The Virgin's Spy (Tudor Legacy #2)(100)
I can feel your continuing turmoil as easily while you are on the road as when you are in the next chamber. I shall do what I can with Anabel, but your guilt about stepping into Stephen’s shoes you will have to deal with on your own.
Pippa
23 November 1582
Pippa,
I leave Tiverton tomorrow for Farleigh Hungerford. I am sure it will be as unnecessary a visit as this one, for both Stephen and Father have capable agents running things. I am merely the figurehead. And yes, I am uncomfortable. Be careful what you wish for—I am learning the truth of that in spades. I will be delighted to hand these responsibilities back as soon as Stephen is freed.
Anabel writes that you have encouraged her to go north. What do you know that I do not? (And don’t say “many things”—you know what I mean.) If you can feel my turmoil, then I can feel yours. When we were three years old, I would wake whenever you had a nightmare. When we were seven and you fell down the tower steps at Tiverton, I had bruises to match yours all down my left side. And when we were fifteen, I knew the first—and the last—time you kissed Matthew Harrington. (Which is a subject for another day, twin mine. I will not forget.)
The point is, I know that you have not been sleeping well. I know that your heart is twisted every hour you’re awake and that the muscles in your face hurt from presenting a serene expression before the world. And it is not because of Stephen or Mother and Father or Anabel or me or even Lucie’s miscarriage…you are working very hard to keep something from me. There is no need. I may not have your insights, but I have fully as much love as you and a burning desire to do something!
Your not wholly useless brother,
Kit
1 December 1582
Kit,
If you know me so well, you know I have never thought you useless. Everyone seems to think that you need me to be your anchor—but the truth is, I need you even more. For courage, for confidence, for love.
There is still no word on Stephen’s future. Bless her, Carrie has arrived from Wynfield. For the first time since Harrington’s death, she is something like her old self. Carrie is always at her best when needed.
The queen’s privy council met yesterday. No doubt you will soon have word, wherever you are, that the official papers of betrothal between King James and Anabel are to be signed the day before Christmas. As soon as the holiday season is over, I will travel with Anabel and her household to Middleham Castle. The marriage date is still somewhat fluid. Not in the next year, at least.
And the queen, despite vociferous opposition from her councilors, has invited the Duc d’Anjou to return to England next spring and formalize a betrothal between them. The atmosphere in London is strained.
Still no charges laid against Stephen, or indication that there soon will be. Mother has reached the end of her patience. I believe she means to confront the queen as soon as Elizabeth will consent to see her.
I wish you were here to make us all laugh.
Pippa
Stephen’s confinement in the Tower of London was not especially onerous. He was housed in Constable Tower, two chambers plainly but adequately furnished and warmed thanks to his parents’ money. He was allowed paper and ink and he exchanged detailed letters with his steward at Farleigh Hungerford. His parents were allowed to visit several times in the first few weeks, but then the visits stopped.
But if his family no longer came, neither did anyone else. Not even Walsingham. Stephen supposed the Lord Secretary’s disgrace must be running very deep if he dared not take up the cause of one of his intelligencers. Not that Walsingham would have any reason to aid him. The Lord Secretary was probably even more disgusted than the queen by his betrayal.
On second thought, probably not. Walsingham was a cold-blooded creature ruled, above all, by his refusal to trust. He must always be half expecting to be betrayed. Which is how he’d kept the queen safe all these years.
Stephen had no attendants, which meant he had no one to talk to save the guards who delivered food and occasionally passed a few words with him. Through November and December, he grew increasingly impatient for news. Even letters from his family were being strictly rationed—no more than one every two weeks and then only from his parents. Strangely enough, it was Kit whom he most wished for. During this last long journey back from Ireland, Kit had shown himself to have grown up in a manner that surprised Stephen. He’d always considered his little brother the lucky one, to have no responsibilities and thus the freedom to say what he liked and make his choices without weighing how they affected others. But Kit had been nothing if not ferociously responsible in staying by his side during the trip with Dane.
From the guards, Stephen was reminded when it was Christmas. He wondered if his family had returned home for the season. The Courtenays had always jealously guarded their privacy, and he had many memories of Christmas at Tiverton, of gathering holly and ivy, the men searching out the Yule log on Christmas Eve, the scents of baking for days in advance, the children making up plays to perform…Stephen missed all of it.
The slit windows in his outer chamber showed twilight’s early descent that Christmas day when his prison door was opened unexpectedly. Stephen looked up from the table—where he was not writing so much as fiddling with a pen and daydreaming of mincemeat and sugared almonds—and saw the lieutenant of the Tower himself. Stephen got to his feet, heart pounding. Was this Elizabeth’s Christmas gift—to finally charge him with murder or treason? The thought of being released he dared not entertain.