The Virgin's Daughter (Tudor Legacy #1)(74)
“Unjustly?”
“I am as much a queen regnant as my cousin, and so it is unjust by any law of men to keep me confined. And even more unjust according to God’s laws. You must agree.”
His eyes were opaque, in a way that piqued Mary’s interest. He really was a most handsome young man. “I agree,” he said thoughtfully, “that God’s laws are always just. The difficulty is in how men and women interpret God’s laws. I am inclined to think we see the world as we ourselves are, and not always with the clarity of God’s vision.”
She sighed, and shook her head. “Dear Stephen—may I call you Stephen?” It was a courtesy easily offered, and if he did not look appropriately abashed by her kindness, he did nod at the honour she was bestowing on him by using his given name. “Stephen, do you not know that difficulty is at the very heart of Church doctrine? We must have priests, anointed by God and his earthly representative, the pope. Without that authority, who can we trust? Any man can claim to speak for God. We must listen to those who are rightly ordained.”
“My lady Mary.” It was said so earnestly that Mary forgave the familiarity of the address. In truth, it touched her and reminded her that, despite being thirty-seven, she was still a woman young enough to fall in love. “I have no quarrel with the honest faith of any man or woman. I am quite certain that I do not speak for God, and so my concern will ever be with upholding the life of my queen and the security of this realm of England. Elizabeth would be your friend if you would let her. Why oppose her?”
Because I can, Mary nearly retorted, but that was not entirely true. Because she must, or else be resigned to offending God by relinquishing a position He himself had given her at birth.
And because this time Mary was going to win. One did not give up the game when one was on the brink of triumph.
But she merely smiled that lovely, heartbreaking smile of her youth, and rested her long white fingers on the back of Stephen’s hand. “It is kind of you to trouble yourself about me. I shall remember that always.”
When I am free, she meant. And have it in my power to reward those who were kind.
—
The day after Kit rode out to Dover to bring back Lucette, Anabel talked Pippa into a quiet cruise along the Thames in a pleasure barge. She invited no one else.
There were plenty of guards, of course, and sometimes Anabel felt sorry for them. Caught between her own wish for independence and her mother’s commands to keep her close, she imagined the men had often had cause to curse the two high-spirited women who were the center of England’s political life. A pity for them, she thought, and kept Pippa close enough to her that they could speak without too much being overheard and reported back to Elizabeth. Or Walsingham.
“What do you think of Lucette’s Frenchmen?” Anabel demanded. “Is she going to marry one of them? I cannot imagine why else they would return to England with her.”
Pippa was unusually pensive. “I think the situation is complicated,” she finally ventured.
“Well, she cannot marry them both, so perhaps I’ll enjoy myself flirting with the spare one when I come to Wynfield.”
“You don’t think that might reflect poorly on you?”
“What do you mean?” Anabel asked sharply. There were some privileges even the closest of friends should not take, and scolding her was one of them. “My mother practically demands that men flirt with her. No one thinks less of her for it.”
“You do.”
Anabel’s temper, which slumbered deeply but roused like a dragon—or like a proud Spaniard—announced itself in the tightness of her lips and the narrowing of her eyes. She could feel it pounding in her temples as she said, “Do not presume to tell me how I feel. Ever.”
But Pippa was her dearest friend partly because she could not be cowed by the most royal of furies. “Of course not. You are well able to know your own mind and feelings.”
They remained in huffy silence for a bit, but Anabel could never stay angry with Pippa. “So, my reader of the heavens, is Lucette going to marry one of those handsome Frenchmen or not?”
“If she asks me, I will tell her. Otherwise, it is no one’s business but her own.”
“And presumably one of the LeClerc brothers.”
“Or both of them,” Pippa said softly.
Anabel looked at her sharply, but she didn’t press. Even a royal recognized when Pippa’s limits had been reached. If she tried to press her now, her friend would simply slip through her fingers, all graciousness and laughter but without revealing anything of substance at all.
Time to turn to something less fraught. Like politics. “The queen has asked me to write to Mary Stuart. I do not think her council is in agreement with that request.”
“As James’s mother, I suppose,” Pippa said thoughtfully. “It’s a clever move on the queen’s part—show due deference to Mary’s birth. She’s prickly about her status and always complaining about your mother. I imagine inserting you into the middle is by way of defusing the situation.”
“Do you think so?” Anabel mused. “I rather think I’m more likely to inflame Mary’s pride. Whatever fawning letters I may write, she can never overlook the fact that she is as surely imprisoned as if she were in the Tower. What use will she have for contact with a girl whose only interest is in the son who, in Mary’s mind, should not be King of Scotland? At least not yet.”