The Virgin's War (Tudor Legacy #3)(36)
“I will not do it!”
“Do what? Listen to me, Philippa—you will certainly make your own choices. If you want to resist and pretend and lie to both of us, you can. But you do not make my choices. And I choose you. Every day.”
She had never seen him so open. So vulnerable. In his face she could see it all—he had laid his heart before her and would let her walk over it if she chose. She had always known he was braver than she was.
It was impossible to know who moved first, but finally, after eight long years, they were kissing once more. Pippa couldn’t think straight—couldn’t think at all—drowning in this rush of mutual desire. Matthew had always been so familiar to her that she had only rarely seen him objectively as a man. But now she couldn’t not see and feel it. She let her knees fall open so he could pull her against him, and his hands went to her hips, steadying her on the bed.
Her only clear thought for quite some time was: Thank goodness there’s no chance of Kit finding us like this.
When reason slowly began to reassert itself, they drew apart a little. Not far—his forehead rested against hers and she could feel his breath on her lips. They were both breathing unevenly.
“Marry me, Philippa,” he whispered.
“You must promise not to tell anyone else what the physician said.”
He hesitated, but finally nodded. “I promise.”
The river was crossed, the bridges burned…Philippa knew when and how to surrender. “Then I will marry you with laughter and joy, Matthew Harrington, for as long as is granted us.”
“That,” he pointed out softly, “is all anyone, seer or not, can ever promise.”
—
For Stephen Courtenay, it was a summer of long hours and hard work, and he devoted all his considerable gifts and focus to making a success of the job Maisie had entrusted to him at St. Adrian’s. The mercenary company he had briefly commanded three years ago in Ireland had not stayed entirely the same. Amongst the fighting men themselves, about half were new to Stephen. Of the officers, only the engineer and physician remained. It had been agreed that this summer would be spent in Scotland, training hard and knitting together the bonds necessary for a successful military company.
He often had cause to silently thank Renaud LeClerc for his time in France. It had been one thing to lead men from Tiverton or Somerset—men who were obliged to follow their liege lord because of his name. France had required Stephen to earn the respect and trust of men who did not care about his name or family, who cared only that he knew what he was doing and showed some respect for their lives as well as his own.
For two months he did not see Maisie, though they wrote to one another at least four times a week. As he reported on their progress, she wrote of her travails in consolidating her power. Her brother, Robert, was proving troublesome. No surprise. Stephen once offered to lead a group of St. Adrian’s men to remind Robert of his limits, but Maisie gravely declined. Now that they were only thirty miles apart and their letters took only a day rather than weeks to reach each other, it was more than ever like being engaged in constant conversation. There were times when Stephen had to remind himself to write to anyone other than Maisie.
With his three siblings all now in the North, he kept up with their news almost as easily. Everyone in Scotland knew that the Princess of Wales and King James were finally set to meet in person in Carlisle. It was interesting to hear about this from the Scottish side—Stephen had always so naturally been attached to the English court that it was a little hard for him to hear Anabel, in particular, talked about as though she were simply a means to an end. But he kept his mouth shut. No need to make unnecessary enemies.
If he expected Scotland to be the nearest he would get to his family in the near future, Stephen was wrong. Ten days before the Carlisle conference, he was peremptorily summoned to Edinburgh by Maisie. “The king has requested it,” she wrote. So Stephen handed command to his second, and with two dozen of his best men (as ordered by Maisie) he rode to Edinburgh. They stayed in the same town house where he and Kit had stayed on their arrival. Maisie sent all her orders by messenger, so Stephen was still a little in the dark when he met her outside Edinburgh’s imposing castle the next morning.
She looked him up and down and nodded her head once in approval of his understated finery. Expensive cloth cut well, which proclaimed the wearer cared about his appearance without needing to impress anyone else. “Very soldierly,” she said. “The king will like that.”
“Why are we here?” he asked, as he had asked in writing more than once in the last three days.
She avoided answering just as neatly in person. “I imagine the king will tell us.”
If Maisie were as uncertain as he was, she did not show it. He had never seen her dressed so finely—she might have passed at any court for a well-born daughter of the nobility. The gown of sky-blue damask suited her fairness, and the lace partlet and soft lace cuffs were beautiful without being ostentatious. As usual, she kept her abundant fair hair sleek and contained.
They were received in the overwhelming Great Hall of Edinburgh Castle, with its lofty hammer-beam roof and carved supports, amongst which were the thistles of Scotland. Stephen studied James Stuart with covert interest as the formalities were observed, wondering what Anabel would make of her intended husband. James was younger than the princess by four years, but he looked older than eighteen. There was a wary, almost careworn aspect to him that must have come from spending his childhood as a pawn fought over by various factions. He had his mother’s colouring and sharp eyes, and Stephen reminded himself to take care. It would not do to forget that this was Mary Stuart’s son.