The Virgin's Spy (Tudor Legacy #2)(61)
“La belle reine,” Anjou murmured, bending low in greeting. “To what do I owe this great honour?”
“To the tediousness of ruling,” Elizabeth retorted. “Sit, and relieve me of my boredom.”
“How can a queen of such accomplishments ever be bored?” Anjou sat with the kind of graceful ease that did much to compensate for his physical drawbacks. And one could not take exception with his manners. “The court of England draws men of the highest scholarship and adventure, like moths to a flame. You have only to snap your fingers to command whom you wish.”
“And at this moment, I snap my fingers for you. Entertain me with news from France—not the dispassionate accounts of diplomats. Give me rumour and gossip. Truly, how did your mother take the news of Mary Stuart’s escape and marriage?”
Anjou laughed, and Elizabeth could swear it was unprompted and genuine. “You do go right to the heart of the matter,” he said. “You have met my mother, yes?”
“I had that honour.” So many years ago that Elizabeth did not care to mention it to Anjou. He’d scarcely been born when she had gone to France as Princess of Wales. No, she would not remind him of that.
“My mother, the Queen Dowager, reacted precisely as you would expect: fury at Spain for not only taking Mary Stuart in but wedding her. And, I’m afraid, a great deal of contempt directed at you for letting her slip away.”
“Then perhaps she should have taken care with your brother’s subjects not to let them plot against my daughter! I doubt even Catherine de Medici would lightly sacrifice one of you.” Although, perhaps, maybe she would. Catherine had an excess of children, after all. Unlike herself.
Anjou was quick enough to read Elizabeth, and said smoothly, “My mother and I are hardly a model of agreeing with one another.”
That did make her laugh. “I imagine if Catherine found my release of Mary Stuart contemptible, then the Edict of Beaulieu must continue to drive her to distraction.” For it was Francis, this younger son of whom no one had expected much, who championed the Huguenots and negotiated the peace six years ago that, at least nominally, allowed French Protestants to worship without fear of massacre. A slap at the policies of his brother and the French queen mother who had ordered the St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre.
“Your Majesty,” Anjou went on, his keen eyes unwavering, “surely you know how deep my hopes run to ally with England. We need each other. I know that the Scots envoy will say much the same thing. And I know Esmé Stewart.” Anjou grinned. “He will say it more handsomely than I can manage. But if my face is imperfect, my sincerity is not. I will offer anything within my power to be wed to England.”
Anything in his power? An idea, that had before been but a half-formed dream and shadow, was beginning to take root in Elizabeth’s mind. Why should England not have everything it needed? Alliance with France, and union with Scotland. Appease the Catholics and reinforce the Protestant ascendancy on this island. And, not least of all, infuriate both Philip and Mary Stuart in equal measure.
With her most seductive smile, honed all these years on more men than Robert Dudley, Elizabeth briefly touched the back of Anjou’s hand with her beautiful long fingers. Her locket ring glinted, less showy than the sapphires and rubies on her other fingers, but it seemed to convey Anne Boleyn’s approval. If anyone would have understood finding pleasure while also doing what one must, it would have been the much-maligned Queen Anne.
“Francis,” Elizabeth murmured. “Why make it a contest? I have never been one for doing what others expect me to do. And so I think that perhaps you and I might come to an arrangement that benefits both France and Scotland.”
Anjou was quick and intuitive. If there was a moment’s surprise, he covered it neatly as his mind leaped to follow hers. She thought she saw a brief flash of wry regret in his eyes, but he conquered it almost at once as he lifted her hand to kiss it. “I like the way you think, Your Majesty.”
—
Peter Martin duly arrived in Cahir and, after completing his round of messages and information for the Kavanaughs, had a cursory interview with Stephen. He appeared content to see Stephen’s improved standing in the household as work well done for the time. There were no new instructions from England, but Martin was able to tell him a few things thanks to his travels around Ireland.
“Ormond is keeping close to his own lands,” Martin reported. “Resisting calls from England to move on Askeaton. Pelham is facing outbreaks of violence in Dublin and may not be able to move, either.”
“So who is going to Askeaton?”
Martin shrugged. “Not my area. I’m just an itinerant messenger who knows rather more Latin than is good for him. Anything at this end? If you wanted to write to someone, I could get it through.”
Stephen wouldn’t risk it. His family knew only the barest bones of where he was, and he had nothing to say to Walsingham. Yet. Besides, Ailis had already offered to send any letters he cared to write. Maisie sent letters by the dozens—she spent hours each day writing copiously to various people in Scotland and received almost as many in reply. No doubt any missive of his would have been read before being sent, but he had an innocuous code and cover for a letter that would mean something only to the spymaster. That he hadn’t written was due mostly to his own reluctance.
Martin’s last words were a warning, a message from Walsingham. “Our master says there have been a few inquiries about your whereabouts in London. Among the city classes and the foreign merchants. He says to keep your head down in case a lady of your acquaintance might be trying to track you.”