The Virgin's War (Tudor Legacy #3)(65)

“You’re not going to tell me what that offer is?”

“I am not.”

“Do you know?”

“I do.” His face darkened. “And for myself, I do not approve.”

Interesting. “Royal masters do not wait upon our approval.”

Navarro rose. Every now and then, in his controlled and elegant movements, Kit was reminded of the man within the cassock. Early thirties, lithe and fit, a man who would not be out of place on the battlefield. Perhaps the priest saw the Church as just that.

“I will not stay,” Navarro announced. “I expect I will see you before long.”

“It was good of you to trouble yourself on such a disagreeable errand. If it were up to you to counsel Her Highness, I wonder what you would advise?” Kit didn’t mind harassing the man. But he was not expecting the violence of his reply.

“I would tell her one or two token Catholic lords on her council are not sufficient,” Navarro spat vehemently. “I would tell her that allowing Mass to be said avails her little if she will not submit her own soul to the sacraments. I would tell her that opposing her mother is not the same as turning to her father. I would tell her to beware a man who appeals to the worst aspects of a woman’s character.”

This was more than Kit had bargained for.

Navarro hadn’t finished. “And I would tell her that she is harboring more than heretics in her household. ‘Though shalt not suffer a witch to live.’ If England is to be cleansed, it must begin at home.”

“I hope you are not implying what I think you are,” Kit said, soft and dangerous. He realized he was gripping his dagger hilt.

Navarro’s eyes flicked from that to Kit’s face. But he did not back down. “Nothing is more dangerous than a servant of Satan who appears in the guise of a beautiful woman, mingling friendship with heresy.”

“Stay away from my sister. If you threaten her—”

“I am under orders, the same as you. His Majesty, King Philip, is unaccountably fond of both you and your sister. I will not touch either of you.”

Navarro turned away, but not without a parting shot as he walked out: “I will not have to. I trust God will do it for me.”





24 February 1586


El Escorial, Spain

Her Royal Highness Anne Isabella, Infanta of Spain and Princess of Wales,

Mi cielita. How I wish I could speak to you in person. I trust you will believe that, however stiff my words, my heart is poured out in true affection for you.

I am not cruel, whatever the most stiff-necked of the English believe. I am seeking earnestly every day to both do my duty and please my family. As to the duty—you know war is coming. I could not stop it even if I wished to. And I do not wish to. “Spare the rod and spoil the child.” But it need not destroy you. You are young, my daughter, and beloved by your people. Your recent actions have shown your wisdom as well as your tenacity in doing what you feel is right.

I believe the people of England desire a righteous ruler. I have no desire for bloodshed. Far better to cut short violence—something you are in a position to achieve.

I will be plain, mi cielita. With your support in the North of England, the coming war could be considerably shortened. Your people will shed less blood, and your mother may be brought to see wisdom short of her own death. In return for your support of this righteous cause, I will see to it that your marriage will be of your own choice. I think we both know whom that choice would be.

I commend to you Tomás Navarro as a faithful counselor. Trust his guidance and both of us may achieve all that we desire. And trust I am always your loving father.

Philip





Anabel thought herself a subtle and imaginative woman, with a healthy skepticism bestowed by both her clever parents. But never could she have imagined that her father would tempt her to treason by offering Kit Courtenay as her husband.

It was enough to take her breath away. For all of a full minute she allowed herself to consider that future: Queen Anne, young and beloved and wise, with Kit beside her every day and every night.

After that wistful minute of fantasy, Anabel deliberately took those images and folded them away in a tiny corner of her heart as she tore her father’s letter to pieces. Then she tidied away the outward evidence of her anger, composed herself to what she needed Spain to see, and summoned Tomás Navarro.

“You know what His Majesty wrote to me, I understand?”

“I do. What shall I tell him?”

“I am quite capable of writing to my father without your aid. That is not why I sent for you. What I need from you are specifics of what is wanted from me.”

He hesitated, as well he might. Navarro was not a stupid man and he had no cause to trust her the way her father did. Anabel knew they were poised on the precipice of the crisis: Had the last two years of studied royal tension been for nothing? Or had she sufficiently played the part of a disaffected daughter ready to be lured away by pretty promises?

The great advantage was that she was royal and Navarro was not. He might have a degree of latitude in his work, being so far from his masters in Spain, but both his mind and his heart demanded obedience to those masters. And they all—king and priests—wanted Anabel on their side.

Navarro leaned in, hands clasped, his handsome face sculpted by good bones and strong opinions. “Neutrality,” he said bluntly. “That is all Spain asks of you. Neutrality to allow Spanish troops to accomplish what must be done quickly. The swifter the battle, the less bloody the costs.”