The Virgin's War (Tudor Legacy #3)(111)

She leaned down a little, so that her voice—even in this empty chamber—would not carry beyond Kit’s ear. “And have you considered that only a future duke could be considered a suitable match for a princess?”

—

On 5 September 1586 the Duke of Medina Sidonia led what remained of the armada into harbor at Santander on the north coast of Spain. Philip had received a surfeit of reports over the last six weeks—reports of victory, of Spanish troops landed in England, of the fearsome El Draque himself captured—reports that had overlapped and contradicted, with the only thing they had in common being a lack of hard confirmation.

Philip sat alone in his secluded chambers at El Escorial, contemplating the wreck of his great enterprise. Medina Sidonia had arrived in port desperately ill, and though he had brought back almost two-thirds of the fleet, many of the ships were good for nothing now but timber. One had actually sunk after anchoring in port. And hundreds of the men aboard were dead or dying from scurvy, typhus, dysentery, and even starvation. Philip knew something now of the duke’s desperate weeks guiding his flock of ships around Scotland’s treacherous north coasts, keeping away from Ireland and the vengeful English who had taken back the territory lost in the last years, surviving storms and simple bad luck.

There had been one piece of surprising news, offered to the king as sign of a miracle: amongst the ships Medina Sidonia had brought back included two of those that fought off Berwick. And on one of those ships came Mary Stuart—hungry, weary, and furious.

Philip had not yet seen his queen. She had gone to Valladolid to recuperate and see their sons. He was not prepared yet for her scorn, for her contempt, for her certain attempts to press another attack against the English. Perhaps it would come to that. Perhaps not. For now, he was only too aware of life’s little ironies. For example, the letter that had arrived today from Ambassador de Mendoza—who had left his post in England to serve in France.

Mendoza had been the source of the most optimistic stories in these last weeks, and this letter was no exception. The ambassador wrote that he had excellent intelligence that the armada, having made repairs and restocked food and water in the Orkney Islands, was now sailing south back toward Flanders with twelve captured English ships in tow.

Philip sighed, and picked up his pen. In precise strokes he wrote in the margins of this false report his last word on the Enterprise of England: Nothing of this is true. It will be well to tell him so.

—

Three months after the Battle of Berwick, Elizabeth joined the Courtenay family at Wynfield Mote for the service of reinterment of the remains of Philippa Courtenay Harrington. Her body had been brought from Pontefract with royal honours, the catafalque covered with the colours of both Exeter and the Princess of Wales, and large crowds along the way bearing hushed witness.

The coffin lay in state in the old, unused chapel near Wynfield for the household to pay their respects, and then the service was held at Holy Trinity Church in Stratford-upon-Avon. The mourners exceeded capacity, for Minuette’s family was well loved. Elizabeth had ceded her right to be chief amongst the mourners. Instead, she watched the Courtenay family with an attention she rarely paid to anyone outside her council chambers.

They held up well, not that she had expected any different. Anyone trained to be at court knew how to keep their private feelings behind closed doors. And they had each other—a gift of family not to be underestimated. But still, Matthew Harrington looked thin and wan and Pippa’s siblings seemed curiously…less without her there. Kit, of course, was the worst. But Elizabeth thought he would heal.

Next to her, Anne stood slim and straight, her face giving away nothing of her own loss. Elizabeth considered how she would feel if it were Minuette being laid away beneath stone—remembered the panic that had gripped her when William sentenced Minuette to death—and impulsively she touched her daughter’s hand in sympathy.

“I am the resurrection and the life (saith the Lord) he that believeth in me: yea, though he were dead, yet shall he live.”



Elizabeth knew the words of the Order of the Burial of the Dead by heart. It was, after all, her own prayer book.

“The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away. Even as it hath pleased the Lord so cometh things to pass: Blessed be the name of the Lord.”



Pippa’s body would lay in the chancel of Holy Trinity, with its abundance of light from the west window and the shards of colour from the stained glass and the whimsy of the carved misericord seats.

“Forasmuch as it hath pleased almighty God of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear sister, here departed, we therefore commit her body to the ground, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in sure and certain hope of resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ.”



When the priest had finished the Order of the Burial of the Dead, the Princess of Wales approached the coffin alone. Elizabeth knew her daughter had asked the family’s permission to do so, but the queen did not know why.

Kit joined her, handing Anabel a length of crimson silk. Though folded, Elizabeth knew the Hapsburg arms almost as well as she knew her own, and she realized it was a Spanish banner. Taken from one of the ships, perhaps?

Anabel lay the banner on Pippa’s coffin, then let her hand rest lightly on the silk, Kit’s hand on hers. Though she spoke with her back to the chapel, the words were light and clear. “The banner of victory is yours, Pippa. For it would never have been ours without you.”