The Virgin's War (Tudor Legacy #3)(101)

In the aftermath, Kit thought he had gone deaf, so quiet was the chamber. He was the first to recover his voice. “When?”

“They were attacked Monday. I left Leeds Castle that evening.”

No wonder the man looked ready to drop—he’d ridden four hundred miles in five days.

Despite shock, despite fear, despite uncertainty, Anne Tudor would always rise to what must be done. She must have seen the same exhaustion and dedication in the courier that Kit had, for she said with a valiant attempt at normalcy, “We thank you for your service. Madalena will find you accommodations and food.”

When they had gone, Kit looked to Robert Cecil. What were they meant to be saying to the princess? Comfort, or truth?

Anabel took the decision, for truth. “My mother may already be dead. For all we know, another rider is even now on his way north with that news.”

“It must not get out, Your Highness,” Robert Cecil said urgently. “The queen has held this country together for almost thirty years. We are on the brink of the most dangerous threat to England this century. If it is known—”

“That the country has been left in the hands of a twenty-four-year-old girl? My mother was only twenty-five when she came to the throne.” Though Anabel spoke neutrally, Kit could see her eyes were glassy with shock.

“We don’t know,” he agreed with Robert. “And so we must behave as though everything is as it should be. The queen holding the South, the princess holding the North. The people need that assurance.”

“What if I cannot manage to give it to them?” Anabel asked as Madalena slipped back into the chamber.

Kit could not answer, but Madalena did. “You will,” she said firmly. “But that is not our immediate concern. Do not anticipate difficulties, Your Highness. Begin at the beginning, and do one thing at a time. We will help you.”

Anabel visibly steadied herself, and Kit took the cue. “Right. The first thing we’ve already noted—keep this information to ourselves. Second, we proceed as planned. From Berwick to Carlisle, the beacons are burning, announcing the immediate threat of invasion. Tomorrow morning, you march with King James to Berwick. For if Berwick falls—”

“It will not fall.” She sounded almost herself now. “I did not get married this morning for nothing. I sold myself to Scotland for an army, and I mean to wield it. Nor will I squander Pippa’s death. The news of how the Spanish murdered her is spreading like wildfire and swaying the uncommitted to our side. We will fight this war and we will win.”





19 July 1586


Leeds Castle


I have never been so frightened as when I reached Elizabeth’s bed yesterday and found her unresponsive and already growing fevered. Not even when I surrendered myself to Will, or watched Dominic marched away in chains. Those events, grievous as they were, constituted only a personal disaster. This disaster is England’s.

I sent three of my most trusted men with verbal reports—one to Dominic, one to Burghley and Walsingham in London, the last much farther north, to wherever Anabel is to be found.

And now I do what it has so often fallen to me to do—I wait.





22 July 1586


Leeds Castle


Lord Burghley arrived late this evening, looking grey and greatly aged. He has left Walsingham in London to control information; he will do the same from here. The intention is to preserve the illusion that Elizabeth is suffering from only a slight injury and continues to direct both the war and her government. The members of her guard present at the attack have been sequestered here…and there were no survivors left from the enemy force to tell tales. Every person both entering and leaving the castle is being most carefully scrutinized. But I am under no illusions—our efforts will, at best, only delay the news.

She has opened her eyes a handful of times, but without recognition. The surgeon has removed the ball, but the wound is weeping and red and her fever is unabated.





24 July 1586


Leeds Castle


As I sit by Elizabeth’s bedside, I am often swamped with sense memories of Hever Castle more than thirty years ago when I performed the same office for Queen Anne. Sickrooms have a distinct smell, both astringent and sweet, and physicians still prefer to keep the windows closed no matter how stuffy a room becomes. I have taken to ignoring their protests and throwing wide every window I can, if only to ease Elizabeth’s fever a little.

I begin to fear that she will never wake. And though I still worry for the loss to England and the particular grief to Anabel—I confess that my chief lament is: What will I ever do in a world without Elizabeth?





25 July 1586


Leeds Castle


Tonight, Elizabeth came to her senses for a time. She is weak and still burning with fever, though Carrie and I have relentlessly scoured the wound in an attempt to keep it from festering. And though it remains red, there are no ugly streaks toward the heart or stink of decomposing flesh. It is only that the fever will not break.

But she knew me when she woke.

Is it any surprise that her first question was not about any one person? “The war?” she asked.

“No landings in the South. Drake and the navy have kept them well harried.”

“The North?”