The Virgin's Spy (Tudor Legacy #2)(83)
“Well, even if you are training heavily at Tiverton, I should still see you from time to time.”
There was silence. Then, “I’m not going to train at Tiverton.”
It seemed he was going to make her ask. “Where, then?”
“With Renaud LeClerc. In France,” he added, as though she didn’t know that perfectly well.
The illness had not completely obliterated her previous temper—her first instinct was to forbid it. But she held her tongue, determined not to treat him as just another vassal. Dare she be honest?
“But I will miss my raven.”
His eyes softened, and Anabel bit her lip to keep it from trembling. If he didn’t move, she was going to have to…
With that swift grace so familiar to her, Kit knelt at her side. “Don’t cry,” he said, which was her first indication that she was crying.
“I’m afraid.”
“Of what?”
“The future. Why cannot I just be a girl, Kit?”
“Because if you were just a girl—if you were any girl except yourself—I would not love you.”
“Do you?” she whispered.
“You know I do.”
“Tell me.”
He cupped her face in those beautiful hands of his. “I love you, Anabel. Whatever the future brings, whatever choices you must make for England, always know that I love you. Mi corazon.”
My heart.
His right thumb traced the outline of her lips, and Anabel forgot who and what she was. For just this moment she was the girl she longed to be—the simple girl brave enough to lean up and kiss the boy she had loved all her life without knowing it.
Kit stilled, but only for a moment’s surprise. Then his hands slipped down her throat and her shoulders to pull her against him as they kissed. As awkward and inexperienced as she was, Anabel was certain nothing could ever feel as glorious as this.
But beneath the glory beat the ever-present question she had uttered earlier: What are we going to do?
—
Not until Anabel was safely secured to convalesce at Syon House did Elizabeth attend a full privy council meeting. Dominic had made a preliminary report to both Burghley and Walsingham, condensed into written notes that had only partly penetrated her distraction. Now she could turn her full attention to Spain.
Or nearly her full attention. For the first order of business was how to graciously dispatch the Duc d’Anjou and Esmé Stewart.
“Neither man is stupid,” Walter Mildmay said waspishly. “They know they were not sent away from court because the Princess of Wales had a light summer cold. We’re lucky they haven’t both bolted for their own countries, carrying with them rumours of her imminent demise.”
Burghley’s reply was more temperate than Elizabeth’s would have been. Sometimes she thought that, for all she had rewarded him, there was not reward enough in all England for the burdens he carried for her. “Their graces will continue on progress for another four days before meeting the court at Richmond to bid Her Majesty farewell. They will both be invited at that time to make a private visit to Princess Anne at Syon House.”
“And what will be the outcome of these private visits? We must have a decision on a royal marriage as soon as may be. If Spain moves against us before we have allies—”
“If Spain moves against us,” Walsingham broke in sharply, “that will ensure England has a plethora of allies. Do not underestimate King Philip’s intelligence. Spain will not move until and unless they are convinced of their overwhelming superiority in numbers.”
“We are not discussing Spain just yet,” Elizabeth added. “Let us deal with the matter of the foreign suitors first.”
“Has either France or Scotland offered formally?” Mildmay asked.
“No. But I believe both are prepared to do so if we leave them with the appropriate encouragement.”
“And which one shall we encourage?” asked Burghley wryly, for the council was split on the matter. If it ever came to a vote—which of course it wouldn’t—there would be no clear consensus for either Anjou or James.
There didn’t have to be. Elizabeth had crafted her own answer. One she had not discussed with either Burghley or Walsingham, though she thought the former might have guessed something of her intentions.
“The Duke of Lennox,” she announced, “will return to Scotland with our royal encouragement of King James’s suit. I expect the formal betrothal to the Princess of Wales can take place this winter.”
There was a slight murmuring but no great surprise.
But Elizabeth wasn’t finished yet. “And the Duc d’Anjou will return to France with the understanding that, when he returns to England, it will be as the betrothed husband of my own royal self.”
The murmuring became dead silence, a weight of astonishment that kept Elizabeth’s chin high and eyes narrowed. She was prepared to combat dissent.
She was not prepared for open contempt. Mildmay barked an astonished laugh. “You cannot be serious!”
“Have you ever known me to be less than serious on matters touching my kingdom?”
“Anjou will never agree,” he said bluntly.
“He already has. Privately.”
That shut their mouths, but not their eyes. Elizabeth could see the question none of them were suicidal enough to ask aloud. Why would Anjou marry an old woman?