The Virgin's War (Tudor Legacy #3)(20)

Her first day back in Edinburgh ended in her bedchamber of old. Maisie was surprised and pleased to see it had not been altered in her absence and suspected she owed that to the housekeeper. The initial homecoming had gone well, she thought critically. She had expected nothing from Robert and so was unlikely to ever be disappointed. Andrew Boyd had been more than just welcoming—he had asked astute questions and, more critically, listened carefully to her answers. Of them all, Boyd knew the most about Maisie’s personal business concerns in the last two years. And when he bid her good-night, he added, “The board would like to see you in a few days. For a more formal accounting of your travels, and a discussion of your future.”

Boyd, at least, did not mean a marriage. Or not only a marriage.

All in all, Maisie was highly pleased with herself. There was nothing she liked more than preparing perfectly and having that plan unfold as it should.

When she awoke in the morning, it was to be handed a letter just arrived from her factor in Le Havre, brought by ship from France, and suddenly her plans were—if not ruined—at least altered.

The Thistle will sail Friday, three weeks ahead of schedule. I have filled what orders I could in the shortened time, but the primary cargo will be three passengers: two men and a boy. One of the men carried a ruby-studded fox, and thus I rendered all aid as previously ordered.



Maisie caught her breath. Only one man in the world possessed the ruby fox pin that was the twin of her own.

Stephen Courtenay was on his way to Scotland.

—

By the time their ship reached Edinburgh, Stephen’s nerves had been at such a high pitch for such a long time that he had a permanent headache at the base of his skull. The journey from Blois to Le Havre was already a hazy memory, consisting mostly of fast riding, bad food, and sleep snatched a few hours at a time. They had traded their finer clothes for the rougher frieze of the countryside, but kept their weapons prominent. Felix proved tougher than Stephen had feared, especially after the devastating news of his grandfather’s death. The boy had continued quiet, but made no serious objections about leaving France.

Either they had slipped their watchers or they were being allowed to leave. Stephen didn’t much care which. Once in Le Havre, it was fairly easy to locate Maisie’s factor, and producing the ruby fox provided instant aid. Maisie turned out to be majority owner of a ship called the Thistle, which providently was in port at the time. It had not intended to sail for several weeks, waiting for a cargo of spices from the Levant, but between Maisie’s ruby fox and what remained of Stephen’s money, they sailed from Le Havre less then seventy-two hours after arriving.

On April 21 the Thistle sailed into Leith, the chief port of Edinburgh. The captain disembarked and asked a few questions, then reported to his passengers.

“You sailed at the right time—Mistress Sinclair arrived in Edinburgh just this week. She’s at her grandfather’s house in the Canongate. I’ve sent a boy to let her know we’re in port. Will you go straight to Edinburgh?”

“No,” Stephen said. “It is for her to decide if she wants to see us. I assume there’s an inn or two nearby?”

The captain directed them to an inn a quarter mile back from the water that was slightly shabby on the outside but warm and welcoming within. Between the three of them, they had only four packs and their weapons. But just knowing that he could now write to his family and receive help in a matter of days was a relief. For the first time since Duncan Murray’s death, Stephen felt he could let go a little of his fierce sense of responsibility.

They bathed and changed into serviceable hose and leather doublets, then joined the crowd in the tavern. A mix of languages—from French to Flemish to a handful of people speaking Italian—wove together as expected in a merchant port. Bread, ale, and hearty stew woke the appetites of all. Even Felix began to lose the haunted look he’d had since Blanclair.

“What next?” Kit asked.

“We see about hiring horses for the two of you. Or, properly, borrowing money to hire you horses. I imagine we have some acquaintance in Edinburgh, and perhaps you can join a larger party heading south.”

“I meant—what next with Mistress Sinclair?”

Stephen shrugged. “We’ll see if she sends for me. I did make rather free with her name to get us here. She may be piqued.”

“Why didn’t you send a personal message to the Canongate? After all those letters you’ve written—”

“I will certainly write with apologies and a promise to repay Mistress Sinclair for the use of the Thistle,” Stephen cut in austerely. “Though I suppose Father and Mother will have to bear that cost for now.”

“Don’t you like her?” It was Felix who asked, so plainly that Stephen could hardly shoot him down the same way he had Kit.

“Of course I like her. What has that to do with anything?”

Felix shrugged. “You don’t seem very anxious to meet her again.”

“It doesn’t matter. Let’s ask around, see if there are any English known to us in residence just now. At the least, we can go to the English ambassador. When he knows who you are, Kit, he’ll fall over himself getting you back to England.”

But Kit had stopped listening. He was looking over Stephen’s shoulder and suddenly grinned.

“It seems Mistress Sinclair is quite anxious enough for the both of you. She just walked in.”