The Virgin's Spy (Tudor Legacy #2)(6)
Pregnancy agreed with her. Mary, unlike her cousin and Philip’s previous wife, Elizabeth, was entirely feminine and she glowed with the sheen of contented womanhood.
But, very much like Elizabeth, there were times when the queen outshone the woman.
“Why,” Mary replied tartly, “has there been no aid sent to Ireland? The Earl of Desmond desperately needs men and arms and food.”
Desmond also, in Philip’s opinion, needed better tactics and a country worth fighting for. But his wife knew she was on secure ground, for he would not quarrel openly while she carried what could only be hoped was the future King of Spain.
“Maria,” Philip said with the lightest warning, “you should not trouble yourself with the politics of Ireland at such a time.” Or any time, he thought wryly. Ireland was nothing but a wasteland of men and money.
But it was also Catholic, nominally controlled by England, and Mary sought any outlet that allowed her to strike at the queen who had kept her captive for a dozen years.
“I am not troubling myself about the politics of Ireland. I am troubling myself about my husband keeping his word. Spain has promised aid. And do not speak to me of legalities and councils and the fine details of such a promise. Tell me what the most powerful king in Christendom intends to do in the next four weeks to aid his brothers in Christ.”
“Sit down,” Philip said flatly. And when she opened her mouth to protest, repeated a touch louder, “Sit down, Maria. I will speak to you, but I will not keep the mother of my heir on her feet while I do so.”
She sat and studied him with a suspicious arrogance that was an uncomfortable trait in one’s wife. Not that Elizabeth Tudor could ever be outmatched in terms of arrogance, but she possessed in addition the saving graces of a first-rate mind and a mischievous sense of humour. Neither of which Mary Stuart could claim. Mary’s intelligence was instinctive rather than cultivated, narrow rather than wide, and she distrusted anyone who might be laughing at her.
“As a queen all your life,” he began, “you know perfectly well the limitations even royalty must work around. Yes, Spain is Holy Church’s most zealous defender, but that means we must always look at the wider view. Ireland is but one piece, and because of her geography and culture, a minor piece at that.”
“But—”
“Let me finish.” Once, Philip would never have talked over a woman. But queens, at times, had to be an exception. “Since your escape from England and our divorce from Elizabeth, Ireland has become a pivotal piece, for all that it is minor. We are sending men and arms and gold. They will reach the west coast of Ireland by the end of July.”
No need to give details, for Mary would only complain that the numbers were not enough. Probably she was right. But Philip trusted his military men more than his wife. They had chosen what they thought an optimal number—enough to tip the balance if the stars aligned for the Earl of Desmond, but not so many that Philip could not afford to lose them. More importantly—if they did lose them, Spain’s prestige would not be touched.
Ireland might yet prove fertile ground to attack Elizabeth’s fragile empire. But not for certain, not yet. And Philip gambled only on certainties.
—
“If you’re going to gamble, Kit, don’t wager more than you can afford to lose.”
Kit choked back a curse and rounded on his twin. “First, don’t sneak up on me. Second, you sounded scarily like Mother just then. And third, don’t twit me, Pippa. I am not in the mood.”
Mimicking his tone, she said, “First, pay attention to your surroundings. Second, I know what mood you’re in before you do. And third, I don’t care. The privilege of older siblings, Kit—to speak to you how and when we choose.”
“You’re older by five minutes. And I don’t need you to play Stephen’s part any more than Mother’s—”
He only stopped when he caught the flash of true concern from his twin. It was there and gone too swiftly for anyone else to have noticed, but Kit knew Pippa as well as he knew anyone in the world. Better. It wasn’t just that they had the same colouring, the same thick waves of dark gold hair, the same wide smile used to deflect others as much as to charm them. Their bond was more than physical, encompassing a queer double sense of the world and of each other. Because of that bond, Kit could feel that Pippa’s concern about his state ran deep—and her intentions to keep at him until he was at least partly truthful ran even deeper.
“Come on,” he sighed, and pulled her away from the public galleries of Greenwich Palace into the more secluded corridors where only royalty and their closest councilors and friends ventured. He would allow Pippa much, but airing his most private thoughts for anyone to hear went too far.
When they were as alone as could be managed, Kit folded his arms and leaned against the wall. “Talk,” he commanded Pippa.
But his twin only smiled with deadly sweetness. “I believe that’s my order for you.”
He would have liked to make her press and pry and work for every concession she meant to wring from him. But it would have been pointless. The talking was not to satisfy her curiosity; it was to force him to come to terms with things that, in her opinion, he had kept too long even from himself.
There were times when Pippa looked at him that Kit felt as though they were two parts of one whole. And other times when she seemed as foreign to him as an ancient Roman would have been.