The Virgin's War (Tudor Legacy #3)(107)

While still ensuring that the North is held in good order, most of our troops will proceed south with all speed to render whatever aid may be needed. We trust Your Majesty will find these provisions acceptable.

I myself will ride directly for London.

Her Royal Highness Anne Isabella

Princess of Wales and Queen of Scotland





Elizabeth and Minuette were both left speechless—by the signature as much as by the content. “Queen of Scotland?” Minuette said, bemused. “When did that happen?”

Because Elizabeth knew her daughter and, more importantly, knew how kingdoms worked, she thought she had the answer. “I expect that James Stuart was reluctant to lend his army unless Anne gave him what he wanted—the binding ties of a church ceremony.”

“Then why did she not tell you so?”

“Because how she gained the Scottish troops is of far less import than the fact that she did manage to gain them.”

Minuette sighed. “It is a remarkable letter. She could not yet have had word of your recovery, and yet she writes as though she were certain.”

“The first requirement of leadership is to behave as though one is in perfect control at all times. Because Anne could not know my condition when she wrote—or what news may have been spread about it—she ensured that no one intercepting this letter would have any grounds for fear or gossip.”

“She is certainly your daughter.” Minuette shook her head, as though not certain she entirely approved of that assessment. “What next?”

“We continue to guard the coasts until we can discover for certain that Medina Sidonia’s armada is scattered beyond recall. There is no point in winning a battle or two if we simply lay down and lose the war for lack of vigilance.”

“I meant next for you.”

Elizabeth raised a critical eyebrow. “To London, of course. I must be very visibly present to welcome my prodigal daughter on her victorious return to my court.”

“With her husband in tow?”

“I wonder…”

Only now that Anne had proven she could do what she must did Elizabeth regret it. She knew it was sentimental, but she would have liked her daughter to have had her happy ending.

—

When one’s husband sends a government member to beg his wife’s presence for a discussion, one does not expect a pleasant encounter. Anabel nearly said no to Maitland—from sheer perversity—but knew that she should not begin her marriage with more conflicts than could be helped.

Maitland led her to the large tent with the Scottish royal standard flying beside it. Night had fallen and Anabel could scarcely believe that only forty-eight hours had passed since she’d summoned Kit to her bedchamber in Norham.

Not the sort of thing she should be thinking of. Think, instead, that she’d not had an hour’s sleep since her wedding service. When Maitland announced her and then withdrew, Anabel noted with some alarm that she and James were entirely alone. Surely he did not mean to consummate their marriage within sight and smell of the battlefield? If he tried, she would shoot him down immediately, and conflict-avoidance be damned.

“Sit, please.” James took a seat in a fretworked folding chair and Anabel took a matching one across from him. It felt…adversarial, rather than marital.

She preferred to keep it that way. “I understand you’re willing to send half your men south with us tomorrow. Thank you.”

“No farther than Leicester, depending on what news comes from the South. If you need them, they are at your disposal. But if your people have already seen off the Spanish threat, they will return to the border.”

“Naturally.”

He—almost—smiled. Anabel decided James “almost” did a lot of things. “I didn’t send for you to discuss the army. We both have capable captains and generals to do that for us. I asked you here as my wife.”

She made the offer that she knew she had to make, no matter how it stuck in her throat. “I will ride ahead of the army, heading directly for London. Assuming, as you say, that the news is good.” Anabel looked in his eyes—hazel, the same as Kit’s, and yet nothing at all alike—and steeled herself for what felt like a much more binding commitment than the few words spoken in the church. “Will you come with me to London?”

“Do you want me to?”

“I have advised my mother of our marriage in the letters I sent today. I am certain she will expect to meet you.”

“Are you certain she is still alive to do so?”

“If she is not, then all the more reason for you to ride with me. I will need to begin from a very strong position at this time of uncertainty.”

“You are not wrong. If you are indeed England’s queen at this moment—and without a visibly royal husband—King Philip would be seriously tempted to redouble his attacks.”

“I know.”

He leaned forward, as though confiding in her. Thus more casual than she’d ever seen him, he was almost attractive. “I know some things, too, Anne. I know you do not love me. I never expected you to, not seriously. Not that I don’t believe we couldn’t fashion an affectionate marriage over time. You are practical as well as beautiful, and like your mother, you know how to make the best of a bad situation.”

“Are you calling yourself a bad situation?”