The Virgin's War (Tudor Legacy #3)(26)

As neither demand could possibly be met, Philip had asked the army in turn for their assessment. The Duke of Parma, leading the Spanish forces against the rebels in the Netherlands, claimed he could ferry an army of 35,000 across the Channel in one night. He did not provide an answer as to how the English were to be kept ignorant about such an army assembling near Dunkirk, nor how the barges could avoid the formidable English navy that would bar their way. Philip read the overoptimistic report, and in his habitual manner of commenting on what he read, wrote in the margins of Parma’s letter, Hardly possible!

It was nearly a week after Navarro’s letter before Philip traveled to the Alcazar of Segovia to, ostensibly, visit his sons and, actually, to confront his queen. Mary did not always keep residence with their young twins, but it was certainly politic of her to be with them now. Perhaps she had sensed Philip’s simmering anger from afar. In any case, she took care that the two of them met in the royal nursery.

Philip knew how to wait, and he was genuinely glad to greet his sons: Charles, the elder by five minutes, and Alexander. Now three and a half, they were bright and cheerful, with the reddish hair of both their parents and a delight in life that lightened Philip’s heart whenever he was with them.

After an hour with the boys, Philip and Mary withdrew. If she had any sense of what was coming, she hid it behind the royal facade that was her birthright. A queen from six days old, raised in exile in France at that wariest of courts, condemned by her own faults to more than a decade in confinement—Mary Stuart had learned her lessons in a hard school.

Philip had learned in a harder one.

“Maria,” he asked in the quiet voice that everyone in his court knew to fear, “tell me about Nightingale and the assassination of Renaud LeClerc.”

Mary might have a royal facade, but she had a desperately impulsive spirit and a fierce belief that whatever she did must be right. She did not bother to pretend ignorance. “You know all about Nightingale, as you were part of that plot yourself.”

“Nightingale was accomplished five years ago, with your release from England, and it in no way involved the Vicomte LeClerc.”

“It involved his son, Nicolas, who was martyred in the course of freeing me. Murdered viciously by his own brother, no less.”

“Four years ago, and it is not Julien LeClerc who has been recently assassinated.”

“Because he has retreated to England and taken refuge behind the skirts of your former wife!”

Philip studied her intently. “Let us not play games, Maria. It is not the LeClercs themselves who are the target of your furious vengeance. It is Stephen Courtenay. He hurt your pride and you want to hurt him in turn. Until very recently, Stephen Courtenay and his brother were in France with the Vicomte LeClerc. They fled after the man’s death—perhaps to preserve their own lives? Tell me just one thing, Maria—did you, at any point, imply that this ridiculous plot of secret assassins had my personal approval?”

It was impossible for even the most self-centered of women to miss how very angry he was. “I do not need any man’s approval to defend my own honour!”

“Not only is it dishonourable to kill a man who has never offered you harm, it is the sheerest folly. Spain is surrounded on almost every side by enemies. Our forces are split between Ireland and the Netherlands. England and your own rebellious Scotland are threatening to combine in a marriage that will lock you out of your home forever and steal my daughter from me. In all of that, the last thing we can afford is to make an active enemy of France!”

“France will not care.”

“That the Vicomte LeClerc has been murdered? They care, Maria. Of course they care. Even if he has been less trusted by the current regime, he has royal ties. If ever his death is traced directly to Spain, they will demand redress.”

He leaned forward and fixed her in his gaze. “And if that demand comes, I may very well offer them a redress they cannot dream of. I may offer them you.”

She flushed, then paled—with fury, rather than fear. “I am a queen. I cannot be touched.”

“Ask Elizabeth Tudor if that is true.”

“What do you want from me?”

He could see how it pained her to ask, and he was glad of it. She should be pained by her foolishness. “I want you to remain in Segovia with our sons.”

“For how long?”

“Until I say otherwise.”

He expected her to press, to ask what would happen if she refused. But despite her tendency to act impulsively, she was not stupid. As she knew she would not like the answer, she did not ask.

“I am, of course, yours to command. In this.” Her tone was not quite as conciliatory as her words.

No matter. Philip had what he wanted. Because of it, he offered the incentive for her to comply with grace. “If things go well in Ireland this summer, it would be useful for our troops to be visited by one of those for whom they are fighting. If Dublin can be taken and securely held, then you and Alejandro might profitably travel there for him to be introduced to his future subjects.” He carefully did not indicate a time frame.

That both soothed her pride and flattered her vanity. Philip trusted that she would soon enough notice that he left orders behind him at the Alcazar: any letters she wrote were to come first to him, visitors or messengers denied private access to her, and if she tried to leave Segovia…she would be stopped. By force, if necessary.