The Virgin's War (Tudor Legacy #3)(47)
There had been only wisps of rumours in most places, like stray cloud drifts that moved so fast one could hardly pin them down. But in Dumfries those wisps had coalesced into an ugly scene. Kit had crossed into Scotland by invitation from Lord Maxwell, Scotland’s West March warden. He took with him a contingent of men from Carlisle Castle, and military matters had gone well enough. Maxwell was a canny, worldly man unlikely to be moved by sentiment but very willing to come to practical arrangements.
The Carlisle men had been drinking with their Scots counterparts. When Kit crossed the courtyard after supper, he heard boisterous laughter and the kind of drunken noise that had never particularly appealed to him. He meant to skirt it all, since it did not sound anything more than normal high spirits, but then several phrases caught his ear.
Faithless in bed means faithless in war…it’s not heads women rule with…weak and silly girl…Anne…
Kit could move swift and silent when he chose. That night he opted only for swift. Heads snapped round at his march, and men took a step back when they saw Kit with his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
The ringleader—fortunately a Carlisle man, as Kit didn’t suppose Maxwell would appreciate an Englishman meddling with his household—held his ground, either because he was brave or because he was too drunk to notice the danger. He even hurled another insult. “And here’s her lapdog to yip at my feet.”
“Shut your mouth and walk away,” Kit warned.
“For you? I don’t think so.” The man slurred the words and his steps forward were unsteady. But his expression was alight with malice. “You’re no more than a jumped-up younger son of a traitor. Like your father, your only real talent lies in seducing the right women. Why else would yon silly princess send a boy to do a man’s job?”
“That is treason,” Kit said softly.
“I’m not afraid of you, any more than I’m afraid of your Tudor whore.”
It wasn’t his sword Kit drew. Swift as a snake, his left hand snatched the dagger at his back. In almost the same movement, he flipped it round and struck the drunken man with its hilt full across his face. And in case that wasn’t enough, he struck again until the man went down.
And when they reached Carlisle, he went to Lord Scrope and demanded the man be thrown in a cell until he’d learned to keep his mouth shut.
He hadn’t meant to tell Anabel, but gossip flew faster than even men could ride. The moment they were alone, she said tartly, “Been fighting, have you? I hear you broke a man’s jaw in Dumfries.”
“Did you hear why?”
She shrugged. “More or less. I appreciate your instincts, but I am meant to be binding the North to me, not alienating them.”
“In that case, it might be best if I retire from the North. I’m doing your reputation no favours.”
“Those who oppose me will always find a reason to justify their opinion.”
“That doesn’t mean we need to hand them reasons.”
“I’m not sending you away,” she said flatly. “At this point, it would only lend credence to such malicious talk. I won’t have it said that I fear idle words. Perhaps you could bring yourself to flirt with my women?”
“You want me to flirt with my sister?” Kit asked with elaborate patience.
“You know what I mean.”
If she would not acknowledge uncomfortable facts, he would have to force her into it. “I also know that this situation is not sustainable,” Kit said. “What do you intend to do when you are married, Your Highness? Make me your lapdog in truth? I do not think your Scottish husband will allow that.”
“Are you jealous?”
“Damn right I’m jealous!” He struggled to get himself under control. “But that doesn’t matter. What matters is your reputation and your ability to rule. I am compromising that. It must end.”
“What must end? Speaking to me? Serving at my command? What are we doing that is so unforgivable? Although…” Her eyes turned soft. She stepped within his reach and tipped her chin up consideringly. “If I’m going to be judged and convicted, Kit, shouldn’t I at least have the pleasure of the sin beforehand?”
She kissed him before he could move, and then he didn’t want to. For a few blessed moments his body concurred with her assessment and he very much wanted the pleasure. But that cursed sense of responsibility that his family had inculcated in him without his ever being aware did not completely desert him. “Anabel,” he murmured against her cheek. “You know better.”
She breathed out a mild oath and, slowly, released her hold on him. “I will make you a bargain,” she finally offered. “I will refrain from dragging you into openly compromising positions if you will remain in my councils. Not for my sake alone. I truly believe your voice is valuable.”
He was helpless to refuse her. “Then you shall have it. As long as you require.”
—
Fortunately for Anabel, she excelled at putting aside personal issues and dealing with the public necessities of her position. She thought very few would be able to read any of the ruffled emotions behind the serene face with which she swept into her council chamber at Middleham. The men were on their feet, bowing, as she settled herself at the top of the circling chairs and waved them back into their seats. For conferences such as this, Anabel tended to keep to neutral palettes and severe lines in her dress; today’s gown of dove grey velvet had close-fitting sleeves and a high-cut square neckline edged with an inch of silver bullion. I have a serious mind, such a gown declared, and am not to be put off with flattering words.