The Virgin's War (Tudor Legacy #3)(79)
“And if an assassin gets lucky? They must be trying harder than they ever have before to kill you. Whatever they may think or guess of the Princess of Wales’s intentions, no doubt they consider she would be a queen far easier to manipulate.”
“Then it is as well for England that they are entirely wrong. I do not intend to die, Dominic. But if I do, it will not be cowering in security while men die at my command. And I trust that Anne would revenge me nicely.”
In this week of surprises, Dominic delivered one more—he laughed softly. “Do you ever wonder if this war would have to be fought if only William had lived?”
It was the first time in almost thirty years that she had heard Dominic speak her brother’s name. She would not show how it moved her. “Perhaps not this war. But we both know that is solely because there would have been more wars fought more frequently. I have not been a perfect ruler—I do not believe there is such a creature. But I believe—I have to believe—that I have done as well as any ruler could have with the circumstances I was given.”
There were occasions—few and far between—when someone looked at Elizabeth as though they really saw her. Not her crown, not her throne, not the trappings of power…herself alone. Elizabeth Tudor. Minuette was the most frequent, and sometimes both Burghley and Walsingham achieved it. But to see that look from Dominic—a man whom she both liked and respected, a man who in his last extremity had clung to loyalty as a lifeline, a man who did not lightly offer affection or praise—made her feel like the girl she had not been for decades.
“You will not die, Elizabeth,” he told her. “Nor will England fall. Not while I have breath in my body to defend both, I swear it.”
His promise was almost as encouraging as the two hundred ships guarding England’s shores.
—
Once Pippa and Matthew returned to Middleham, the council met to discuss their reports of military readiness and apparent Northern ignorance of any attempt to free Mary Stuart in Scotland. In private, they passed on the news of Lord Scrope’s shrewd guesses about Anabel’s true intentions as well as his promise of armed support.
Kit watched Anabel, knowing the relief behind her serene acceptance of that fact. “It is time to see for myself the readiness of what standing forces we have along the border. There have been several lightning raids along the south coast, but it is the Duke of Parma who worries me. It is his army in the Netherlands that will embark in those Spanish ships now preparing to sail—and with Calais retaken by France, Spain has another easy port near Parma. And while our navy is protecting the English Channel, what of the missing ships from Ireland? There are twenty unaccounted for. What if they sailed north from Ireland?”
“To come directly at Scotland? No.” Hatton answered his own question. “You’re not afraid of them hitting Scotland—you think those ships are sailing around Scotland to come at us from the north. Where the English navy most conveniently is not.”
“It’s how Mary Stuart was smuggled out of Scotland when she was a child,” Anabel reminded him. “With ships heading in the other direction, but still. We know the waters north of Scotland can be navigated. What are the chances that the missing Spanish ships are bringing troops to land at Berwick or Newcastle or even Hull?”
Kit broke in. “I suppose this is why you want a tour of the coast and the East March. You consider them most vulnerable.”
“Even discounting the missing ships out of Ireland, the Duke of Parma could conceivably scrape together enough ships to carry part of his army from Flanders. Not enough to oppose the full force of England’s navy in the most direct crossing—but what if he decides to gamble on finding open water north and launches against us?”
That possibility hung in the air with a weight no one could shake. Kit could have sworn he felt the threat of Parma’s troops beating inside his chest. And the danger of it all was that, in trying to be prepared for every possibility, they could end up unprepared for whatever actually happened.
As Anabel gave her household orders, preparatory to departing on their tour of defenses, Kit pulled Matthew aside. “How is Pippa?”
“Can you not tell?”
Kit grimaced. “I was hoping you would tell me different.” His brother-in-law simply looked at him, and Kit sighed. “I know. Sorry.”
Matthew offered only this: “If you want to know more than you can already feel or guess, you’ll have to ask her.”
But that was a conversation Kit shied away from. He knew Pippa was not well. He could feel the faint drag of illness in himself and knew it was his twin, trying hard to shield him from the worst but not entirely able to hide. What worried Kit was what else she might be hiding more successfully.
Once Pippa would have sought Kit out, either to reassure or, more likely, scold him into focusing on his own life. But she stayed with Anabel for several hours after the council broke up and then went straight to bed. Kit had not the heart to disturb her, so he left a note before he left with Anabel the next morning.
Pippa
The success of this war does not depend solely on you. Quit behaving as though it does. You will do Anabel no good if you are too sick to get out of bed. And I’m sure Matthew prefers to have you on your feet. I expect to see you rested and returned to full sarcasm on my return.
Kit