The Virgin's War (Tudor Legacy #3)(10)

“We feared you were going to miss Christmas!” Felix called as he approached and expertly reined in the large horse. He had the height of a young man, but when he grinned he looked like a child still.

Stephen was glad every time the boy grinned, for there was an underlying solemnity often manifested in long periods of surly quietness. Not surprising, considering Felix’s losses.

“Christmas in France?” Stephen called back. “Never would we miss the Christmas vigil and Yule log.”

“Just as well, because a load of letters and parcels have come for you both in the last week. If you hadn’t returned, I should have had to open them all myself.”

Kit aimed a lighthearted slap at the boy’s head as he rode up next to him. Felix laughed and then the two were racing down the lane. Stephen followed more slowly.

Once at the chateau, there was work to be done before anything else. Horses to be cared for and baggage and remaining supplies and weapons to be sorted. Stephen had had command of this particular sortie—his French had become both more fluent and more colloquial in the last two years—and he executed every duty to completion before thinking of rest. The last duty was to report to Renaud himself.

The official report was concise, and Renaud received it with only one or two pertinent questions. Then he leaned back in his chair and studied Stephen. Although Renaud was shorter and broader than Dominic Courtenay, both men carried themselves like soldiers in every setting. And both had a knack for going to the heart of the matter. “That will see us through the winter. The question is, will you be with us when campaigning season returns in the spring?”

“I cannot begin to thank you for what you have done for me,” Stephen said. “But after two years, it is time for me to decide what to do next. I cannot hide here forever.”

“Commanding my men is hiding?”

“You know what I mean.”

Renaud grunted. “I do. Frankly, I’m surprised you lasted this long. I thought your pride would have driven you away long before now.”

“I suppose you know something about Courtenay pride.”

“Pride—or stubbornness? Whatever you call it, you have coped well, Stephen. I think even your queen would be pleased.”

“Not pleased enough to allow me back to England.”

Only the French could manage that sardonic smile. “Probably not—at least not yet. But there is something freeing in being your own man. Where will that freedom take you next?”

“I had thought, perhaps, the Netherlands. Clearly they have need for soldiers.”

“They have need for talented military captains—of which you are a very good specimen. I am sure you would be made more than welcome.”

Stephen smiled a little. “You would not mind having trained a man just for him to go fight against Catholic soldiers?”

“Against Spanish soldiers,” Renaud corrected. “I give my blessing on that if you want it. Better that than being drawn into the interminable Huguenot conflicts here.”

“I thought you stayed out of matters of religion.” The LeClerc household certainly appeared orthodox enough in their Catholic worship, though Stephen knew some of the servants were Huguenots, whom Renaud’s late wife had hired to protect them and their families from the violence of the last decade.

“As you and your queen know perfectly well, religion is never free of ambition and politics. I prefer not to have my decisions made by anyone else’s narrow interpretation of whichever religion they hold to.”

“Well, I have no interest in throwing in my lot with the Huguenots. I’ve burned too many bridges with the doctrinaire Catholics already.”

Renaud narrowed his eyes. “Because of Julien and Nicolas and what happened in England?”

“Because of Nightingale and Mary Stuart,” Stephen allowed. It was all of a piece.

In the summer of 1580, French and Spanish Catholics had joined forces in an elaborate—and ultimately successful—attempt to rescue Mary Stuart from her English prison. It had been known as the Nightingale Plot. It was that plot that had drawn his sister Lucette into the heart of the LeClerc family, entangling her with both of Renaud’s sons. The affair ended with violence and death in England. No matter how much had been kept quiet in the aftermath, there were those in Europe who knew enough to direct their Catholic vengeance at both the LeClercs and Stephen himself.

And one Catholic above all.

You have made an enemy today, Mary Stuart had said to Stephen as she left England’s shores.

As though mentioning his sons had sent his mind in a specific direction, Renaud said abruptly, “It will be hard for Felix when you leave.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“The loss and sorrow is not of your making. And I understand why Julien cannot come to France. But, perhaps, when you leave in the spring, your brother might be willing to escort him to England for a time? I think Felix needs his uncle.”

“I am sure Kit would gladly do so.” And it would serve to ensure that Kit did not follow him into a war.

Renaud sighed, and Stephen could see the weight of the last years in his face. “We shall have you both for the winter, at least. I am glad. Charlotte is all that I could wish for in a daughter—but I confess that I miss both my sons.”

After all the emotionally laden undertones, Stephen could finally be alone. He knew he needed a bath and a meal, but he was so tired and relieved to be without immediate responsibilities that he shut his door, pulled off his boots, and threw himself into a thickly padded chair in front of the fire. The small table at hand held the letters that had arrived in his absence.