The Virgin's Spy (Tudor Legacy #2)(60)
Now his father grew quiet, in a manner much more familiar to Kit. He seemed to be considering a great many things. Finally, he asked a question. The most humiliating question Kit had ever been asked. “How many women have you been with?”
He turned scarlet despite himself, and stuttered in reply. “I…What do you…” he stopped, wishing the earth would swallow him up. Was this the sort of conversation Stephen had with their father? If so, perhaps he preferred being overlooked.
“You haven’t,” his father concluded. “I didn’t think so, but I’m not so old as to be convinced I know everything my children do. I’m afraid it’s that fact—or, more truly, the motivation behind it—that has King Philip worried.”
“Surely the King of Spain has more to worry about than my love life!”
“Did you not mark the number of women who, well, more or less offered themselves to you along the way? Spain is traditionally more conservative than England—these women would not have done it if they hadn’t been steered in that direction.”
This was growing too wild for reality. King Philip of Spain had been trying to lure him into a Spanish woman’s bed? Why would he possibly care?
As though he’d spoken the last question aloud, his father answered. “Because of Anabel.”
From scarlet, Kit’s face turned white. He kept his eyes fixed on the horizon beyond the masts of the ships below.
His father continued, gently, “I do not wish to force you to speak of private things, but Kit? You’re in dangerous waters if royalty is noticing your attentions and trying to find ways to break it. Philip is afraid of the hold you have on his daughter.”
“And are you afraid of the same thing?” Kit asked bluntly.
“No. I’m afraid of the hold she has on you. I have always wished for my children to love as your mother and I do—but I had hoped it would come without the costs we had to pay. You and Anabel…I do not see an easy path there, son.”
“Why do you think I went away?” he said forcefully.
His father sighed. “Does she feel the same about you?”
“No. Of course she doesn’t. She’s in England right this minute trying to decide between France and Scotland.”
“I hope so, son. For both your sakes.”
—
“Tell me, Walsingham, what am I do about William Catesby and this wild scheme for a Catholic English colony in the New World? The Spanish ambassador has his fingerprints all over this proposal. And I do not like them meddling with my subjects.”
“Catesby should have remained in prison,” Walsingham said severely. “He harbored Edmund Campion and has shown no eagerness to reform after the treasonous priest’s execution. When you give the recusants so much room to maneuver, of course they will maneuver to your disadvantage.”
“Better to let them leave, then?” Elizabeth demanded, piqued. Walsingham was nearly always proposing harsher measures. Sometimes she wondered if she opposed him merely from habit.
“I do not think any plan that involves the Spanish and English citizens is a good plan.”
“Well, let us see what our envoys and Lord and Lady Exeter have to say about Spain when they return. It’s only another ten days or so. I doubt Catesby and his ilk are preparing to sail on the next tide.”
Walsingham nodded and his brother-in-law, Walter Mildmay, took the pause to redirect the conversation. “Esmé Stewart is expected to pass the night at Oxford and arrive at Hampton Court late tomorrow. Apparently the Duke of Lennox is coming with full plenipotentiary powers to treat for a marriage with Princess Anne.”
“And no doubt the Duc d’Anjou is fully aware of the same,” Walsingham continued. “You must make a decision, Your Majesty. You cannot continue to lead two countries on indefinitely. Her Highness is appealing, but these men have their pride.”
“And I have mine!” she snapped. “England is not so poor that we must beg attention. But by all means, if you wish to please the French before Stewart’s arrival, then send the Duc d’Anjou to me. The two of us will talk.”
To his credit, Walsingham looked wary about that plan. Sometimes the man knew her entirely too well for comfort.
Anjou appeared a quarter hour later, neat and suave as though he’d simply been waiting for her summons. Truly, he had proven himself an intelligent and cultured prince as well as a pleasing one. He could debate, he could command, and he could charm. As perfect a prince as could be hoped.
As Elizabeth waved her ladies to the far end of the presence chamber where a lute player entertained, she remembered other moments when she’d sought the illusion of privacy in public spaces. When it had been Robert walking toward her with that assured grace bordering on arrogance that so captivated her. There had never been another like him—and Elizabeth had been feeling that loss keenly this last month. As she’d watched her beautiful and very young daughter captivate Anjou, she had felt moments of pure resentment that she was no longer the most desirable woman in England.
Perhaps, she thought mordantly, that is why my own mother and I had difficulties. Perhaps all mothers and daughters are destined to shipwreck on the shoals of aging and jealousy.
Still, Anabel did not possess the throne of England. Not yet. And thrones, in and of themselves, were very desirable.