The Virgin's Spy (Tudor Legacy #2)(9)
Because you are the eldest, ran the unspoken words, and my heir. Because your life and honour must be impeccable if you ever hope to live up to me.
There were times when Stephen envied his younger brother so much that he could hardly see straight.
—
In all her years as queen, Elizabeth had never met so subtle and capable a negotiator as her own daughter. Though Anabel was only nineteen, she possessed her father’s certainty and her mother’s stubbornness, traits that she ably employed in negotiating her immediate future as Princess of Wales.
“In addition to Ludlow, I need a home rather closer to London,” Anabel said. Not for the first time.
Elizabeth had been admittedly dragging her feet on the issue, not so much because she disagreed as because she wanted to remind her daughter that there was only one queen in England. But when even Burghley backed the princess, Elizabeth knew her daughter was in the right.
That didn’t mean she would make it easy. “And which palace would you like your queen to abandon?” she asked tartly. “Windsor? St. James? Perhaps I should simply move out of Whitehall and pass the seat of government into your hands.”
Anabel didn’t—quite—roll her eyes. “The point of me being near but somewhat independent is to learn from you, Your Majesty, and to learn how to run my own royal household in a controlled environment where I cannot do too much damage. Of course I do not want to run England. Not for many long years.”
Sometimes, it was like speaking to herself, Elizabeth thought. Other times, it was like speaking to Anne Boleyn. And every now and then, just for a flash, it was like speaking to William.
With a heavy sigh meant to convey giving in with weariness (though Anabel would correctly read it as assumed), Elizabeth capitulated with the decision that had already been taken in her privy council more than a fortnight ago. “In addition to Ludlow Castle, you will also be given Syon House and Charterhouse. Does that meet with your approval?”
How could it not? Syon House would not come as a great surprise, for Anabel herself had suggested it months ago. Once an abbey, Elizabeth’s father had granted the lands to John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland. Upon his execution in 1556, the land and beautiful house Northumberland had built had passed back to crown control. But Elizabeth never made use of the house that had once been a prison for her half sister, Mary Tudor. Because Syon House came with ghosts, and one of those was Northumberland’s fifth son, Robert.
Situated very near Richmond Palace, it would make a gracious home for the Princess of Wales when she wished to be more central than the Welsh borderlands could afford. And when she wished to be at the very heart of things? No place better than Charterhouse.
Just a mile from Whitehall (itself the largest palace complex in Europe), Charterhouse had been the London home of Elizabeth’s uncle, George Boleyn. As Duke of Rochford and both regent and chancellor in his time, he had commanded more power than any man in England, save the king. Charterhouse had been witness to ambassadors and foreign royals, to negotiations and threats and careful deploying of English power. Charterhouse was also the site of Lord Rochford’s assassination. In the twenty-five years since, it had been used primarily as a temporary residence for visiting dignitaries and those wealthy Continental merchants whom England needed to impress.
Anabel looked suitably surprised, which pleased Elizabeth enough for her to add graciously, “If you want to learn how to rule, nowhere better than in my uncle’s home. I expect the very walls are soaked in Lord Rochford’s genius.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Then, after a moment, Anabel added, “Mother.”
“Now,” Elizabeth continued briskly, “more important than the physical residence is the makeup of your own household. Philippa Courtenay, naturally, will be chief of your ladies, but you need an older, more experienced woman to take charge.”
“I can think of no one better than Lady Leighton as the public face. Of course, Madalena will take care of the details, as she always has.”
Madalena Arias had been a gift to Anabel from her father, a lady-in-waiting who had come to England at the age of ten and firmly attached herself to the five years’ younger princess. Her grandmother had been a converso Moor, making Madalena darker than the usual Spaniard and, Elizabeth conceded, extremely attractive. She served Anabel faithfully, though Elizabeth was always watchful, afraid of Philip using any tactic against his daughter.
“I approve your chaplain and steward. That leaves you two posts to fill—Master of the Horse and household treasurer.” Elizabeth spoke casually, knowing how insulted her daughter had been by Kit Courtenay’s refusal to accept the former post.
But, like her mother, she had mastered the art of moving on, and if not feeling indifference, at least feigning it well. “What do you think of Robert Cecil for Master of the Horse? Lord Burghley might be pleased to have his son expand his experience in public service.”
It was an astute choice. “He’ll do very well. And treasurer?”
For the first time, Anabel looked a touch defiant, as though anticipating a refusal. “I should like Matthew Harrington.”
She had sense enough not to say more, for Elizabeth knew perfectly well who Matthew was. His parents had been Minuette and Dominic’s loyal companions through their disgrace and exile, and their only son had been rewarded with an education to match that of the Courtenay sons. Matthew had studied law and, for the last year, been part of Lord Burghley’s staff in his role as Lord High Treasurer.