The Virgin's War (Tudor Legacy #3)(69)
Philip was finished with excuses. Only with the greatest reluctance did he accept that the armada could not be ready to sail in March—possibly not in April—and when Medina Sidonia pleaded the paucity of heavy guns amongst the ships, Philip and his war council managed to find the money to send him. But he would not agree to demobilize the men to any degree, insisting that they remain on ship while in harbor so as to be prepared for immediate action.
And always—always—he was watching the English navy. They had greater numbers, though smaller ships, and they were fast. They could form and reform at sea in a day, or dash back into port without warning. The greatest advantage the Spanish possessed was surprise. The sooner they could launch, the better.
No, Philip corrected himself, our greatest asset is not surprise. It is Anne.
For he had on his desk, amidst the reports and cost sheets and lists of ships’ repairs, a letter from his daughter. The most personal letter to him she had composed in years.
Father,
I thank you for your very kind letter of last month. I was, as I’m sure you can imagine, considerably taken aback by your offer. I know how deeply you have wished me to marry a good Catholic. That you would be willing to consider Christopher Courtenay…it argues a care for my happiness I did not expect.
Tomás Navarro has been most assiduous in your service. And as I have immersed myself outside of London, I have found a great faith and deep devotion in many English Catholics that humbles me. If there is aught I can do to ease their burdens…I have spent much time in prayer pondering what God would have me do.
I do not want war. But if war must come, then I will do whatever lies in my power to ensure it ends quickly.
HRH Anne Isabella
It was as close as his cautious, clever daughter could safely go in a written communiqué. Reading between the words, Philip felt confident that northern England would be easily taken, leaving the bulk of his forces to seize London and the South.
Spain could not have hoped for more.
“What will you do now?”
Anabel studied the fragment of Spanish orders in her hand, the red haze of anger slowly fading from her eyes, until finally Kit’s question penetrated her awareness.
Her first instinct was to drag Tomás Navarro before her and let fly her fury at Spain’s damned interfering ways. If Spain had paid the Maxwells to provide a distracting raid, it pointed straight at the Jesuit in northern England who would gladly see Mary Stuart freed to wreak havoc in Scotland. How dare a foreigner meddle so brazenly? How dare he complacently assume he could do what he liked and she would simply swallow it?
“Anabel,” said Kit, warning in his voice.
“I know!” She rubbed her forehead. “I know,” she said more moderately. “This is a time for diplomacy, not temper. But I will not forget…nor forgive.”
He nodded. “So again I ask—now what?”
“Now I invent an errand that will take Navarro away from Middleham for a time so I can convene a council without his presence. You will report this to them. And then those I trust most will give me their advice.”
It was not a full council, of course, that convened the next morning in Anabel’s privy chamber. Arundel was rarely there, in any case, but Lord Scrope could have easily made it if asked. But considering that she expected some delicate and possibly inflammatory discussion about the Catholics, better keep him away. Better keep all the northern, sectarian interests away, in favour of those trained to take a wider view. In the end it was those few whom Anabel trusted completely: Sir Christopher Hatton, her secretary; Robert Cecil, her Master of Horse; her chaplain, Edwin Littlefield; Matthew Harrington, treasurer; Pippa and Madalena, whom Anabel would never consent to leave out where at all possible. And Kit.
Once Kit had made his dispassionate report on the hot trod and the suspicion of Spanish payment to the Maxwells for their cattle raid—and possibly a rescue attempt of Mary Stuart—Christopher Hatton led the queries. At forty-six he was the oldest member of Anabel’s inner circle by more than ten years. Unusually, he rarely used that fact to claim superiority. Which made Anabel more willing to grant it to him. He had served in important government posts in London for twenty years before being released to the Princess of Wales’s household. His only real fault was how little he liked the North.
“You’ve alerted King James?” Hatton asked Kit.
“Through my brother, Stephen. I also had the Captain of Carlisle send out inquiries to the other marches about suspicious people. Which, I grant you, is not all that easy to separate from the usual borderers.”
“Any word back?”
Kit shook his head. “Nothing yet. Most of the garrisons report everything as normal. But then it would be, if we believe Lord Maxwell will use only his own people for any rescue attempt.”
“Spanish agents would be highly noticeable in the borders,” Hatton noted drily. “This isn’t London. And frankly, there are plenty of Spanish who might be happy to never see Mary Stuart again. She tends to bring trouble wherever she goes.”
“Trouble,” Madalena pointed out, “could be precisely what is wanted just now. We know the armada will launch in the coming weeks. What better way to distract Scotland and northern England than the Catholic Queen Mary running loose stirring up dissent?”