The Virgin's Spy (Tudor Legacy #2)(54)
Francis bowed low to Anabel—who did not extend her hand to be kissed—and when he straightened said simply, “I had thought I had anticipated all that this visit would bring. I confess that I severely underestimated the joy of it.”
Though she kept a straight face, Elizabeth’s eyes briefly darted to Burghley, standing a little behind Francis. She knew they were thinking the same thing. If Anjou has his way, he’ll be wed to Anabel before ever he leaves England.
Good. That meant they held all the cards. And that was the only way Elizabeth liked playing.
—
The formal reception for the Duc d’Anjou flowed in a steady progression through the afternoon: introductions to England’s leading nobility and councilors, a tour of Greenwich, a feast nicely balanced between impressive and welcoming, and finally musicians. There was no real dancing tonight, but lots of opportunities for private conversations between two or three as people mingled inside and out.
Anabel took the first chance that offered to steer Lucette and Julien LeClerc into a garden alcove for their opinion.
Lucette spoke first. “And what do we think of Francis de Valois?”
“I don’t know, what do we think? Any guidance from my personal Frenchman and his wife?” But though Anabel nominally addressed Julien, it was Lucette’s opinion she wanted. Of the man, not the position.
Her friend understood her at once. “Nothing you cannot see for yourself. He’s smart and cautious and principled—and masks it all with a French insouciance that he can turn on and off at will, I imagine.”
Julien breathed out a laugh, and Lucette’s teasing smile at her husband made Anabel’s heart ache. She had thought herself prepared for this business of personal suitors, approaching the matter as she did everything in her life—with ferocious study and flawless focus. She had thought she’d known all she needed to of Francis. Right up until the moment she met him and realized that there was a physical being behind all the reports and letters and political considerations.
It wasn’t that she found him repulsive. They were of a height and his fine dark eyes went a long ways to balance his slightly crooked posture and scarred face. But his flattery had left her cold. She could never imagine looking at him as Lucette was now looking at Julien.
“Well,” she said brightly, suddenly anxious to escape, “at least he will not be boring. We are riding tomorrow—would you both come?”
This time it was Julien who spoke, though it was more to her previous concerns than the question asked. “Your Highness, the Valois family can be…prickly. Prideful. But Francis is among the best of them. He is not given to quick judgment or narrow views. I think you might like him well enough.”
She forced a smile. “If he is half as astute as you are, I shall like him very well. What more could I wish for?”
Hazel eyes and golden hair, a mind that matched hers beat for beat…
Anabel shook off that fantasy and headed inside to flirt with Anjou.
Over the next three weeks, Stephen Wyatt provided information on two more planned English patrols. Ailis’s men brought home success each time, including finding a small cache of weapons during the second raid. Her guards were well-trained and well-disciplined, not always usual for Irish forces, and Diarmid mac Briain kept them on task. After the third raid, she and her captain of the guard discussed the immediate future of their prisoner.
“He seems genuinely interested in opposing his former countrymen,” Ailis mused. “Though his motive seems a little thin to me. All for a woman? I’ve never known any man to be that fond of any woman.”
“Perhaps you aren’t looking at the right men,” Diarmid answered neutrally enough, but Ailis caught the twitch of his jaw.
She ignored it. “I lend more weight to his recusant Catholicism, and most weight of all to the beating and the savaging of his pride. He strikes me as a very proud man—in himself, mind you, not just because he’s English—and I believe he has a genuine thirst for revenge. How far can we harness it?”
“Not far enough that I’d stop locking him in at night,” Diarmid warned.
How well he knew her. She smiled. “What, you don’t trust your men if he sleeps among them? I think we might learn more of Stephen the more we give him his head. I’ve no doubt you will continue to have eyes on him at all times.”
Diarmid grunted but would not argue. There were advantages to his feelings for her, and Ailis used them skillfully.
“Our overseas guests are on the move?” she asked. Even alone, they spoke elliptically of the Spanish soldiers. Surprise was their greatest weapon, and it could not be wasted.
“They are. We’ve had word from Fiach O’Toole. The guests moved out of Glenmalure two days ago and are marching fast and dressed as locals toward Askeaton. The English might see them, but only from a distance. They will expect it is only more Irish coming to defend the Earl of Desmond.”
“And the earl? He is prepared to make his stand?”
Gerald FitzGerald was a chancy man at best, having long had to balance his family inheritance and land of birth against the English crown that ratified his title. He’d never cut the dashing figure of his cousin James FitzMaurice, who had romped through Ireland twelve years ago and come very close to driving the English out of Munster entirely.