The Virgin's War (Tudor Legacy #3)(40)
I know that you are needed in the North. I have no wish to supersede the claims of your family and your princess. But might you come home for a little? Or might I come north with Felix? Not to the princess’s household—but near enough to see you?
What a melancholy note I have struck in this letter! It is not as bad as all that. Nothing can be wholly catastrophic as long as you breathe on this earth. That will very nearly be joy enough for me to the end of my days.
Though I would not mind being asked to kiss you again someday…
Julien
—
James Stuart might not have been the most physically prepossessing man of Anabel’s acquaintance, but in person she quickly warmed to the deep intellect and scholarly interests that had previously been confined to his letters. If she had only to deal with his conversation, they might do very well.
Fortunately, James did not seem terribly interested in her person—certainly not as much as he was in her kingdom. That made their conferences slightly less awkward.
But only slightly.
“Your Highness,” prodded the king’s secretary, John Maitland, “is it your intention to continue to promote the cause of Papists at your court and in your policies?”
“It is my intention to serve and defend the people of England. All of them.”
“Your mother has learned necessary caution concerning Papists over her lifetime, seeing as every assassin who has attempted her life has been Catholic.”
“A logical fallacy, my lord. That every assassin has been Catholic does not mean that every Catholic is an assassin.”
It was interesting that in the most charged moments, James always conceded the field of argument to Maitland. Anabel refused to be thus put off, so she spoke directly to James. “Surely Your Majesty would protest any attempt on my part to dictate Scottish policy. I am not clear why it should be Scotland’s prerogative to instruct me on how to govern my council and household.”
Intelligence, and possibly wry amusement, flickered in his normally flat eyes. “I expect the prerogative springs from our future marriage.”
“As I understand the terms of the betrothal, the question of union is between the two of us personally, not our crowns. A union of country would fall to any child we might have in future.”
“And that might work, if we were monarchs of distant countries—like England and Spain, say? But Scotland is quite rightly concerned about being swallowed up by English interests. We are a Protestant nation, Your Highness. I will only wed a woman of the same sentiments.”
Did he have any idea how tempting that implied offer was? What would he do if she took him at his word and promptly became Catholic simply to avoid marrying him?
She smiled with deadly sweetness. “England is not a Catholic nation. But as long as there are English Catholics, I will not suffer their rights of life and liberty to be forfeited to their conscience. As my mother once wisely said—I will not make windows into men’s souls.”
James did not have the requisite sense of humour to parry her strokes lightly. His face darkened, but he managed civility at least. “I imagine this is a subject we will return to more than once in the next year. Perhaps we should leave it for now in the hands of our capable diplomats.”
The next year. For that had been the purpose of this border meeting—to finally set a wedding date. Both sides had at last agreed to August 30, just over a year from now. Anabel had tried to push for two more years, but the tide was against her. She was already twenty-three. James’s advisors wanted her wedded and bedded and with child as soon as possible, for then the alliance would be unbreakable without the kind of violence with which Spain now threatened England.
Tomás Navarro was displeased, as he was bound to be. Anabel wondered to what lengths Spain’s displeasure would push them. Far enough, one hoped, to provide England an edge in the coming war. Keep them unbalanced and guessing about her intentions, and Spain might be caught the slightest bit unprepared.
But the priest confined his immediate queries to Ireland in a private conference with Anabel. “Do I understand that you will not ask Scotland for aid against the Irish Catholics and Spanish soldiers supporting them?”
“I will not.” Because there was no point. James would never agree.
“That is good. I am certain that Your Highness desires peace. But it will not be to anyone’s benefit to have a peaceful earthly life spent in heresy, only to be in torment eternally. I trust Your Highness keeps ever in mind the souls of your people.”
“They are not my people, not wholly,” she reminded him. “That belongs to my mother.”
“Only so long as the people wish it.”
It was the most dangerous thing Navarro had said yet. Anabel allowed him to leave without further discussion, but his warning echoed as she spent the next two hours riding with Kit and several of James’s household. The king himself had declined the invitation, preferring to pore over some manuscripts brought here from Oxford for his pleasure.
When they returned, James was waiting in the outer bailey to greet her. Anabel did not see him at first. Only when Kit had swung her down from her horse, his hands lingering ever so slightly at her waist, did she realize they were being watched. She stepped neatly out of Kit’s touch, intending to approach James, but the king merely bowed his head in acknowledgment and walked away.