The Virgin's Spy (Tudor Legacy #2)(5)

“I don’t suppose there’s any chance you would reconsider?” There was a wistfulness to her plea she had not expected.

His quick, rueful grin was answer in itself. “You’ll be happier with someone more biddable, Your Highness. You and I should only spend our days arguing.”

But those are the best parts of my days, Anabel thought forlornly. Arguing with you.

She was still fretting about his uncharacteristic refusal that night when Pippa helped her change for bed. There were two other ladies moving silently about with her gown and kirtle and ruff, but Anabel ignored them.

“What is wrong with Kit?” she demanded of his twin.

Pippa continued to brush Anabel’s hair as she answered. “Kit told you the truth. For all his mischief, he is ambitious and proud. Is it truly a surprise he should wish to make his way independently?”

Pippa had her twin’s sharp cheekbones and eyes that tilted up on the outer corner. They both had their mother’s thick, wavy hair the colour of sun-warmed honey, but Pippa’s had a streak of black in it that framed the right side of her face. It made her look—not exotic, exactly, but otherworldly. It was not the only otherworldly aspect to her character.

But at the moment, Pippa did not seem interested in sharing any of her unique knowledge, so Anabel contented herself with logical argument. “Being Master of Horse for the Princess of Wales would be an independent position. I don’t mean to tell him how to perform his responsibilities.”

“Kit does not wish to take your gifts.”

“Because he does not wish to waste time in my company?”

Pippa laid down the brush and, when Anabel made no objection, pulled a stool alongside her friend. Her voice was kind but implacable. “You know better than that. Anabel, what is truly bothering you?”

Your damned twin with his arrogance and pride and sudden wish to cut himself off from me. Kit was hers, as much as Pippa. What was the point of being royal if one could not keep hold of the people one wanted?

But not even to Pippa was she prepared to share the full turmoil of her thoughts, because beneath them lurked something that frightened her. An image—a memory—that came to her at night as she drifted between waking and sleep.

The expression in Kit’s eyes when he’d walked into Wynfield Mote a year ago to negotiate her out of the hands of a violent man.

Anabel had not seen that expression in the months since. Instead, Kit had been moody and unpredictable. And now he seemed so determined to get away from her that he was willing to go to godforsaken Ireland.

When it must have become clear that Anabel would not speak further, Pippa sighed. “Someday you will have to learn to trust yourself, Your Highness. I cannot do it for you.”





30 June 1581


Dearest Lucie,

When you traveled to France last year, I teased you about coming home with a Frenchman. Or half teased. I did not know—I never know for certain—how events would play out. I knew there was danger and pain and loss all tied together with your happiness…but is that not the nature of life itself? One cannot untangle only the parts one wants. They are woven together too tightly.

How do I tell Anabel that? She is not prepared to admit, even to herself, that she knows perfectly well why Kit is leaving England. Having had the shock of confronting his own feelings for her so suddenly last August, Kit cannot go on taking her favours as nothing more than the friend he has always been. But nor will he press on her a love she is not prepared to accept. To serve in her household would be a daily insult to his pride, especially with the looming visits of the French and Scots representatives coming to vie for her hand. Kit knows perfectly well that Anabel is not meant for him.

What do I know? Only a tangle of paths and choices and troubles that lie ahead. England’s future is no more secure than Elizabeth’s or her daughter’s. If I knew how it would all turn out, I would truly be the witch some might fear me of being.

But I am only a girl who knows more than I wish.

Oh dear, only days away from you and already I am slipping into melodrama. In your great happiness, Lucie, steal a few minutes away to write to me with your mix of sisterly compassion and common sense. I need it.

Love,

Pippa





5 July 1581


Pippa,

Stop being melodramatic! The world is not yours to order or decipher, only to live in as we all must do. If you had tried to tell me that I would fall in love with Julien, I would likely have refused to do so out of sheer stubbornness. There’s no use fretting over Anabel and Kit—I have never known two people more certain to do precisely as they please. Getting in their way will only aggravate the issue.

I feel quite certain now that York is the most beautiful city in England. Though probably I should feel that way about Bristol or Leeds or Carlisle if I happened to be passing these days in any of those towns. It is Julien that makes all beautiful, especially at night when we can shut the door and there is nothing in this world but the two of us. And a fine cambric shift. And a bed.

It is a state I highly recommend.

Your most lovingly contented sister,

Lucie





“And how are you feeling today, Maria?” Philip asked from polite habit. He could see perfectly well that his wife continued in the good health she had enjoyed since the earliest days of her pregnancy. It was a blessing he did not lightly discount, for Mary Stuart was thirty-eight years old and had not borne a living child since James of Scotland fourteen years ago.