The Virgin's Spy (Tudor Legacy #2)(53)
Stephen mentally raced through what he knew about the Sinclairs: wealthy, but because of their cleverness and business acumen rather than birth or position. Old William Sinclair had died a year and a half ago, leaving only two grandchildren, Maisie and her brother. From what he’d heard from Walsingham, Maisie’s brother had inherited his grandfather’s business but not his intelligence. From the way she was studying him, Stephen suspected that legacy had gone to Maisie instead.
But how dangerous could a sixteen-year-old girl be?
Her first question was unexpected but not especially dangerous. “Do you have a brother, Mr. Wyatt?”
“Call me Stephen,” he replied instinctively, to keep from flinching. “I have no siblings, as I told Liadan—an only child, just like her. Just like I told Ailis and every man of hers she’s had question me. Did she ask you to try and trip me up? But then I suppose the Scots have as little reason to trust the English as the Irish do.”
He focused on Maisie’s intent face, refusing to let anything rise to the surface of his mind: Lucie, Pippa, Kit. No siblings. No attachments.
Maisie smiled, quick and mischievous. “Just as well. Siblings can be difficult—especially brothers.”
The guard shifted as Liadan came darting back in. “We can go to dinner now! I’m to bring our guest.”
Stephen gallantly offered the girl his arm and, giggling, she put her hand in the crook of his elbow. Both Maisie and the guard followed them out. But it was Maisie’s gray eyes Stephen could feel focused on him. Assessing.
—
Francis de Valois, Duc d’Anjou and heir presumptive to the throne of France, arrived at Greenwich Palace the last week in June to royal fanfare, beneath which atmosphere mingled calculation, mistrust, and hope. Elizabeth and Burghley stood with Sir Henry Lee, who had arranged the ceremonious arrival to the last footstep, and everything—even the weather—cooperated.
Elizabeth chose to greet Anjou dockside, where the royal barge she had lent him pulled alongside. She wore an elaborate gown of purple and cloth-of-silver, and atop her closely curled red wig perched an arrangement of jewels and stiffened silver lace like butterfly wings. Behind her, Greenwich was at its best in its summer colours, and it was a real pleasure to once more greet Jehan de Simier.
“My monkey!” Elizabeth said delightedly. Simier kissed her hand, then made way for his royal prince, Duc Francis of Anjou. The French royal equalled—if not surpassed—Elizabeth for sartorial flamboyance. His doublet and trunk hose were made of gold damask, with stiffly embroidered silk set in the trunk-hose panes. He wore rubies on his fingers and had an enormous diamond in his hat.
Like both Elizabeth and her late brother, Francis had suffered a bout of smallpox when younger. The scarring had left him far short of handsome, but the twenty-seven-year-old prince had merry eyes and thick hair and an intelligent good humour about him that was attractive in its way.
“Madame la reine,” he said graciously, and kissed Elizabeth’s offered hand. She was still vainly proud of her white hands and long fingers, even if age had begun to slowly creep into her joints.
Francis straightened and said in charmingly accented English, “I bring with me the well wishes of my brother, the king, and of my mother. It has been too long since France and England have been friends. We would remedy that in whatever manner seems best to both our countries.”
Oh, how glad Catherine de Medici must be to have Spain no longer allied to England, Elizabeth thought. She wondered if the French queen mother was quite as glad to have Mary Stuart replace her as Philip’s wife. Catherine did not like her deceased oldest son’s bride at all and had been only too glad to get rid of Mary to Scotland. During her years of trouble at home and confinement in England, the French crown had made no move to intervene. Probably Catherine was most disappointed with Elizabeth for not having gotten rid of Mary and saved all of them this trouble.
For if Mary Stuart had not wed Philip, the Spanish king might well have turned instead to the French nobility for a young Catholic bride.
But he hadn’t, and so here they were. Elizabeth bestowed a dazzling smile on Francis and said, “Our wish for friendship could not be greater. Come in, and meet the jewel of England. My daughter, Anne.”
Anabel, by her mother’s design, was seated in the hall on the smaller of two thrones. Hers bore the embroidered canopy of the Princess of Wales, and she rose, cool and remote, as her mother and her possible future husband approached with the rest of the court officers behind.
Elizabeth had overseen the design of her daughter’s gown in every detail. To accent her youth and virginity, Anabel wore an ivory silk damask that emphasized her pale skin. The ruff was mostly lace, to delicately frame the face, and her red-gold hair was dressed in loose waves pulled into a chignon at the back of her neck. She wore no jewels, save the locket ring Elizabeth had given her at the investiture.
Naturally, Anabel spoke fluent French to their guest. “Welcome to England, dear brother of France. It is a great joy to my heart to meet at last.”
Elizabeth continued to her own throne and sat where she could watch Francis’s face. He had been sent portraits of Anabel, and of course had the reports of many ambassadors and visitors over the years. Despite all that, she thought she detected a quiver of surprise at how truly beautiful her daughter was. Portraits could exaggerate, after all, and men’s tales could be embellished. But Anabel herself was perfect.