominic the most restful person she knew, but that was mostly when she wasn’t in his presence. He was quiet, true, and still—but whenever she was near him, she realized just how much intensity he radiated. Not like Kit, whose emotions and energy were thrown widely into the world like a gift. And not precisely like her own father, who seemed to hold his peace out of dozens of mixed motives.

She could feel that intensity turned toward her, though he kept his eyes on the road. “Why do you ask?” The unspoken word was clear—why do you ask me?

Anabel had known him long and well enough to know she could risk impertinence. “You have had experience with farewells you thought would last a lifetime.”

“But I didn’t expect to survive long enough to have to live with them.”

“If you were Philip, about to say goodbye to your only living child without expectation of meeting again, what would you like to hear from that child?”

“What would I want to hear, Your Highness? The truth of your own heart. What we think and feel, for good or bad, is all we can honestly offer another human being. Tell your father what you are feeling.”

Easier said than done. For one thing, that meant she would have to quickly sort through a wealth of emotions to decipher what she was feeling. It would be so much easier to simply play her royal part, to mimic her mother’s velvet-and-steel touch. But she had asked—the least she could do was take Dominic’s advice.

The party stopped at Portsmouth Castle, where Philip and his closest advisors would take refreshment and rest for an hour before following the servants and horses aboard ship. By sunset the Spanish fleet would be out of sight of the English coast.

Dominic made it easy for Anabel and Philip to leave the larger chamber gracefully and withdraw into a stone-floored chamber that was obviously rarely used. The walls were bare and there was no furniture to speak of, certainly nothing on which to sit, so the two of them stood at the window, which gave a lofty view of the harbor.