The Virgin's War (Tudor Legacy #3)(109)
“Not above an hour. We must ride straight on to London.”
Lucette hugged Kit, conscious of trying to fill a little of the void left by Pippa’s absence. “How is Matthew?” she asked as she led them to her private library.
“He’s a good fighter, and violence helped exorcise a little of the pain. Having something to do always helps.”
With the door firmly closed, Anabel spoke quickly to those members of the Courtenay family facing her. “The North is secure for now. You’ve had nothing from the South?”
“Not since word of the armada being sighted off Gravelines.”
“Nothing from your mother?”
Lucette tipped her head. “No. Why?”
“Two weeks ago Her Majesty was seriously injured by an assassin. The government has been keeping her condition quiet, from the very real fear that she may be dying. That is why I am riding to London as fast as I can.”
“To ensure England has a queen prepared to lead,” Lucette said slowly, head spinning. England without Elizabeth? She wasn’t sure she could begin to contemplate that thought.
“Yes.” Anabel hesitated, and shared a look with Kit. A private look that hinted at some deep well of feeling. Then she steeled herself and resumed the mask of leadership. “A queen with a king to support her if necessary. I married James Stuart on July twenty-third.”
“I see.” Lucette shot a look at Kit, who showed no apparent emotion, and decided to slide over the news without comment. “Can Maisie and I ride south with you? I don’t think she’ll let go of Stephen and I—”
“Want the earliest possible news of Julien. Of course. One hour,” Anabel said.
But it was only a quarter hour later that a rider flew into Kenilworth’s courtyard, no banner, no livery, but a face known at once to everyone there. Brandon Dudley, Earl of Leicester, had come home.
They would all have discreetly faded away to allow him to greet his wife, but Brandon said, “I have news for Her Highness.”
“News from Leeds?” Anabel asked without any noticeable quaver. Her face was stark, all cheekbones and wide eyes, and Lucette saw how very much the princess would look like her mother when she reached that age.
“Yes, Your Highness. Her Majesty the Queen reports that the Spanish Armada has been greatly damaged and defeated. The remaining ships are running with no sign of an immediate threat to England. Her Majesty desires that you meet her at Whitehall as soon as may be. She also desires whatever Courtenays I may encounter to be assured of the continued health of both Lord Exeter and Julien LeClerc.”
“The queen is alive?”
“She is, Your Highness. And she has written to you.” From inside his jerkin, Brandon pulled a somewhat battered letter that Anabel accepted as though being offered the Holy Grail.
Lucette drew a deep sigh of relief and shared a smile with Stephen. Then, to her great surprise, the unflappable, often cynical Princess of Wales burst into tears and flung herself into Kit’s arms.
—
What had begun as a desperate dash for London and the possibility of a government left without a queen now became a triumphal procession. Anabel had her mother’s instincts for pageantry, but Kit could see that this heartfelt outpouring of love and thanks touched her deeply. It was the first time the princess had been south of Leicester in two and a half years, and Kit thought he could see the tension literally melting from her with each mile.
He was a little dazed himself after Anabel’s stunning confession that James would now give her an annulment. Resolutely, he shoved that tantalizing thought into the back of his mind and behaved as he needed to. While most eyes were turned south to London, there were dispatches and orders to be handled behind them in the North. The Scottish troops on loan from James had left them at Kenilworth, and Kit busied himself communicating with Lord Hunsdon and Lord Scrope about the aftermath along the border.
One day outside London, Kit went through the pack of dispatches and found a single thin letter with just Christopher Courtenay on the outside. He did not recognize the writing. Inside, there was no greeting, simply this stark message:
If I have relinquished Her Highness only to see her wed another foreign royal, I shall be greatly disappointed.
It was signed, simply, James, surprisingly readable with a flourish at the end. Kit sat with his mouth open for some time, then closed it and burned the letter.
They entered London from the west, along a route thronged with people cheering their princess, their queen, their victory…but mostly, in Kit’s prejudiced view, their princess. Anabel rode slowly, wearing the same silver tissue gown in which she had rallied her troops in the North. From behind, Kit thought he would never tire of the sight of her straight back and the fall of red-gold hair crowned only with a gold-wrought wreath of laurels.
Kit could only hope that Queen Elizabeth’s reception had been as triumphant. Forbearance was not one of her notable qualities.
The gates of Whitehall were thrown wide for Anabel and her immediate party—her privy council and various Courtenays—to enter. Kit stood immediately behind the princess with Robert Cecil. Behind him were Stephen and Maisie, who had hardly spoken to anyone but each other since Kenilworth, and Lucette with Felix LeClerc. Kit had been glad to note the liveliness in the boy’s eyes.
Queen Elizabeth appeared beneath one of the arched ways leading to an inner courtyard, and every person present bowed or curtsied deeply. Including Anabel.