The Virgin's War (Tudor Legacy #3)(32)
It was not her brother. It was Andrew Boyd, and Maisie’s heart began to flutter in an entirely different manner. Good heavens, she thought crossly. I’m turning into the epitome of feminine weakness.
There was no clue in Boyd’s reticent Scots face. Maisie faced him, feeling Stephen rise to stand just behind her shoulder, and waited.
Still with that inscrutable air, Boyd said calmly, “Congratulations, Mistress Sinclair. The board of the Sinclair Company has agreed to pension off your brother, Robert, and to give his voting shares to yourself. Welcome to the business, Maisie lass.” That last was said with genuine pleasure, and then Boyd had taken her hands in his and kissed her on the cheek as though she were his own granddaughter.
She could hardly breathe. Who knew that achieving what one wanted was almost as terrifying as failure?
“Well done, Mariota,” Stephen said softly behind her.
Perhaps it was the relief, or the light-headedness from hunger, or sheer recklessness—in any case, Maisie turned and threw her arms around Stephen in a hug. It could have been exceedingly awkward, for he was so tall, but he bent to accommodate her and, her arms clasped around his neck, lifted her by the waist and twirled her in a triumphant embrace.
“I did it.”
Maisie hardly knew she’d spoken aloud until Stephen replied, “I never doubted you for a moment. Whatever you want, you will find a way of having.”
“And I want you next,” she said recklessly, then blinked and cleared her throat. “To lead my soldiers, I mean. That was our agreement, was it not?”
“That was our agreement. I will not fail to keep my word.” Stephen twisted his mouth in a wry smile. “And I shall thank the angels above that I don’t have to go to the Netherlands. I don’t speak Flemish at all well.”
—
On May 14 the town of York shone brightly beneath a benign sun that seemed to promise only excellent things for the history-making day ahead. It began with a service at York Minster, which had been carefully designed to balance Catholic sensibilities with the Anglican service. The music was composed by William Byrd, well-known for his Catholic sentiments, and even Tomás Navarro unbent enough to compliment Anabel on that, though he declined to attend. She was in little doubt that the reports to her father on this day would be favorable.
After the service, Anabel processed from the Minster through the streets, taking a roundabout route to the Treasurer’s House to allow the gathered citizens to see and cheer her. She admitted that it pleased her royal vanity to revel in the joy expressed at her appearance. One did not grow up Elizabeth Tudor’s daughter without knowing how to exploit one’s appearance for symbolism’s sake. Today, Anabel had dressed in white to emphasize her youth and purity. As pearls had become in many ways her mother’s emblem, Anabel had taken to adorning herself with diamonds. Restrained, and never vulgar, today they were in the ribbons that held her hair back from her forehead and sewn around the high neckline of her gown. At her throat was the enameled green panther Kit had given her, and on her hands she wore only the locket ring from her mother.
Her hair, which had grown back as thick and red as it had been before the scarlatina, fell loose to nearly her waist. A banner, her mother had always called their shared colouring—the banner of their royal Tudor blood.
The largest space in the Treasurer’s House had been transformed into a royal council chamber. Anabel had a throne almost to rival her mother’s—perfectly judged, as had been every other detail of this day—with the gorgeously embroidered colours of the Princess of Wales on the canopy above. She took her seat and rested her hands on the gilded and jeweled arms of her chair and coolly regarded the men and women offering obeisance.
There were two curved rows of chairs on each side, with plenty of space behind for the curious to crowd in. The men of Anabel’s privy council took their places—Robert Cecil, Christopher Hatton, and Matthew Harrington chief amongst them—while the women she most counted on had to be content to stand. No matter. Madalena and Pippa would always be amongst the trusted voices she regarded, wherever they stood or sat.
When her council was seated, there were two empty chairs. Her secretary, Christopher Hatton, waited until the observers were silent before rising again to announce the names of those who would fill the empty seats.
The first had been a forgone conclusion for months, for no northern lord had been as accommodating and gracious to Anabel’s presence than had Henry Scrope. The tenth baron was a canny choice for one of the Catholic seats on her council. He was sincere in his faith but not dogmatic in his dictates, and Anabel had high hopes of his good sense and counsel in the coming struggles. Also, as Warden of the West March, Lord Scrope commanded a significant military power in the North.
The second name had been up in the air almost to the last minute. Only four days ago had word arrived that Philip Howard would attend her in York, and he had personally come just yesterday. Anabel had insisted on meeting with him last night to force him to accept her offer face-to-face. Though she remained wary, it was no doubt a great coup. As Earl of Arundel and titular head of the powerful Howard family, Philip Howard’s name caused a great murmur amongst those in the chamber.
Anabel shot a quick glance to Tomás Navarro and caught the priest looking back at her speculatively. When their eyes met, he smiled and inclined his head. It might have meant many things. She hoped it meant he believed in the illusionary intentions she had worked so hard to create.