The Virgin's War (Tudor Legacy #3)(103)

Stephen remounted and wearily set off to help clean up the remains of the enemy. His immediate job was done. Carlisle had held. England would stand in the West.

—

Plainly, James Stuart had to be told of the English queen’s grave injury. For many reasons, not least among them—from Anabel’s point of view—that it allowed her to delay the consummation of their marriage.

“I haven’t the time,” she said plainly as the two of them were closeted alone in Norham. “Or, frankly, the interest. My mother may be dead. Your mother is almost certainly on one of those ships outside Berwick. You shall simply have to take me at the word I gave you in the church today.”

James wasn’t pleased, but he also wasn’t stupid. Another sort of king—another sort of man—would have insisted. She didn’t have time? It could be accomplished in very short order. She had other things on her mind? It wasn’t her mind he required.

But James was canny and clearly wanted a marriage that would not break down in the first year as had his parents’. So he conceded her point and was only mildly condescending about allowing his army to march on Berwick before Anabel had completely fulfilled her part of the marriage bargain.

He even behaved politely to Kit, who of necessity joined the larger conversation about military tactics. James and the Earl of Arran would lead the Scots; Lord Hunsdon commanded the English forces. But as Hunsdon was eight miles away in Berwick, harrying the Spanish who had already landed, Kit spoke at the moment for the English troops. Mostly those they had stripped from the Middle March garrisons in desperation.

Fortunately the exigencies of the situation kept the men focused on matters other than personal. Only when Kit was dismissed to round up those English troops at Norham and ensure that all was in order, did he spare a personal smile for his princess.

He had his back to James and Arran, so only Anabel could see him. She might have expected a grin and a wink—but instead Kit’s smile was as gentle and achingly intimate as his touch had been last night. Almost, she forgot herself.

But only almost. She was the Princess of Wales and the Queen of Scotland. And if fortune continued black—perhaps even the Queen of England.

Anabel was quite certain that no one at Norham slept that night. Already some of the Scottish troops had come across the river. The rest would move rapidly east under the command of Alexander Home, poised to pour across the Tweed next morning and help surround the Spanish outside Berwick. Anabel forced herself to lie down for a few hours, mostly to please Madalena, but in that time she stared into the dark and imagined she was speaking with Pippa.

I married James. Did you know I would do that, Pippa?

I told you I could not see that far.

Right. Because it was after…Why are you dead? We need you.

All I ever did was show you what already lay within. You can do this, Anabel.

I don’t know that I can.

That was still the fear pounding at the base of her skull when she rose two hours before dawn and dressed for riding. The troops gathered here would be leaving soon, to reach Berwick before the sun was fully up. Anabel would ride well behind them—the most she’d been able to persuade her captains to allow—surrounded by guards prepared to whisk her south and out of danger if needed. Her fallback position would be Middleham, which was built to withstand sieges and battles. She could only pray it would not come to that.

But before the men left, she would mount her horse and ride amongst them. Giving them hope, giving them courage, perhaps merely giving them the symbol they needed to remind them what they were fighting for: their homes and their children, their rights and their hopes. Word of her mother’s condition was locked down tightly, but that didn’t mean men could not sense the underlying tension beyond just this one battle.

She must speak to them, encourage them, and not for a moment let them see her own doubts and fears. It is not the men I doubt, she reminded herself. It is only myself.

And then she heard a silent voice in sardonic answer. Not Pippa, this time—her mother. You are my daughter. There is no doubt of your abilities.

“Ready?” Madalena asked, after making the last adjustment to Anabel’s new dress.

It was not a practical riding gown, because that was not its primary purpose. She would change again before embarking on her careful journey to Berwick, wear something darker and plain. This gown, however, was meant to be seen. It was mostly tissue of cloth of silver woven in a subtle pattern of the double Tudor rose. She wore no jewels save Kit’s enameled green panther and her mother’s locket ring. Her red hair was loose, caught back from her face with a ribbon of black velvet.

Over the bodice of the gown went a finely beaten and damascened corset of armor that her mother had gifted her—after a similar piece fashioned for the queen. Anabel studied her image, accustoming herself to the unusual strictures of movement, and said, “Bring them in.”

Those members of her council present at Norham—Robert Cecil, Matthew Harrington, and the chaplain, Edwin Littlefield—entered with Kit. Both Matthew and Kit were dressed for battle. Though she had always known her treasurer as a man of numbers and finance, his father had been a notable soldier, and Matthew had been raised alongside the Courtenay boys. And he would never forgive the Spanish for Pippa’s death.

Littlefield offered a blessing and a prayer upon the endeavour—which he would repeat in a less personal manner for the troops—and then there was no more chance of delay. When she stepped out that door, Anabel must be in perfect command.