The Virgin's Daughter (Tudor Legacy #1)(9)
The queen has not seen fit to keep me permanently at court yet, but I trust your visit will effect more than one change in my daily habits. I am not certain I am prepared for any but minor changes, however. Eighteen is rather young when one has spent those years in such confined circumstances.
Your loving daughter,
HRH Anne Isabella
Anne, Princess of Wales, was not one to throw tantrums for no reason. Temper was a weapon, and she never wasted her weapons. It had been six weeks now since her household took up residence at Pontefract, and Anabel had channeled her irritation into impeccable studies and furious management of her finances. And all the while she plotted how to get around her mother’s plans and weighed how useful her father might be in that endeavour.
The trick being to ensure that Anabel didn’t simply trade the Queen of England’s suffocating control for that of the King of Spain.
As April drew softly toward May, Lord Burghley paid Anabel a visit. She received the Lord High Treasurer with genuine warmth, but also a hint of calculation as they settled into conversation. She wagered Burghley would only be astonished if she didn’t bother to calculate. How else would he be certain she was Elizabeth’s daughter?
“You have made the castle most cheerful, Your Highness.” Burghley nodded at the tapestries and newly painted paneling in her privy chamber. “I am glad of it.”
“You have been here before?” She was surprised, for Pontefract was well off the royal circuit. But then she remembered, and nodded. “Ah, you would naturally have come during the king’s last illness.”
It was here that King Henry IX—called William by his sister and friends—had died just before his twenty-second birthday. Burghley had been her uncle’s Lord Chancellor. Of course he would have come to the king’s bedside.
“It is time this castle had some happy memories and bright faces associated with it. How are you finding your days here?”
Long, she wanted to say, and boring. But she knew better than to complain. “It is well suited to gathering all my wits and nerves for my father’s coming visit. I assume that is why the queen has sent you?”
“The queen is ever mindful of your comfort and care. She wished a firsthand report of how you are faring.”
Then why didn’t she come herself? Anabel thought. But would never say. “I would fare better if I were certain of the points of discussion between my parents this summer. I assume my future husband will be second in discussion only to the dissolving of their own marriage.”
Burghley shook his head, but with a wry look of affection. “Certain it is that you are not afraid to speak your mind, Your Highness.”
“Not to you.” Anabel smiled with all the charm she had learned at Minuette Courtenay’s knee.
“Yes, the topic of your marriage will be foremost in the minds of both Their Majesties. Although not likely to be of the same mind, are they?”
“I don’t suppose either of them is interested in my thoughts on the matter?”
“Indeed, the queen would very much like it if you would write to His Majesty, King James of Scotland. On your own account, you understand, as simply another young royal on this island of ours. No need for promises yet.”
“Not that I am in a position to make promises, am I? That will be a matter for the queen and her council.”
Burghley said gravely, “Yes, Your Highness.”
Anabel stood abruptly, hardly noticing as Burghley of necessity did likewise. She stalked to the window and forced herself to linger there as though studying the view, rather than display the full range of her discontent by continued movement. “What does one write to a child, do you think? James may be king, but he has had even less autonomy than I, thanks to his inflexible councilors.”
“King James is nearly fourteen, Your Highness, and the protectorship ended this winter. Not so much a child.”
Anabel counted to twenty, as Pippa had taught her to do when she longed to lose her temper. Then, with a forced smile of acquiescence, she faced Burghley. “Of course I shall be glad to write to my cousin James. If nothing else, we can commiserate on being surrounded by those determined to live our lives for us.”
Burghley might be fond of her, but he was a committed queen’s man. And he was far too old—almost sixty—to appreciate how difficult it was to be young and vibrant and yet have every moment of every day decided by someone else. He looked rather like a stern grandfather when he said, “Princess Anne, every man—and woman—is born where God wishes them to be. We have no say in that matter, only in how we adorn the position to which we are called. Do not be so quick to dismiss the responsibilities of your life, for they march in hand with your privileges.”
No one other than Burghley could make her feel ashamed…except perhaps the Duke of Exeter. Anabel sighed, then said sincerely, “I thank you for your kind counsel.”
But don’t think I don’t resent it at the same time, she thought. For what royal appreciated being told she was wrong?
THREE
Julien LeClerc threw open the door to his Paris chambers well after midnight, smelling of alcohol and unsavory neighborhoods, and swore once at the sight of the lit candle and the figure sitting calmly in the chamber’s only chair.
“Did I startle you?” Nicolas, in the best tradition of older brothers everywhere, managed to look both amused and disapproving.