The Virgin's Daughter (Tudor Legacy #1)(72)
“Did you not hear me? I will not say it again.”
Lucette had never heard Dominic sound like that before, and ice swept through her veins.
At least Brandon had the courtesy to shoot her a look of apology, but he disappeared without another word.
Dominic didn’t speak, either, but took Lucette by the arm. She let him lead her back to the palace, head high and fury bright as he towed her to the family apartment. Minuette was there, and seemed to take in the situation in a single glance. Lucette waited for her mother’s reproaches, but this time she kept her mouth closed and allowed her husband to lead.
“What,” Dominic said, his tone all clipped fury, the more dangerous for his habitual control, “in the name of God were you doing?”
“I should think it was fairly obvious.”
His eyes narrowed. “What are you playing at, Lucette? Do you want to destroy your reputation and dishonour your family with so little thought? And don’t tell me you have conceived some grand passion for the Dudley boy. You were simply using him.”
“Perhaps I was,” she shot back. “Like mother like daughter, after all.”
Dominic raised his hand and Lucette took a step back. Was he really going to strike her?
“Dominic!” Minuette commanded, and Dominic dropped his hand at once.
“Apologize to your mother,” he ground out through a tight jaw.
Lucette stood tall and met Dominic’s eyes without faltering. “You cannot command me,” she said clearly. And then, the five words that had been aching inside her for months, the words that would put an end to years of lies. “You are not my father”.
SEVENTEEN
After riding to Portsmouth to bid Philip goodbye, Anne returned to court, which had moved the short distance from Hampton Court to Richmond Palace. Elizabeth had fretted uncharacteristically while her daughter was gone, and for once she did not make haste to remove the princess elsewhere. After the trauma with Philip and the end of their marriage, it was affirming to look at her daughter each day—and to know that she had won.
Not that she let Anne know how pleased she was. Being allowed to remain at court was reward enough, was it not? Besides, there was other news aplenty to keep Elizabeth occupied.
The anger in and against London’s foreign population continued to erupt in intermittent violence. Amidst the usual xenophobic graffiti and smashing of doors and furniture were disturbing undertones of religious dissension. Slurs and taunts against Protestants in general and the queen in particular kept having to be scrubbed off walls. But once seen, such venom could not be unseen.
Walsingham reported on the latest beatings and burnings of property one hot Thursday in July. “It was the Flemish weavers who bore the brunt this time,” he said.
“Is it time to send in troops?” Elizabeth asked, already knowing the answer.
“Not wise, Your Majesty. At least not yet. The last thing we want is to inflame the situation. Better to support the City and London’s mayor for now.” He paused, then added, “More disturbingly, we’ve found Jesuit literature in the houses of some of those arrested. It appears at least some of the instigators have Continental backing.”
“We’ve always known that.”
“Suspected it, yes. But now we have proof.”
“Proof for what purpose—to drag Philip back to England and try him in court? And what would be the charge? Hardly treason, as he is himself head of a separate kingdom. One that is politically and religiously opposed to ours.”
“The danger, as Your Majesty well knows, is that Continental backing means Continental funding. Money talks, and dirty money talks loudest of all.”
“What do you want from me, Walsingham? To let events play out in order to trace the money trail? I have little patience for allowing violence to flourish in my kingdom simply to aid your investigations.”
“What if I told Your Majesty that, among the Jesuit literature, we found several crude badges in the shape of nightingales?”
“I would ask how you can possibly be certain that a crudely shaped bird is a nightingale? Perhaps it is a swan, and is meant to represent my throne.”
Beneath her surface dismissal, Elizabeth was deeply uneasy. She was starting to dream about nightingales, great flocks of them descending from a clear sky to peck at her hair and face. It was irritating. She could not fight dreams; she needed hard information.
“You’ve heard from Dr. Dee?” she asked abruptly. “He and Lucette are set to arrive in Portsmouth in three days.”
“Yes, Your Majesty. Dee tells me that there will be two additions to their party: both Nicolas and Julien LeClerc.”
“Indeed?” Elizabeth pondered that somewhat surprising news. “Could it be that Lucette is actually coming back to England with a proposed husband in mind?”
“Or she intends to deliver the Nightingale mastermind into my hands.”
Elizabeth gave a pointed smile. “Or perhaps she intends to do both. She is a remarkably resourceful girl. Does Dee think she has found the mastermind?”
It was never easy to decipher Francis Walsingham. In sober black, only his white ruff relieving the effect of a man dressed for death, he had a face made for secrets. The deep-set eyes beneath the dramatic widow’s peak of his hair gave nothing away. Not even to her.