The Virgin's Daughter (Tudor Legacy #1)(7)
But there were some issues on which Mary Stuart would not bend. Chief among them was her desire to leave England. She had fled Scotland expecting Elizabeth to aid her—as a fellow queen, if not as a cousin—but politics and Elizabeth’s stubbornness meant that in twelve years the two women had never been within a hundred miles of each other. But if Elizabeth was not eager to help Mary regain Scotland’s throne, there were Catholics aplenty in Europe who would do nearly anything to aid her.
Mary knew how to wait. How to work behind the scenes. And most importantly, how to turn men to her cause.
So she received her newest guard, seconded to her household at Tutbury from Elizabeth’s court, with interest. Stephen Courtenay was young, only twenty, but he bowed to her with impeccable courtesy and he met her curious regard with equanimity.
“The Earl of Somerset,” Mary said thoughtfully. “Is it not? I have met your father, the Duke of Exeter, years ago in France.”
“Yes, Your Majesty. He told me of your grace and beauty.”
Did he indeed? Mary wondered. It had been nearly twenty-five years ago, before her marriage to the French dauphin, and she remembered Dominic Courtenay as a serious man who’d had more to think of than the beauty of a young girl. But he’d managed to survive the murderous fury of England’s late king, so no doubt he’d learned how to tell useful lies in the interim.
His eldest son had his father’s height and broad shoulders and dark colouring, but there was something about the set of his eyes and mouth that spoke to Mary of the lighthearted, joyous girl who had also been in France years ago. “And your mother?” she asked abruptly. “I recall a lady of grace and beauty herself.”
“My mother is well, Your Majesty.”
“Your family has no concerns about your service here, Lord Somerset?”
“Why would they?”
“I am aware of how close your family is to my dear cousin, Elizabeth.”
“And so they rejoice in any service the queen requests.”
Mary smiled, thinking that twenty years ago she might have been very taken by this young man. Or possibly not. He had none of Darnley’s easy charm, after all, or Bothwell’s arrogance. But Mary had lived long enough to learn to respect other qualities in men: steadiness and loyalty were of greater use to her now than flattery.
But fascination still had its uses.
“May I call you Stephen?” she asked with a smile. When the boy nodded, Mary said confidingly, “I take it as a mark of great honour that my cousin Elizabeth has seen fit to send you to me. I know how dearly she holds your family. I hope you will not find your service here…unpleasant.”
As she was clearly prompting him to do, Stephen Courtenay kissed her hand. His smile was, like everything else about him, reserved. “What greater pleasure can I have than to serve two queens?”
Perhaps not such a boy. For there was a wry intelligence in his eyes that hinted at his understanding of her games.
A worthy companion, then. And one worth cultivating. Certainly those as close to Queen Elizabeth as the Courtenay family were worth cultivating, but Mary thought that Stephen might be almost an enjoyment for her skills. If she could bend him to her uses…well, that would be a success worthy of her talents.
—
Somehow they managed to reach the last week of March without the subject of France arising again at the Courtenay household. After calculating the chances of a refusal, Lucette went ahead and wrote to Charlotte to accept her invitation, making plans to meet in Paris in late May. Then Lucette waited for the confrontation.
There was plenty to keep her occupied in the meantime. The Courtenays were among the wealthiest families in England, thanks to the gifts of two monarchs, and with that wealth came responsibility. Perhaps there were some nobles who did not care overmuch for their estates, save for what riches they could provide, but the Duke of Exeter was not among them.
The family seat was Tiverton Castle in Devon, near the River Exe, with some of the buildings on the estate stretching back four hundred years. Parts of it were grim, indeed, dark stone and brick anchored to the earth against whatever weather the West Country could throw at it. Though it was a Courtenay inheritance, Dominic had not grown up there. His father had been a younger son, who had died in the Tower under suspicion of aiding in the treason against Henry VIII that cost his brother his head. But the last king had overlooked the elder brother’s son and restored the estates to Dominic, also increasing the title from Marquess to Duke.
Lucette knew enough of the past to know her father would have been happier without Tiverton and all it came with. But whatever task was set him, he would fulfill to the limits of his ability, and so Tiverton was meticulously run, its tenants prosperous, its soldiers well-trained, and its sometimes unhappy history relieved by the presence of a happy family.
They spent, on average, seven months of the year at Tiverton—from harvest to planting—with the summers passed at Minuette’s family home of Wynfield Mote near Stratford-upon-Avon. Lucette preferred Wynfield, with its small manor house and only a dozen tenant farmers to worry about, but Tiverton had its charms. She liked the towers and the bleak half-ruined walls and the corners around which one felt a ghost might be lurking at any moment, and also liked having responsibilities of her own.
When Lucette and her siblings turned fourteen, their parents had gifted each in turn a small manor and farm of their own from the larger estate. They were expected to be good stewards, to know the details of their servants and crops and livestock, to turn a profit to be returned to the upkeep of the manor and farm. To run a manor as though it were a kingdom of its own.