The Virgin's Spy (Tudor Legacy #2)(39)

“Damned proud woman will ruin everything!” Elizabeth stalked the perimeter of her blue-and-silver privy chamber, clenching her hands to keep from hurling various breakables to the floor. “And how Philip and Mary will mock that I cannot even control one woman! If Minuette’s plan was to fatally weaken me abroad, then she has already succeeded beyond her wildest dreams.”

Only when her anger had reduced itself to a low simmer did Lord Burghley venture to say, “Lady Exeter is strong-minded but not stupid. She will do nothing to weaken you. I daresay she was not thinking of you at all.”

“Of course not! She was thinking of her precious Dominic and how she could not bear to be separated—that woman could not live a day on her own if required to!” Even as she shouted, Elizabeth knew she was being unfair. Minuette was highly capable of living on her own if required. Why do I resent her so much when I don’t have to? Elizabeth asked herself. It is not Minuette’s fault that I am queen.

Although, come to think of it, if Minuette had only done William’s bidding and married him, then it would be Minuette with the crown, and Elizabeth herself would be…elsewhere.

Fine. Minuette had taken advantage of their friendship, and she planned to lecture her friend severely when she returned, but Burghley was right. Minuette would make a success of this visit. Truth be told, probably rather more successful than if Dominic were leading it alone. Dominic did not do gracious diplomacy. Minuette would smooth his edges and, with the twins, ensure that Philip was reassured as to his daughter’s state of mind.

Speaking of which…“The Duc d’Anjou is committed?”

“He is,” Walsingham answered gravely. He was opposed to any consideration of a French marriage for Anabel. “He will sail before month’s end and stay ‘as long as is amenable to Her Royal Highness.’?”

“Charming, if disingenuous. It is my pleasure he must watch out for. Being French, I suppose he can make himself agreeable to whomever he must.”

“What of Scotland?” Walsingham probed.

“There’s no use extending an invitation to James—they would never let him come in person. The last monarch who left Scotland spent twelve years imprisoned, and pity for us it wasn’t longer. They will never risk it.”

“And you will not agree to Princess Anne going north?”

“To Scotland? Absolutely not. It is for James to court her. He needs us far more than we need him. I will not send my daughter traipsing to Scotland to beg for a husband.”

“They are willing to send Esmé Stewart in place of James. He is Duke of Lennox now, and his credentials are impeccable.”

“And he grew up in France—and also he is Catholic,” Elizabeth countered. “Still, I hear that he is engaging and very good-looking. Perhaps it’s as well he is already married or Anabel might have her head turned by a completely unsuitable man. But as he is King James’s favourite, we must take it as the compliment it’s meant to be and do our best to welcome him. Arrange it, Burghley.”

“For after Anjou’s departure?”

“It wouldn’t hurt them to overlap a little. Does Anjou know Stewart from his years in France? Even if not, they will no doubt share acquaintances. Let each man size up the competition. It will be entertaining.”

Burghley did not look convinced. But he had long ago learned when to argue and when to hold his peace. On the subject of eligible men courting Anabel rather than Elizabeth, he wisely held his peace.





DIARY OF MINUETTE COURTENAY


24 April 1582


At Sea


There have been moments these last two days when I have nearly regretted my rash insistence on accompanying Dominic. It has been some years since last I crossed the sea and I am not as easy with it as I once was. But never mind, what is a little discomfort in the cause of my family and my queen?

There have been clouds, but the captain is confident we will sail into the Bay of Biscay tomorrow.





25 April 1582


Bilbao, Spain


We landed—and none too soon, as we were chased by high winds and rain the fourteen miles from the Bay of Biscay to this merchant city grown wealthy from its port. We were met by a dozen men and two women of King Philip’s personal household and they managed to accept my unexpected appearance with aplomb, though I gather there was some concern that two women courtiers would not be sufficient. I assured them neither Pippa nor myself are accustomed to constant attendance and we could keep each other company just as well.

They smiled their lovely, unreadable smiles beneath their serene black eyes, and have not left us alone for a moment until bedtime. I suppose it is to be expected. They will be watching for our unspoken messages as well as our words.

I can play that game, for I was taught it by more than one master.





30 April 1582


Valladolid, Spain


I must say that King Philip has extended himself and his country to show its best face. We have ridden horses with the most exquisite lines and perfect gaits, we have feasted each night in elaborately decorated homes and courtyards that serve as way stations from the north coast, and everywhere we see beautiful people and gorgeous churches.

After all my lifetime, there is still a faint call in my blood for the faith of my mother. For all her friendship with Anne Boleyn, Marie Hilaire Wyatt never abandoned the Latin rituals. I can dimly recall hearing her recite the rosary, fingers clicking on the jet beads. I have that rosary still, though I myself have never prayed it.