The Virgin's War (Tudor Legacy #3)(22)
For a moment he remembered that hair falling free across her shoulders as she wept after Liadan’s death. A flood of silver gilt that had altered her from schoolgirl to woman…
Mariota.
She coloured faintly as he stared at her, but said lightly enough, “Well, I shall see that your trust is not misplaced. I assume you intend your brother and young Felix LeClerc to ride south?”
“Yes. Perhaps Thomas Randolph—is Randolph back in Scotland yet?—can arrange a party to conduct them at least as far as the Princess of Wales’s court. If Anabel hasn’t left the North since February?”
“The princess intends, I understand, to preside at the Council of the North in York next month. It is a simple enough matter to bring the two to her household. You need not even trouble the ambassador—I am sure someone on our board has business wanting in England.”
“That would be…very generous.”
“And you? Since your scruples are so firmly set against touching English soil until you are deliberately invited, what do you intend to do now, Stephen?”
He laughed. “Make my living. By the sword, since that is all I know. Once Kit and Felix are safely in England, I thought I’d sail to the Netherlands. They have plenty of military companies I could join.”
She nodded. “I thought that might be it. I have been thinking, however.”
When was she ever not thinking? Stephen wondered.
With a mischievous smile, Maisie said, “My mercenary company is currently in Scotland. Not fighting—not for the moment—but I thought it wise to have…insurance for my coming actions. I have established them thirty miles from Edinburgh, in a country estate called St. Adrian’s. They are in want of a commanding officer.”
She must have seen the instinctive pride that preceded a blunt refusal, for she quickly added, “Do not answer me now. There is time before the others are safely in English hands for you to consider. That is all I ask—payment for use of my ship, if you like. Consider it.”
What else could he say? “I will consider it,” he promised.
—
April in England was often temperamental—cold sunlight, fitful winds, sudden blasts of showers and occasional freezing rain. The changes in weather echoed the tenor of Elizabeth’s court this early spring of 1585. With each day, campaigning season drew closer. Which meant decisions would soon have to be made. About Ireland, about the Netherlands, about—always and more than anything else in the world—Spain.
It was the topic Walsingham and Burghley returned to every single time they had the queen’s attention. After all these years together, Elizabeth could have written the entire dialogue herself. That didn’t stop them from having the conversation.
Walsingham was always the one pleading the cause of men and money for Ireland. “John Perrot is begging for more men, Your Majesty. So is Ormond. If we’re going to land soldiers this spring, we’ll have a very narrow window if the Spanish decide to harry our ships.”
Burghley, as ever, was the voice of moderation. “Can Philip afford to spare ships for Ireland this year? The Netherlands is in ferment. He cannot continue to split his forces forever.”
Elizabeth’s role was to hit on the essentials. “Philip also cannot afford to lose face. Perhaps if there had been no child between us, he could have cut all ties to England. But pride will keep him meddling in our business. Pride—and Mary Stuart.”
“Speaking of Princess Anne,” Walsingham said darkly. “It is all but confirmed that Spain is sending an envoy to Her Highness in the North this spring. A Jesuit named Tomás Navarro. Do you intend to protest this flouting of your authority, not to mention the deliberate defiance of the law that prohibits Jesuits in England on pain of death?”
“We will protest. But lightly, Walsingham—there is no need to provide further fuel to Philip’s self-righteous fury. He is trying to provoke me. I intend to be provoked only at a time and place of my choosing.”
Burghley provided the final warning. “You can delay only a short time longer, Your Majesty. The delegation from the Netherlands is demanding an answer on a treaty of assistance. And if your Irish lords are demoralized by lack of aid, they may cut their losses and make whatever deal they can with the rebels. Dublin cannot hold out another season if the Spanish make a serious effort to take it.”
Elizabeth sometimes thought that the entirety of her reign could be summed up by the warnings the men of her kingdom had given her. Once, she had thought it was her youth that prompted the overarching concern—but here she was, past the age of fifty (not that she liked to remember it), and more than twenty-five years a queen, and still there was a slight hesitation to trust her.
It was no wonder she lost her temper from time to time.
And yet…there were some bonds worth swallowing one’s pride for. First and foremost, of course, her sacred bond to England. Her daughter. Both Burghley and Walsingham—though she had made the latter swallow his pride as often as she did.
And one other person. Someone for whom Elizabeth was prepared to make great concessions in order to repair the oldest of her relationships. She had not seen the Duke and Duchess of Exeter since Christmas 1582—when their eldest son had been imprisoned in the Tower for breaking Elizabeth’s peace in Ireland. In that interval, they had confined themselves to their estates and not even written. It was the longest Elizabeth had ever gone without Minuette Courtenay near.