The Virgin's War (Tudor Legacy #3)(76)
“You mean Spain.”
“I don’t mean France,” she answered wryly.
He gave her a quick, distracted smile. “No. If you are asking me if I have specific and personal knowledge of such an attempt by the Spanish to divert us along the borders, I do not. If you are asking me if I think it likely…perhaps rather more likely than not.”
They had kept back word of Eleanor Percy’s arrest, made easier by her isolated position both geographically and socially. Surely whoever had employed her had noted she was gone, but they had also kept the news quiet. To what purpose?
“Lady Philippa,” Lord Scrope said, “it is no secret that the Spanish are already sending out ships to engage with and assess the strength of England’s navy. They intend an invasion. Does Her Highness believe the northern border vulnerable to welcoming Spanish troops?”
So much for evasion. But this was precisely why Anabel had sent Pippa—that she might judge in the instant how to proceed with specific men. “Should she believe that?”
He was silent for a long time, gazing down at his linked hands. Pippa sat perfectly still, feeling the whirl of his emotions without being certain which would prevail. Religion or country? Faith or freedom? Loyalty or treason? Next to her, she could feel Matthew’s stability anchoring her as always.
When Lord Scrope looked up and met her eyes, Pippa knew the tipping point had been reached.
“I knew the last King Henry—William, as he preferred to be called by his friends. I was never that, exactly, but we were of an age and I spent enough time at court to have a passing acquaintance with him. I never knew a man so quick, so clever, so certain to know his own mind. It was an…intoxicating mixture.”
Pippa could not possibly guess where he was going with this, but instinct kept her quiet.
“But for all his gifts, for all the hopes England invested in him after the tumult of his parents’ marriage, William was a disastrous king. He had his father’s temper and his mother’s suspicions, and his own reckless impulsiveness where your mother, Lady Philippa, was concerned—and I tell you that England has seen no better day for a century than the day Elizabeth Tudor came to the throne. I say that as a faithful son of Holy Church. This queen has done almost the impossible: preserved peace for nearly a generation. Catholic I may be, but I have no desire to see wrought in England the violence done in France in the name of my faith.”
“Violence may come without our desiring it. How we meet it matters a great deal.”
Lord Scrope asked bluntly: “Princess Anne has no intention of aiding the Spanish in taking northern England, does she?”
“What do you intend?” She could not take the risk of confirming anything to a man who might, whatever her instincts, be prepared to spring that secret before Anabel was ready for it.
“I understand your reticence, Lady Philippa. I am not a fool. Any child of Queen Elizabeth and King Philip will have a subtle intelligence and a stubborn sense of righteousness. Princess Anne is not a woman to make decisions solely for her own gain. The Spanish might be willing to believe she would sell her mother for a crown of her own, but I am not.”
“What do your fellow Catholics believe?”
“Which side will they come down on, do you mean? I cannot make predictions. Every man must choose as his conscience dictates. I will say that the borders, at least, are the home of men and women whose greatest pride is in their independence. They may not like London’s rule—but far less would they like Spain’s. For the rest of the North?” He shrugged. “I can’t tell you what religion will drive people to do.”
“Can you tell us what you will do?”
“I think you already know, Lady Philippa. If the Spanish land in the North, I will march every man at my command to oppose them.”
Pippa was swept with relief so strong that it openly shook her. She felt Matthew’s hand on her arm, steadying her. “Her Highness—and Her Majesty—are honoured to have your service. May we ask that this discussion remain entirely private until such time as the matter is brought into the open?”
“You have my word—but that does not mean it will not be discussed. Some of my fellows see only what they want to see. But others are near as canny as I am, and with long experience of the wiliness of Tudor minds. I am surely not the only one to guess the truth.”
“I will take that message to Her Highness,” Pippa said. “Thank you, my lord.” It was time to stand up, but she was not entirely steady on her feet. As though all the strain of the last year, intensified by these weeks of working to see beyond the surface of things, had suddenly slipped through her controls and landed heavily on her body.
“Philippa?”
She could hear Matthew, but dimly, as though from a distance. Her vision was spiraling into an image so familiar to her now it held no terrors. Rushlight and fog, insistent hands and masked faces, melodious Spanish voices mixed with the unmistakable lilt of the Scots, the certain knowledge that she was dying…
The last thing she felt was her body slipping through Matthew’s grasp.
When she awoke, it was dark and she was in an unfamiliar bed. The disorientation swirled for a precious few seconds, until she heard a woman say, “She’s rousing, sir.”
And blessedly, there was Matthew, his normally placid face twisted with worry and a touch of anger. “How long has this been coming on?” he asked directly.