The Virgin's Spy (Tudor Legacy #2)(41)
Although their attendants had tried to put Kit next to his father near the front of the line, his parents had subtly resisted the segregation. They rode together, beautifully paired, with Kit and Pippa matched behind them. Kit knew they were an attractive family, though it would have been better to have Stephen and Lucie to complete the look—three dark-haired, three golden—as though they were chess pieces perfectly balanced.
Then Pippa turned her head toward him and Kit amended the thought. Almost balanced—with only Pippa’s streak of black hair framing her face to disrupt the match.
The Royal Alcazar of Madrid had once been a Moorish fort, built seven hundred years ago on a high point to overlook the Manzanares River. As they approached, Kit could see the semicircular turrets along one facade of the palace that were likely Muslim remnants from the ancient fort. The newly built Tower of Gold dominated the horizon with the same slate roof as elsewhere in the city; all so unlike anything in Britain that Kit felt a rush of pure adventure.
That rush was tempered the moment they rode into the Courtyard of the King and were met by two regal figures.
Philip, King of Spain and all its imperial holdings beyond the seas, stood at the top of a short flight of steps, clothed in his typical rich but somber attire. One would think that in a country much warmer than England, black would not be the fabric of choice.
Two steps below Philip—thus equalizing their heights—stood Mary Stuart, a rare triple queen. Infant Queen of Scotland, briefly Queen Consort of France, and now through another marriage Queen of Spain. She was tall enough to carry the extra weight of age and motherhood with elegance, her hair a darker version of Queen Elizabeth’s red-gold. Mary Stuart wore a Spanish-style gown of rich brown thickly embroidered with gold thread and had a fortune of rubies around her neck. Kit had met her only once before—two summers ago, when he spent several impatient, awful days in her company as they rode from her prison at Tutbury to the French ship that spirited her out of England. Seeing her here, triumphant after her blithe disregard of Anabel’s life—not to mention that of Kit’s older sister—made him straighten, and the frisson he felt this time was not excitement, but fear.
There was so very much at stake in all this delicate web of personal and familial relationships. He would not fail Anabel or England by letting his dislike get the better of his behaviour.
He felt a hand slide into his and almost smiled in relief as Pippa twined their fingers together. A quick glance to his twin, an even quicker wink, and then the two moved behind their parents as they were presented to the royal couple.
Kit had met the Spanish king many times before—as recently as two summers ago—but always in England, where Philip was little more than the barely tolerated husband of the ruling queen. Meeting King Philip in his own palace, in his own capital city—with a wife other than Elizabeth at his side—was a much more intimidating experience.
“Lady Exeter,” Philip said, coming down the steps in a show of graciousness. If initially nonplussed by news of her unexpected arrival on his shores, he’d clearly had time to accommodate the thought. “What an unlooked-for pleasure! I hardly dared dream that you would grace my humble alcazar.”
Humble, Kit thought cynically. Right. Though alcazar was the Moorish word for fort, it was centuries ago and plenty of gold spent since this had been anything but a palace. The courtyard they stood in was porticoed with gothic arches, and the May sun, so much warmer in Spain than England, picked out the lines and shadows of the carved stone frieze. A riot of vivid flowers tumbled out of planters and against pillars.
Philip welcomed Dominic with less open friendliness, but what Kit perceived as genuine respect. Though that might only be his own filial pride for a father he was beginning to think he could be a little bit like if he tried.
The Spanish king was less wary with Kit and Pippa, and promised he would spend time in the days to come pressing them for every detail they could share of his daughter.
Then came Mary Stuart. From what little he knew of her personally, Kit was somewhat surprised that the queen had managed to keep still and hold her tongue this long. Was she regretting having married a king? Her first husband had been Dauphin—and then King—of France, but she had only been a girl then, and was widowed almost as quickly. Her next two husbands had been her own subjects. Now once more, Mary was not simply a queen by birth but also by marriage. Surely that had only increased her sense of importance?
What he had not experienced during those tense days riding to the coast two years ago was Mary’s famous glamour. It was turned full force on them now. She allowed Dominic to touch her hand with his own, though Kit thought she was disappointed that he didn’t kiss it. Minuette she did not quite embrace; his mother met Mary’s wide smile with one of her own. Were they both false smiles?
“Lady Exeter, you look hardly older than when we met in France all those years ago.”
“Your Majesty is as royal as ever.” Kit had never heard that tone from his mother. It could have matched Queen Elizabeth for its ability to cut glass.
“Of course, none of us are as young as we once were. Your own twins are quite grown.” Mary moved to Kit and Pippa. Kit did not dare refuse to kiss her hand as his father had, but nor could he smile like his mother.
Mary seemed not to notice, for she was still speaking to Minuette. “Though, God be good, I have proved young enough to bring twins of my own into the world. A great gift.”