The Virgin's War (Tudor Legacy #3)(64)
So he threw himself into work—a remedy he’d never considered when he was younger. What had happened to the careless, jealous younger son? The boy who knew he could never be as good as his father or brother, so why even try? It seemed that, after all, his father’s streak of duty and honour had been painted across Kit’s soul.
There was no shortage of duty along the border. Reivers, for generations a source of mischief on both sides of the national boundary, did not stop their raiding and thieving whatever the formal understanding between England and Scotland. They were a law unto themselves, and the job of the wardens on both sides was to keep disorder from blowing into catastrophe.
Kit had a decent working relationship with the Scottish Lord Maxwell, but halfway through February the man was abruptly released from service and a new Warden of the West March of Scotland appointed—a warden with a superbly trained mercenary force at his command. Kit rode with officers of the Carlisle garrison to meet his brother at Dumfries.
“How on earth did you manage this?” Kit asked Stephen. “Won’t the queen protest your service to a foreign power?”
“I’m not serving a foreign power—I am following orders from the woman who commands my service.”
“Your wife,” Kit said flatly. He’d been astonished to hear of Stephen’s sudden, surprising marriage to a girl so much younger and so different from the women he’d watched his brother attend to over the years. He’d always sought for beauty, and Maisie Sinclair was not beautiful. Interesting, yes. Clever, no question. And yet Kit was quite certain his brother had not married for the sake of a clever mind.
Stephen refused to elaborate on the subject. “King James had to pull Maxwell off the border because of his noted Catholicism and open sympathy for Mary Stuart. The king’s eye is on the longer view—not reivers, not thieves, but Spanish soldiers. With his mother in his hands, he thinks that the Spanish will have nearly as much interest in attacking Scotland as England, and the last thing the king can afford is one of his own wardens joining the Spanish. You and I are meant to prevent that.”
The rest of their time at Dumfries was taken up with official matters. When Kit realized that he was keeping up with his brother in matters of policy and military tactics—that he even gave Stephen pause on occasion—he felt undeniably proud. Even when his older brother said caustically, “It’s because of how well I trained you.”
When they walked out together for Kit and the Carlisle men to ride back across the border, Stephen said abruptly, “I am sorry you’ve had to separate yourself from Anabel. It must hurt, having to lie to everyone about your feelings.”
“How do you know I’m lying?”
Stephen eyed him sidelong. “Please.”
“As long as Anabel can bring herself to believe it.”
“She won’t. You know that. Only in the heat of temper would she ever manage to believe you don’t love her. But she will play the game as well as you. I’m just sorry it has to be that way.”
“Don’t be too sorry. You have your own troubles ahead.”
Stephen grinned. “But at least I have the wife of my choosing.”
“Do you?” Kit asked curiously.
Though his grin widened, still Stephen declined to be provoked. “Keep working hard, little brother. You’ll have to, to keep up with me.”
After returning to Carlisle, Kit headed east for his usual rounds of the Middle March. He expected only the normal course of business—low supplies, requisition difficulties, lack of ready money—but upon arriving in Tynedale, he was met with the news that he had a visitor waiting for him from the Princess of Wales.
It couldn’t be Pippa, or the man would have said so. But Kit hoped for some kind of personal news.
Unfortunately, it was perhaps the last person he wanted to meet—Tomás Navarro. Kit stopped short on the threshold, then moved warily into the chamber.
“What can I do for you?” Kit asked in Spanish, taking a seat not too close, where he could keep a watchful eye on the priest.
Perhaps the only thing Navarro respected in Kit was his ability to speak Spanish. He answered in the same language. “I come with a message.”
“From Her Highness?” What on earth would Anabel be doing, sending this unfriendly, judgmental Jesuit as a messenger?
“From His Majesty, King Philip.”
That rocked Kit back into his chair. He was surprised enough to have to think carefully about translating his reply into Spanish. “I was not aware His Majesty could have anything to communicate to me.”
“He wishes to express his gratitude for your loyalty and devotion to his daughter. He recognizes the difficulty of your personal position and respects your willingness to serve without reward. Other than to please God and Holy Church, His Majesty has no greater wish than to see his daughter happy in her duty.”
“I have never doubted His Majesty’s intentions.” A nicely ambiguous reply for an ambiguous message, though he hardly had the patience for it. In this respect, Kit was very much his father’s son. He did not like evasion and dissimulation and all the other subtle attendants of politics. Why could royals and diplomats never speak plainly?
“His Majesty is writing to his daughter with a proposal,” Navarro said delicately. “When she receives it, she will undoubtedly send for you. It would please His Majesty greatly if you would use your influence to persuade her to accept his offer.”