The Virgin's War (Tudor Legacy #3)(52)
“Julien, why are you so afraid?” she asked. “I am sure you know as much as Nicolas did of women. No, that’s not true. You know far more than he ever did, because he never considered women individually unless they could do something for him. But I am your wife, Julien. Why are you so content to keep your distance?”
“Content?” he choked. “You think me content? Ask the household about my short temper. Or the groomsmen about how hard I ride the horses. I nearly whipped Felix for insolence the other day…and I love that boy as though he were my own.”
He did not touch her, but he did close the gap between them a little. “Can you not see how I am shaking for you? There is no contentment without your love, Lucie mine.”
“Then let me give it.”
“As you say—I am afraid.”
“Why?”
“Because I seem to remember making a vehement, rather drunken speech to you one night about Nic’s selfishness and how I would be much the better husband for you because I was a man whole and entire.”
“And you’re still trying to prove it after all this time? Nicolas is dead, Julien. He can only hurt us if we let him. To be a man whole and entire rests on much more than a single instinctive action—though, I warn you, I quite like that as well. But if you want me to obey the doctors, then we must find an accommodation.”
She rested her palms against his chest, remembering the feel of his skin rather than the texture of fabric. “Let me be brave for the both of us,” she whispered. “Let me love you. And show me how you love me in return.”
They didn’t make it to the bedchamber for some time. Neither of them cared.
In the third week of November, Elizabeth awaited the arrival of her daughter at Kenilworth Castle in an unusual state of nerves. It had been nearly two years since she and Anne had been in the same city, let alone the same room. Unfortunately, the initial meeting had to take place in public. Or, perhaps after all, fortunately—for Elizabeth did not care to betray how much she had missed her daughter. Even to her.
The setting could not have been more magnificent: the great hall built two hundred years ago by John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, had soaring perpendicular lines of stone offset with windows and a hammer-beam ceiling so impressively constructed that it allowed the entire open space to be unsupported by pillars. Elizabeth had presented Kenilworth to Brandon Dudley when she made him Earl of Leicester in 1580, and he had outdone himself to host this royal gathering. His wife, Nora, had truly come into her own now that she was independent of her difficult mother, so that Kenilworth sparkled with laughter and music and spirited conversation. There had been a moment or two this day when Elizabeth looked at her warm and lively niece and silently said to her brother: You would be proud of her, Will.
Elizabeth had commanded an audience of courtiers, scholars, and government officials to attend her at Kenilworth—an array of her strongest supporters. Including, naturally, Dominic and Minuette Courtenay. Though she conceded that they were here less for their queen than to see their own children.
From where she stood in the great hall—herself adorned and polished and decorated to the highest degree—she heard the arriving clatter of horses and murmurs of welcome from Lord Burghley. Elizabeth had long perfected the ability to remain still and composed under any strain. But she could feel the faint tremor in her hands and clasped them before her to mask it.
Lord Burghley appeared at the top of the elaborate steps, Anne at his side. There were others behind her, but Elizabeth had eyes only for her daughter. They’d been separated for almost two years, but it might have been ten from the leaps Anabel had made in authority and poise. They were disturbingly like rival queens facing one another across an expanse of polished chessboard, each assessing the other’s strengths and weaknesses.
Elizabeth had chosen a royal purple gown buttoned high to a two-inch pleated ruff circling her slim throat. The sleeves were close-fitted and the skirt split at the waist to flaunt a kirtle heavily embroidered with gold thread. Atop the curls and twists of one of her many wigs rested a diadem of pearls and gold.
In contrast, Anabel had dressed head to toe in black. The mournful colour and severe lines were as good as a public announcement: I stand with Spain. Not that women all over Europe hadn’t copied Spain’s fashions for decades, but somehow Anabel wore the gown in such a way as to highlight her differences with England’s queen. In contrast to her mother’s careful styling, Anabel’s red-gold hair was dressed in soft plaits, emphasizing the waves and gloss of her youth. She wore not a single jewel.
With exquisite care, the Princess of Wales crossed the hall and made her obeisance. “Your Majesty.”
There was politeness but no warmth to her voice. Although Elizabeth had expected as much, it stung a little. And made it easier to steady herself against the unexpectedly strong maternal pull.
“Let me see you.” Elizabeth surveyed Anne carefully and critically. “I suppose the North has agreed with you. It is good of you to stir yourself long enough to attend on your queen.”
“I was not aware I had a choice in the matter.”
Oh, she was good. It was almost like hearing herself coolly oppose her brother. “There is always a choice.” Elizabeth delivered it as a warning. “I am pleased with this one.” Leaving no doubt that there were other choices with which she was less pleased.