The Virgin's War (Tudor Legacy #3)(108)
The smile this time was fleeting, but definite. It was a surprise to discover he could be teased. “Christopher Courtenay saved my life today. He didn’t have to do it. He is a good man. A good man whom you love.”
She stilled, within and without. “You are entitled to many things as my husband, but I will not share my most private thoughts on command.”
“And that is why I am going to make you an offer. Our marriage remains unconsummated. I propose we leave it as such for now. Tomorrow you will ride south to London and I will remain at Berwick so that I can move quickly in case of trouble in Scotland. I have some few lords who would not mind taking advantage of the chaos to seek their own profit. And then…”
“Then?”
“You will send me the first word you have about Queen Elizabeth’s condition. If she is dead and you are now Queen of England, I will come straight to you in London and ensure that your succession is secure. And we will fashion what marriage we can manage between two practical people.”
“And if I am not queen?”
“If Queen Elizabeth lives, then I will cross back into Scotland and never trouble you again, save as England’s nearest neighbor.”
Anabel blinked once. Twice. “I don’t understand.”
“I mean that, to satisfy my own honour, not to mention my pride, I will give you what you are too honest to ever ask me for: I will give you an annulment.”
“Why?”
“Because you will not need me then.”
“James—”
He stood up. “I imagine your heartfelt wishes for your mother’s survival just rose by a hundredfold. You may live to regret it, you know.”
“My mother’s life? Do you think so?”
“You would never regret the loss of me personally. But perhaps England will regret the loss of Scotland one day.”
“Perhaps the next generation will provide a prince and princess more suited to one another.”
“Or less stubborn.”
He raised her up and kissed her hand, then her cheek. “Farewell, Anne Isabella. Ride safe and pray hard. I will await your message.”
—
Being at the center of a flow of information was only tolerable while there was an overabundance of information. With the sighting of the Spanish ships both north and south, dispatches became briefer and Lucette was left with too much time to worry about the meaning of the messages she was ciphering and deciphering. Julien at least could contact her fairly frequently, seeing as most military dispatches came through Kenilworth, and it was a relief when Maisie appeared direct from Carlisle. A firsthand report from someone Lucette could question gave an outlet for her nerves. Besides, Maisie was as quick-witted as she, and it was nice to have someone who could follow her thoughts without having to spell them out.
And thank God and all His angels that, finally, Felix was speaking to her. As she and Julien had mended the pains in their marriage, Lucette had learned to treat Felix with unfailing kindness and a promise of love if he should want it—without demanding anything from him in return. Save courtesy, which Julien demanded, but Felix was an essentially obedient and well-brought-up child so courtesy was his natural default.
The boy caught himself several times, as though reminding himself of Lucette’s sins, and would withdraw back into abrupt silence. But when she had returned to Kenilworth from Pippa’s death and burial—alone, as Julien was required with her father and the English troops—she found Felix where she had left him in Nora Dudley’s care, and at his most natural. His sympathy was unfeigned. Felix knew what it was to lose family, far more than Lucette did. With her sister’s death fresh and sharp, Lucette began to glimpse the depth of pain for a thirteen-year-old boy who had lost more than his share of family. No wonder he was surly.
Except that he wasn’t, not any longer. Or at least, no more so than any boy his age. He took to watching her and trying to anticipate what she might need or want—fresh paper, sharpened quills, food brought to her desk so she might not have to disrupt her work too much.
One night, almost a week after returning to Kenilworth, Lucette wearily went to her bedchamber well after midnight to find three roses the colour of sunset skies lying on her pillow. As she wept for the first time since Pontefract, she knew that Felix was going to be all right.
Finally came the alert that everyone in the castle had been waiting for—the dust of riders and floating banners approaching from the North. The entire castle seemed to crowd the walls and courtyard straining to decipher what they could from the sight.
Three white feathers rising through a golden crown…a banner of plain gold…the lion and torteaux of the Courtenays bordered for the younger son…
“Anabel, Stephen, Kit,” Lucette breathed, feeling Maisie’s hand tighten convulsively in hers. With Nora and Felix at their heels, they raced down the battlements for the gates.
Once there, Lucette loosed Maisie and hung back a little with Nora. Stephen was off his horse almost before he’d reined up and caught his wife as she flung herself into his arms. Lucette and Nora shared a quick glance, amused while each hopeful they might have similar reunions before long.
Even as Kit helped her dismount, Anabel was speaking to Lucette. “May we speak privately?”
Nora tactfully took the hint. “Felix, help me arrange refreshments for the men. Will you be staying, Your Highness?”