The Virgin's War (Tudor Legacy #3)(53)
There was a flash from Anne, a moment’s amusement passed between them, then she stepped slightly aside to allow the others of her train to greet the queen. The first—insultingly—was Philip’s meddling Jesuit, Tomás Navarro. It took no pretense for Elizabeth to eye him icily. And his contempt was certainly real enough. They had a cat amongst the pigeons here. Pray they had belled him sufficiently to give them warning.
Elizabeth acknowledged the others with hardly a pause, only giving Christopher an assessing gaze that he returned without flinching. But after him was his sister, and Elizabeth had certain things to say to Philippa Courtenay.
Primarily concerning the fact that she was now Philippa Harrington. “Well,” Elizabeth noted drily, “no one could claim that marriage does not suit you. Three months a wife now, and still admirably…slender.” It did no harm to point out to the gossips that there was no too-early baby in the mix here.
But there was impudence in the girl’s hasty marriage, and Elizabeth would not let that pass. “It grieved us to realize how lightly you hold your queen’s and your family’s affections. To marry without word…was not wise.”
Matthew Harrington, so like his quiet father, stood protectively next to his wife. He was not a man to be cowed by any authority, particularly not in defense of the woman he loved. “When has love ever marched with wisdom?” he asked. “Your Majesty,” he added belatedly.
Elizabeth smiled. Those who knew her would know rightly how to read the warning there. “Admirably put. And as it stands, I have forgone my right of chastisement. That belongs to Lord Exeter. And Philippa’s mother.”
Every eye in the hall turned to Dominic, who stood stony-faced as only he could. On the other side of Minuette stood Carrie Harrington, neat as a wren in her gown of blue wool, eyeing her son with mingled affection and exasperation.
If Elizabeth had been Matthew Harrington, she would have felt more than a qualm at the sight.
It was a relief to move through the remaining necessary courtesies as quickly as possible and then retreat. Alone, for queen and princess needed to be marked keeping their distance from one another. There would be a few opportunities for private communication, but not immediately. Let Anne’s household mingle with hers without the pressure of the queen’s presence, so that curiosity might be assuaged on both sides.
And to confirm, to those suspicious eyes here and in Spain, that the gulf between the Tudor royals was widening to an almost unbreachable impasse. Everything depended on Philip believing that Anabel could be manipulated by Spain.
Walsingham came after her. “That went well.”
She smiled fondly. “Only you would define that iciness as going well.”
“It served its purpose.”
“So it did. Tomás Navarro looked insufferably pleased with himself. So did Ambassador de Mendoza. You’ll watch them, of course. But they’ll be expecting that. It is their attitudes that will tell us more than their words. I suspect Navarro might be the sort of Jesuit to make enemies even amongst his own kind.”
“I agree.”
“Give me an hour to rest, Walsingham. Let it be seen as weakness, I don’t mind. Not in a good cause, at least.”
“And then?” he asked.
“And then,” she repeated, slowly. “Send Christopher Courtenay to me. Philippa I could chastise publicly. Christopher requires more delicate handling.”
Elizabeth could be delicate when she chose. That didn’t mean she wouldn’t also be implacable.
Christopher entered the queen’s presence with a wariness unusual to him. She guessed that behind his elegant obeisance he was calculating whether he had done anything particularly reprehensible lately.
“Rumour preceded your coming, Lord Christopher. Even in the South we are hearing idle gossip about you and the Princess of Wales. It must stop.”
He had become skilled at control, but he was not a master like his father. She saw the flinch of instinctive defiance. “I cannot stop rumours, Your Majesty. Surely that is a lesson I learned from you?”
“Don’t play clever with me,” she snapped. “I will not have my daughter’s reputation dragged through the mud for the sake of a charming tongue. Already my court has received subtle complaints from Scotland about your behaviour during their visit.”
“Are you ordering me to leave her service, Your Majesty?”
She smiled coldly. “You would like that, wouldn’t you? So you could blame me. No, Kit”—and noted another flinch at her familiarity—“you must do this. I know my daughter. She is capable of wrecking all we have been working so hard to achieve out of sheer perversity.
“And also,” Elizabeth conceded, “from the strength of her affections. I do not lightly discount what either of you feel. But the time for indulgence is past. I will sacrifice anything for the sake of England. And so must Anabel.”
“What do you want of me?” he asked in a low voice.
“To make it easy for her. You are surrounded by beautiful women here. Take advantage of it. Not enough to cause a riot, but enough to still a few tongues. As long as you look at no one but my daughter, those who would split this kingdom in two have leverage. Turn your eyes elsewhere—and make Anabel believe it.”
Christopher Courtenay must always have known his days were numbered. “Yes, Your Majesty.”