The Virgin's War (Tudor Legacy #3)(28)
The Courtenay reunion, however longed-for, took second place. They had sent a messenger ahead, so that the appearance of Kit and Felix had been anticipated. Pippa and her family held back while Julien crossed the open space to the horses in three long strides and pulled Felix into an enormous hug.
Pippa knew she wasn’t the only one who noted Felix’s stiffness as he spoke to his uncle. But the boy was well-bred and old enough to behave properly and greet Lucette with courtesy. Looking at her sister’s face, Pippa knew Lucie had been expecting something warmer than courtesy. On their journey from York, Pippa had felt the tenor of Felix’s anger and knew it was underlaid with grief. And why not? Whatever sins Nicolas LeClerc had committed, he’d been Felix’s father. Understanding his father’s crimes did not lessen the hurt. How was Felix supposed to respond to the uncle who’d killed his father and the woman who had betrayed him?
Compton Wynyates was as well-run as any Courtenay household, and quickly enough Felix and Julien had gone off together, the older man speaking in rapid French, and three of the four Courtenay children sat down with their parents in a sunny solar that had the stamp of Lucette all over it. Like Dr. Dee, with whom she had long studied, Lucie tended to collect a wealth of books and papers and objects that looked chaotic to an outsider but amidst which she moved with absolute ease.
“How is Stephen?” their mother asked, and Kit launched into the events of the last few months.
Dominic listened without comment to his son’s account of Renaud’s death, though his hand tightened reflexively. Did her father have any friends? Pippa wondered. She didn’t think so. Only Renaud and Edward Harrington, Matthew’s father, who had died in Ireland four years ago…and long before her birth, William Tudor. Now all three men were dead.
“Stephen won’t come to England?” Lucette asked. Outwardly, she appeared unchanged: dark hair with glints of red, bright blue eyes, dressed in an understated gown of verdant green suitable for a woman of her class in her own home. But there was a tautness to her body and a discipline to her expressions that confirmed what Pippa had already known—the pain of multiple miscarriages had begun to wear down her sister in both body and soul.
“You know Stephen better than that,” Kit answered wryly. “He will accept his banishment to the very letter. I doubt he’ll ever set foot in England again unless specifically asked for by the queen.”
As Stephen had written to everyone (Kit had brought the letters south with him), they soon left that topic and broached the unusual—for them—topic of politics.
Minuette took the lead. “Your father and I have agreed to be a visible presence at Elizabeth’s court during this next year. He has refused a seat on the privy council, but has accepted command as Lieutenant General of the South. That puts us squarely into the queen’s camp.”
“As opposed to Anabel’s camp?” Pippa asked.
“Precisely.”
“How has Tomás Navarro’s arrival as a Spanish envoy been received in London?”
“The people are surprised, but muted in their discontent. They are watching the queen to take their cues from her. As long as mother and daughter refrain from an absolute split, there is room to maneuver.”
There would always be room to maneuver. No matter how closely the queen and princess danced to the edge of disaster, there would never be an absolute split. That was the entire point—two women, both clever and popular and talented, were seeing just how far they could push the limits of their authority. History was rife with examples of kings clashing with their crown prince heirs; to the point, sometimes, of facing each other in battle. But where was the precedent for a queen present and a queen future sharing the public sphere? It was no mistake that these two women were exploiting that natural question. It had been a forgone conclusion almost since Anabel was born.
Both royal women had been smart enough to recognize the coming struggle. And, in recognizing it, had possessed the wit to turn it to their own—and England’s—advantage.
Now, nearly two years after its hazy inception, the plan hatched between queen and princess was taking on a life of its own. The Tudor women’s intention had been to offer Philip and the Spanish a believable picture of Anabel as restless and discontented, stalking off to the North of England to soothe her wounded pride and evade the heavy controlling hand of her mother. A half-Spanish princess who allowed the English Catholic recusants a royal hearing they had often been lacking. A willful, steely minded girl who did not want to marry into Scotland if she could help it.
An emblem of hope for those Catholics who disliked and distrusted the current canny Tudor queen—and a prize figurehead for the Spanish to capture to their cause.
Of necessity, open communication between mother and daughter had been stilted and infrequent. The Spanish intelligence networks were fearsome, and there were Jesuits in England—besides Tomás Navarro—keeping watch on the queen and the princess. Ciphered letters could only help so far, and were too often a giveaway of the very plotting they wished to conceal. And now, with the situation ripe for exploitation, they must appear more than ever to be distant from one another.
Enter the Courtenays. With the royal family split, so they would apparently split along the same generational divide. Dominic and Minuette at court with the Tudor queen they had known all their lives; Pippa, and now Kit, attached to Anabel as they had been since birth.