The Virgin's War (Tudor Legacy #3)(85)
Pippa counted silently as she walked. How many steps before Navarro realized?
One…two…three…She felt Navarro’s satisfaction beating in the air, delighted to have brought the proud Princess Anne to heel. Four…five…Matthew’s presence behind her was as reassuring as his touch. Six…Madalena was breathing silent prayers that brushed against Pippa’s awareness like moths.
Ten feet away from Navarro, Pippa lowered her arrogant chin a fraction and met his eyes unblinkingly.
The priest opened his mouth to make the Princess of Wales welcome.
And froze.
When Navarro moved, it was with sudden violence that made everyone but Matthew startle. Matthew simply moved very, very close behind Pippa. Not touching, but letting her know he was prepared to sweep her out of reach the moment she wanted him to.
Navarro used one hand to grab her, closing the remaining space between them, and held her hard as fury replaced disbelief. “Witch,” he said in English under his breath…or perhaps the word began with a harder consonant.
By now the Spanish had begun to stir, their commander striding forward to intervene. “Father Navarro, you must remember that the Infanta is our guest.”
“This isn’t the Infanta,” Navarro snarled. Then, with a visible effort of will, he controlled his temper. He released Pippa, but only to put his hands to her hair and, painfully, jerk the wig loose.
“This,” he pronounced, looking from the red hair lying loose in his hands to the tightly plaited and coiled blonde hair that had lain hidden beneath, “is the Infanta’s rejection of our kind offer. Seize this traitor and her party and confine them below.”
Before they took Pippa away, Navarro breathed a warning into her ear. “It was a mistake to send you.”
—
It seemed to take forever for night to fall. Anabel paced, feeling confined by Pippa’s dress and the heavy wig. They had used Pippa’s increasingly frequent bouts of illness to explain her staying out of sight, but really, where else could she be? The illusion of English freedom still held, but did not change the fact that there were Spanish soldiers in York, watching the gates that led into and out of the city.
Anabel and Kit were not leaving by a gate. When finally—finally—twilight bled away into darkness and rain began to fall, the two of them followed Pippa’s instructions to the letter. Out a side door of the Council House and through the wet gardens to the river. The skiff was there, and Kit handily and quietly rowed them upstream. Anabel’s tension, which had been cutting into her head and shoulders for hours like a vise, eased fractionally the farther west they got.
It was not practical, nor fast enough, to row all the way in the dark. Kit found the spot along the riverbank that Pippa had indicated and helped Anabel out of the skiff. Thanks to the rain, it now had several inches of water in the bottom. Her cloak and skirt hems were sodden, but she barely noticed the weight or the chill. They took to horses now, with a young groom who’d been waiting for them, to ride through the trackless dark to the nearest armed support.
Of all the Courtenays, Anabel had always known Stephen the least. Unlike Kit, he had been remarkably self-contained from an early age and never inclined to edge into what might be seen as his younger brother’s territory. But when he met them at the edge of his camp, torches flaring high now that the rain had paused, Anabel had never been so relieved in her life. Stephen Courtenay had his father’s air of self-possession—a confidence that whatever happened, he was well able to not only meet it, but match it. After the long day and night passed in Kit’s strung-up company, Anabel found Stephen refreshingly straightforward.
He wasted no time apologizing to her for the lack of royal comforts in his camp. The three of them met alone in Stephen’s tent, a little larger than those of his men, in order to accommodate the table and stools needed for communication and council.
His first question was to Kit. “Is Pippa all right?”
Anabel knew that most of Kit’s taut temper through the day had been the consequence of intense focus on the thread that bound him to his twin. He nodded at Stephen. “Unharmed. But the masquerade will only last until she meets Navarro. Assuming they reached Hull by sundown, we must anticipate reactions in York soon after the sun comes up. Hopefully no one will think to check on us”—he indicated himself and Anabel—“until the alarm is raised.”
“When it is? Tell me about the Spanish forces in York.”
The talk turned technical then, not that Anabel couldn’t follow the military terms, but the brothers had blood and experience on their side. They possessed the kind of shorthand available not only to family but to men who had fought together. The largest concern, for all of them, was what York itself would choose to do.
Stephen chewed his bottom lip thoughtfully. “Some of the Spanish in York will have to leave the city to try and trace the princess. From what you say, there aren’t enough men there to hold the city at the same time. So they leave, and the city has a breathing space before reinforcements can arrive from Hull. The question is…will York open their gates to the Spanish?”
“No,” Kit objected loudly. “The ‘question’ is how fast can we reach Hull and get Pippa away from the Spanish!”
“You don’t have to tell me that!” Stephen shouted back. “But we have to think of England as well.”