The Virgin's War (Tudor Legacy #3)(94)
When Elizabeth received news of Philippa Courtenay’s death hard on the heels of the Spanish fleet’s maneuvers, it was something of a shock to discover she could not banish the girl from her mind even while she gave orders and plotted for the security of the coasts.
Though Philippa had always been Anabel’s nearest friend—much as Minuette had been Elizabeth’s—she had also been the most enigmatic to the queen’s understanding. Elizabeth had had her personal dealings over the years with Lucette and Stephen and Kit—not always comfortable dealings, but occasions that allowed her access to their innermost workings. But Philippa? Philippa, she felt now, she had hardly known at all.
It was partly these personal issues that brought her this night to Greenwich, where John Dee had been for the last month. If Elizabeth had a third critical advisor—alongside Burghley and Walsingham—it was Dr. Dee. He had engaged with her when she was a princess and had continued to provide a more esoteric brand of counsel than she could find elsewhere. Walsingham was the cynic, Burghley the pragmatist…and John Dee was the mystic.
She arrived by torch-lit barge and was ushered in with little ceremony. Her state of mind did not lend itself to dealing with idiots tonight. In very short order she was seated in Dee’s private sanctuary, overflowing as all his spaces were with the miscellany of travel and study and exotic subjects.
“Will Spain land?” she asked bluntly.
“Yes.”
“When and where?”
“The stars do not tell me dates and times, Your Majesty.”
“If they did, would you have warned Philippa Courtenay of her death?” She hadn’t known she was going to ask that.
“Philippa Harrington,” Dee corrected mildly. “And she needed no warnings from me. That was one woman who knew absolutely what she was about. England will have cause to be grateful for that before this summer ends.”
“If you are going to tell me that I should be grateful for her death—”
“She was the one who encouraged Her Highness to go north, did she not? And she served your daughter well in that wary landscape. That goodwill is necessary for the looming fight. You and your daughter created a pretty picture of estrangement these last years—and Spain has fallen into the trap. They will land in the North. And then England will need all her people, of whatever faith, to fight under one banner. If that fight is won, it will be in no small measure thanks to Lady Philippa’s wisdom.”
“And the fight in the South? Will I be equal to this, Dr. Dee? Will my sacrifices for England be enough?”
He took her hands in his, a comforting gesture that Elizabeth allowed to so few people these days. “Your Majesty, do you know what I see when I look at you? I see the young woman I first knew, one with confidence in herself and her country. You were blessed with extraordinary abilities, Elizabeth. As Mordecai said to Esther—‘Who knoweth whether thou art come into the kingdom for such a time as this?’?”
As their eyes met, Elizabeth felt chills run through her arms and fingers where he held them. She remembered the first time they’d met: she’d had a queer sense of doubleness, a certainty that as he was speaking to her then, he would also speak to her in the future, guiding her, telling her how to save England.
And here it was. As though he followed every turn of her thoughts—as probably he did—John Dee smiled. “You wish to save England? Then be yourself. That will always be enough for your country.”
She left him that night with the assurance she had so desperately needed. Dominic was on his way south to take back his command, and Minuette would come with him.
It seemed fitting that the three of them would stand together at the end.
—
By the time Anabel’s party reached Berwick, she felt as though she had aged several years. Judging by Kit’s face, he felt the same. He had lines carved around his eyes and mouth that might never vanish, and a faraway expression that echoed Pippa at her most otherworldly. He had limited himself to only the most necessary communications and shut himself away from even Anabel at night. She herself coped much as her mother would have done—by meticulously anticipating everything that might possibly happen when she reached Berwick. She kept up a voluminous correspondence while on the move and so knew that Lord Hunsdon had reservations about the ability of his March garrisons to stand against a serious Spanish landing.
Within an hour of their arrival, he reiterated that point in a concise manner. “The borders have been underfunded for many years, Your Highness. I know how stretched the government is, but goodwill alone cannot conjure more men or arms out of thin air.”
Anabel paced the length of the spartan chamber, meant for war councils such as this. How many times, she wondered, had Berwick Castle seen war? Too many to count, considering how often it had changed hands between Scotland and England. For more than three hundred years violence had stalked Berwick—now it threatened the greatest deluge yet.
“I thought the Earl of Arundel had committed his resources to our side,” she said. For that had been the most surprising news along the way—not only had Arundel pressured the Spanish to sail out of Hull once Navarro was captured, but he had then agreed to do more than remain neutral.
“He has, and Arundel comes with several hundred men of his own. His name and persuasion might bring us another few hundred from the Catholics. But the approaching Spanish ships carry at least five thousand men—and they are funded by New World gold. They can afford to land in several places, and we cannot keep all of them from breaking out. And if once they reach the Midlands…”