The Virgin's Spy (Tudor Legacy #2)(45)
Leaving the family in their suite of high-ceilinged chambers, Philip spent two hours in council with Cardinal Granvelle and others. All were cautiously optimistic about the Irish project, but it was still a relatively minor matter. From the high mountains of the New World to the sultry tropics of Manila, the Spanish empire had both problems and opportunities enough for three monarchs to handle.
When matters of business were concluded and his councilors withdrew, Philip walked silently through El Escorial. The monks were accustomed to him, and he slipped unaccosted into the church for vespers. There, he was surprised to find Philippa Courtenay sitting in the far back of the public chapel, the monks’ voices wafting from behind the sail vaults.
“Like angels,” Philip said softly, seating himself near her. “Heard and felt, but never seen.”
She smiled, a shade more warmly than mere politeness dictated, and Philip smiled in return. “How do you like Spain, dama?”
“Very well, Your Majesty.” She spoke Spanish with near fluency, a point of pride for Philip, as he knew she had learned it with his daughter. “I am only sorry that you must make do with us, rather than the visitor you would most prefer.”
“But Anne would not be a visitor. Spain is her heritage as much as England.” That was disingenuous, for he knew that heritage must be nurtured over time, and time was a luxury Anne would never have for her father’s country. Philip sighed. “Can you tell me, dama, of my daughter? Those things not easily found in ambassadorial reports.”
“She was most anxious that we convey to you her love and care. She rejoices in her new young half brothers and hopes they will bring you great joy.”
“That is no more nor less than might be written in a report.”
When she wanted, Philippa Courtenay had her mother’s smile, one that lit up wherever she was. Her next words were much less formal. “Anabel is your daughter. She will always choose her words with care. But privately? She is as dear to me as my own sister. So you will not accuse me of lack of love when I say that she has a temper and a way with words to rival Queen Elizabeth for wit and sharpness.”
Philip surprised himself by laughing.
Then Philippa added, “She has considered that the birth of your sons will ease the pressures on you, and thus on her. She hopes that in these new circumstances, your attitude to England might soften. She has no wish for her young brothers to be raised to think of her as an enemy. Whatever the politics, families should behave generously.”
“I hope I will never fail in my generosity to my only daughter,” Philip said, suddenly less amused. “But Anne, like her mother—and myself—is responsible for far more than her own life. These two women have the souls of all England in their charge. And they fail them every day in which they hunt down innocent priests and continue to defy God by setting themselves above his earthly representatives.”
Philippa Courtenay, for all that she had her mother’s looks, had her father’s ability to make her expression completely neutral. “Anabel has never once failed to remember the lives of the people that will one day be in her charge. She will do what she must for England.” She rose, without genuflecting toward the altar, and said, “I am sure Your Majesty is aware that the Duc d’Anjou will soon be in England to pay court to your daughter. I know that was your wish, that she consider marrying a man of your faith.”
It had once been his wish, and he still thought it the most likely match, for England needed a counter to Spain’s increasing hostility. Now he was not so certain.
As if she could read his indecision, Philippa Courtenay added as a parting shot, “I understand that Esmé Stewart has also been invited to court. He will come with full authority from King James of Scotland to treat for Anabel’s hand as well. I wonder how Her Majesty, Queen Mary, will feel about that possibility?”
Perhaps not so much a girl after all, Philip thought, but a clear-eyed, sharp-tongued female such as only England seemed to produce. Why could they not keep their women reserved and restrained like the Spanish?
—
The journey from the isolated crofter’s hut to the Kavanaugh manor in Cahir was a nightmare for Stephen, jolting along on the pony Peter Martin had brought along. The pony was sure-footed but bony, and Stephen ached clear through with every jolt. Martin had done a dispassionately thorough job of beating him, though he had avoided the once-broken arm and anything too difficult to heal. That didn’t make Stephen’s head or jaw ache less, or stop parts of him from being covered in spectacular bruises.
It all went to the authenticity of his cover, as did his hair, allowed to grow past the collar of his doublet, and his rough growth of beard. His clothes had been carefully procured in England to reinforce the picture of a young man born bastard to a gentleman who had only carelessly provided bits and pieces for his unnecessary son. The Courtenays were a conservative family by royal court standards, so Stephen only realized how accustomed he was to the luxury of expensive—if sober—fabrics and soft linen when forced to change to coarser weaves.
It felt like penance, which was a very Catholic thought. That also played into his cover, for in his new role he was a recusant, born of a mother devout in her faith if not her behaviour. That was something else Julien had provided him with—an attempt at understanding Catholicism that only one born and raised in that faith could grasp. Stephen didn’t need to be word perfect; he need only have another plausible reason for loathing the ruling English authorities.