The Virgin's War (Tudor Legacy #3)(100)
Kit did not kiss her before he left. Perhaps he knew it would be beyond them both to stop. He simply stared at her, as though committing her face to memory before she appeared again as another man’s bride. Then he slipped quietly away, leaving Anabel to count the hours until her wedding.
Be it known to citizens both of Scotland and England: on the twenty-third day of July, the Year of our Lord 1586, at eleven o’clock of the morning at the Church of Our Lady in Ladykirk, Scotland, were wed Her Royal Highness Anne Isabella, Princess of Wales, and James VI, King of Scotland.
Witnesses: Robert Cecil and Edwin Littlefield
Marriage solemnized by: Bishop David Bell
—
Only when Anabel and her witnesses had crossed the river into Scotland did Kit show his face in Norham. He did not want to make it any harder on her than it already was. Or on himself, for that matter. He did not—could never—regret the night, but he also couldn’t guess whether it had made things harder or easier to bear.
He had to face her soon enough. There was a stir in Ladykirk and then Anabel and her party reappeared coming back to the river. They were not alone. Next to the princess rode James Stuart, sixth king of Scotland and Anabel’s husband. Kit’s instinct was to turn away, but why bother? He would have to see them together sooner rather than later, and better to begin now at maintaining a proper distance so as not to upset King James.
So Kit stayed where he was as they reached the riverbank directly across from him. James stepped his horse delicately close to Anabel’s, said a few words, then kissed her hand. The Scottish king was dressed exquisitely and expensively in cloth of gold and gem-encrusted trim. Next to him, Anabel appeared much plainer in a riding gown of blue-green taffeta and dark navy velvet, hardly fit for a royal wedding. Observers might think it a deliberate insult to James and Scotland—but Kit knew better. Anabel could have made no more meaningful gesture, for the dress she wore had been Pippa’s. The familiar blue gown of Kit’s twin that Anabel had donned that desperate final night in York when the women parted, pretending to be the other.
Kit felt a surge of relief when he realized only the English were returning just now. As the guards led the princess’s—or no, she was properly a queen now, wasn’t she?—horse into the water, he felt the eyes of Anabel’s husband linger on him.
If James meant to spy out impropriety, he was disappointed. Anabel did no more than nod to Kit as she rode past. But then, her back was to James, so he could not have seen the look she flashed Kit. A look worth any agony of his pride, for it mingled fierce love and the sweetest memories.
The remainder of that day was spent in council and conference. Norham had surely not seen such a concentration of royal power for a very long time, if ever. Kit could only hope the Scots were as busy. Just in case James decided to drag his feet in issuing orders, Kit sent word to his brother the moment Anabel returned that the Scots men of the western March would be ordered to fight with the Carlisle troops.
And pray God we are right, Kit wrote, and the western landing is not as large as the one we expect in the east. Make Lord Scrope and the Maxwells work together if you have to chain them to one another, Stephen. Because we will need as many men to join us as quickly as we can get them, to keep the Spanish from breaking out in the east.
Beneath all the work and worry and the still-fresh grief of missing Pippa lurked a superstitious fear of the dark closing in. Tonight, James Stuart would cross the river to be feasted at Norham and then led to his wife’s bed to set a seal on their union. Kit thought he could not bear it, not this first night. He would ride for Berwick as soon as the king was on English soil.
An hour before James was expected, an anonymous courier rode into Norham. From the state of both his horse and himself, the man had ridden far and fast. He carried no papers, only a verbal message, which he declined to deliver to any but Anabel herself. Kit might have disputed the matter, except that he knew the courier. He was from Tiverton, a squire long assigned personally to Minuette Courtenay’s service.
Kit led the man to the private study where Anabel and Robert Cecil were working in close concert. Madalena took one glance at their faces and let them in.
Anabel looked up, alarm flashing briefly across her face. “The king is not expected yet.”
“It is not the king. This man carries a message for you from the South.”
Anabel held out her hand, and the courier shook his head. “It was not written, Your Highness, for fear of falling into the wrong hands.” He cast a wary glance at Kit, Robert, and Madalena. “Would you prefer to receive it privately?”
“I trust these three with my life,” she answered coolly. “What is the message?”
“It is directly from the Duchess of Exeter, and in her words.” The courier cleared his throat, and then, obviously quoting, delivered his news. “The queen’s party, while riding to Canterbury, was surprised by armed men on the road. In the assault, an assassin slipped through and shot the queen at close quarters with a musket. She was returned to Leeds Castle, where she has continued unconscious for hours.”
He faltered, no doubt aware of the numbed silence he’d created. Then he continued in his own words. “Though the musket ball has been removed, it is feared the queen may not ever wake. The physicians will not commit themselves, but Lady Exeter said she has seen their faces and knows how to read despair when she sees it.”