The Virgin's War (Tudor Legacy #3)(68)
Bell grimaced. “Not any one thing I can put my finger on. Instinct, more than anything. They led us a merry chase, but they know that landscape well enough to keep from being found at all. It was like a game—far more than usual, I mean. Did you not note how cheerfully they surrendered the animals? I’m not saying I wanted fighting, but in fifteen years, never have I seen such an easy end. Not with Maxwells and Grahams involved.”
“If not the Maxwells…who?”
“Could be one of the other families, shifting blame, but border families scorn hiding their mischief. They’re proud of it, rather. I’d sooner believe this was a feint, meant to draw our attention to Annandale just now.”
Kit inhaled sharply. “Draw our eyes while…what? If I’ve learned anything about reivers, it’s their practicality. They know the English Marches are stronger than they’ve been in years.”
“They also know that war with Spain is looming, and that English strength is being hoarded for that fight.”
“Still doesn’t explain a halfhearted raid. There’s been no word of other violence in the West March?”
“Not yet. I’ve sent word all along the border. What worries me is not open violence.”
Kit had reached the same point in his thinking. “If not immediate violence…Lord Maxwell recently had his wardenship revoked by King James for suspicion of his loyalty. Do we know Maxwell’s present location?”
“Perceptive. No, we do not. And none of the Maxwell men were talking.”
“You think the raid was designed to allow Lord Maxwell—a noted Catholic—to…what?”
“Mary Stuart is still in hold at Blackness Castle. If it were me, I would ensure King James is alerted to Lord Maxwell’s disappearance.”
“No more soft speaking,” Kit said flatly. “You have another reason for suspicion. What did you find?”
Bell pulled out a fragment of paper and tossed it on the table. Kit didn’t even have to read the words to know what the trouble was. All he needed to see was that the words were written in Spanish.
“Spanish orders?” he hazarded. The fragment held only partial sentences, the rest ripped away, and only a few at that. Kit found himself supplying any missing letters as he read: [re]frain from open violence…keep the garrisons bus[y]…in hold at Lakehill H[ouse]…[pay]ment in full when she is fre[e].
Lakehill House? Why did he recognize that name? He ran through all he’d learned of the recusant families in the North and came up blank. But still the name fretted at him even as he asked Bell, “I presume the man who held this fragment has been arrested?”
“We didn’t find it on a man,” Bell said evenly. “It was in a pack that no one claimed.”
And I could hardly detain all of the Maxwells with just our small force from the garrison, ran the captain’s unspoken defense.
Kit left it at that. This was not Bell’s responsibility. It was the warden who answered to the queen. Or, in this case, the Princess of Wales. It was Kit’s job to know what to do next.
“Damn it,” he said softly. He stowed the fragment in the pouch at his belt. “This goes no further than this room,” he ordered. “Understood?”
“Understood. You’ll be heading to Middleham?”
“Yes. Once I send a courier to my brother. As current Warden of the West March, he can deal most quickly with King James. Also, Stephen has some experience with Mary Stuart. He will take any possibility of a rescue attempt seriously.”
Royalty thrived on secrets and conspiracies. There were, Kit decided mordantly, entirely too many kings and queens and princesses in this whole affair for his liking. Give him a plain, honest enemy on the battlefield any day.
—
Since Christmas, Philip had felt a rising sense of urgency, as though each day that did not see the Enterprise of England launched was a day closer to failure. He had always been cautious, prone to remarking that “Time and I are two,” but now nothing could be accomplished quickly enough for him. It was God, he knew. Having brought him to this point of destiny, God needed him to launch into action.
God did not seem to care about complications. After weeks of exchanging letters with Admiral de Bazan in Lisbon, where he had been preparing the armada, Philip received word that Bazan had collapsed from illness. He could not possibly command the armada this year.
Working unexpectedly fast, Philip immediately appointed Don Alonso, the Duke of Medina Sidonia, to take charge of the fleet. The duke had kept the king’s peace in Andalusia, overseen defenses against pirates (many of them English), fulfilled his responsibilities with a mildness that would not offend his immediate subordinates, and, most importantly to Philip, was a man of impeccable moral character and a devoted son of the Church.
He was also humble, a fact that Philip would have appreciated more if it didn’t lead the duke to reply with a polite demurral.
My health is not equal to such a voyage, Medina Sidonia wrote, for I know by experience of the little I have been at sea that I am always seasick and always catch cold…Since I have had no experience either of the sea or of war, I cannot feel that I ought to command so important an enterprise.
When Philip replied sharply, Medina Sidonia capitulated and at once took himself to the port of Lisbon. Philip knew the preparations were not perfect. Admiral de Bazan had written often, lamenting that he did not have enough ships, enough money, enough men (Bazan had scoured prisons, hospitals, and fields around Lisbon to make up his crews), and, always, not enough time.