The Virgin's War (Tudor Legacy #3)(95)
Anabel shut her eyes for a painful moment and grimaced. She had known this moment was coming—despite faint hopes to the contrary.
With a wry attempt at a smile, she opened her eyes. “I have sent a message to King James of Scotland. I expect any hour a return message naming a time and place for a meeting. He has five thousand Scottish troops massed along the border. I intend to return from Scotland with those troops.”
“James knows his mother is on one of those Spanish ships,” Lord Hunsdon warned. “He is afraid of losing Scotland to her.”
“If I must,” Anabel replied coolly, “I will beg.”
James’s reply came that evening, naming the day after tomorrow for a meeting in the Scots border village of Ladykirk. Considering the pride she was prepared to swallow, Anabel made no protest at having to cross the border. The English town of Norham faced Ladykirk directly across the River Tweed and was only eight miles from Berwick. Anabel made the brief trip on horseback with Kit and a contingent of Hunsdon’s troops, prepared to sleep at Norham.
Madalena rubbed Anabel’s temples that night after brushing her hair. The relief of it made her eyes prick with tears, and after a moment the older woman laid a comforting hand on Anabel’s shoulder.
She was not Kit, but it allowed Anabel to sleep that night.
He was with her the next morning, and seemed to actually see her for the first time in a week. Looking her up and down, in her severely cut riding gown of dark blue, he even managed a faint smile. “An appropriate blend of dignity and supplication.”
“Whatever it takes.”
“It will work. I have faith in you.”
She crossed the Scots border for the first time in her life, splashing her horse through the shallowest spot in the river with Kit and two guards as her escort. They were met on the bank by royal guards who with little ceremony directed her to the church itself.
The last time she and James had a private conversation, it was his warning at Carlisle to watch herself with Kit. She had thought of him as a boy then. After all, he was a good four years younger than she was. But the king who greeted her today was no boy. Just turned twenty, James carried himself into this meeting with an assurance that he had the upper hand. For once, Scotland had England right where she wanted her—begging a favour.
“Your Majesty.”
“You may as well call me James. I will not expect my wife to be so formal in private.”
Though it made her uneasy, Anabel nodded. “James. Thank you for meeting with me in such haste. The situation is pressing.”
“Please, sit.” When they had seated themselves at an angle so that each might watch the other, he said, “We are aware of the Spanish ships and their numbers. Will you be able to hold them at Berwick?”
When one had come to beg, there was no point in being coy. “No. We expect them to land troops not only at Berwick, but at Newcastle. Hull, we think, is adequately defended for the moment. But you must know there are a handful of ships threatening Carlisle as well.”
“Since you have a Scots company to help Lord Scrope defend it, I expect Carlisle will stand.”
She did not intend to get into arguments about Maisie Courtenay’s mercenary company. But it warned her that James was in a prickly mood and not minded to be especially generous.
“James,” she said bluntly, “I need your army to protect Berwick.”
“And if Berwick still cannot be held—what troops will I then have left to protect Scotland? For that is one purpose of these northern attacks. I know my mother’s mind well enough to recognize her hand in these landings. If Berwick falls, at least half the Spanish troops will march straight for Edinburgh.”
“Then it is to your advantage to ensure Berwick does not fall.”
After a long and nerve-wracking pause of consideration, James said, “I will agree to march my army to Berwick…on one condition.”
Anabel’s relief was almost instantly swamped by misgivings. Somehow she knew exactly what that condition would be. But she was a Tudor princess. The future Queen of England. Nothing came before her service to her people.
She swallowed. “I am prepared to concede to almost any condition you name.”
James smiled.
—
Within an hour of Stephen’s exhausted squire bringing her the news of Pippa’s death, Maisie left Carlisle Castle with a retinue of those mercenary guards ordered by Stephen to stay with her. Lord Scrope had returned grim-faced from Hull with his men shortly before, with news that the Spanish were sailing to Berwick. This morning reports had come of Spanish ships landing near the Solway. The decision was made to make their stand at Carlisle, which had the benefit of being defensible and also flexible, as it had been besieged dozens of times by the Scottish over the centuries.
Maisie spent a brief, restless night at Penrith and was on the road again by dawn. As her party drew near to Barnard Castle, they were intercepted by her husband.
Stephen was off his horse almost before he reined it in and reached her before she could dismount. She half fell into his arms.
She wished they could sit in silence somewhere and she could comfort him as he had once comforted her in a lonely Irish household after the death of a child. But there was no time. All too soon they had to deal with essentials.
“Tell me about Carlisle,” Stephen said.
“Carlisle itself will hold, unless the Spanish decide it worth their while to expend the men and arms in taking the castle. More likely they’ll leave a small force behind to keep us penned in behind them while the rest march swiftly to join up with the eastern army. Assuming the eastern army is able to land?”