The Virgin's Spy (19 page)

Ailis felt her tension return—but of a kind she had never known. She had not played these sorts of games before, but her instincts seemed to know where to lead her. She laid her hand on his arm and let it slip into a hold. “Then come see the round tower. It's nearly five hundred years old.”

The drystone tower looked as it had for centuries, its entrance high aboveground so that church treasures might be hidden when Viking invaders swarmed the land. Pity, the Normans and the English had not been so easily dealt with. Ailis ran a hand along the stones, almost feeling the pulse of her country beneath her palm.

Stephen watched her. “You said our plans have been brought forward?”

“I don't want to talk about plans,” she said. “Not just yet. I want to celebrate what we have already achieved.”

Ailis watched Stephen survey the church towers and stone outbuildings around them. Though there were people living within the walls of the rock, the Round Tower was deserted. She had chosen her spot well.

“I thought the Irish preferred people and music and drink for celebration,” Stephen observed.

Ailis released his arm and did something she'd wanted to do for weeks—moved her hand to the back of his neck so she could feel his hair brushing against her fingers.

“Stephen,” she said, amazed at her own daring, but it was as if the triumph at Askeaton had loosed something in her, something liquid and warm. She had not been afraid of Englishmen since she was a child—she would not be afraid of this one. “I never knew what it is to want a man. I never had the chance to know. All my thoughts since I was fourteen have been bent on destruction, not desire. I did not think I had it in me.”

He eyed her warily, as Ailis had seen men watch a wild animal to see which way it would bolt, but beneath his wariness were other signs. She might not have personal experience of female desire, but she knew all about men's. Stephen wanted her. But unlike most men, he would be a gentleman about it.

Had he guessed that his English reticence would force her to be so bold?

“Do you not wish to celebrate with me?” She hadn't even known that she knew how to tease a man. Some things must be instinctive.

He had the most glorious smile and his voice had gone low and husky. “Tell me how.”

“Do they not celebrate in England?” One step at a time, drawing ever nearer so that Stephen had to angle his head down to continue looking at her. She was tall, but he was taller. She liked that about him.

“I thought we English were a cold, suspicious race, not given to celebration.”

“Then I shall have to teach you.” Her breath caught as she finished, and she thought she heard his hitch as well. Still he would not move. Fine. As he was still—technically—her prisoner, then she would dare the leap for both of them.

Ailis kissed him.

It was like storm clouds and lightning, freshening sea winds and bursts of spring colours. For half a heartbeat she thought Stephen was merely enduring her touch, but then his arms came around her and everything was wonderfully, vividly alive. She had been a man's mistress when she was barely a woman, had given birth to a child now verging on womanhood herself—and never had she imagined this.

His kisses—nothing at all like Dane's—started at her lips and then trailed along her cheek to her throat. She gasped and he paused.

“Ailis, tell me to stop if—”

“Do you want to stop?”

He groaned. “Not ever.”

“Neither do I.” She wound her fingers through his hair. “Teach me, Stephen. Teach me about joy.”

J
ust as Anabel had grown accustomed to entertaining Anjou, the new player on the stage arrived from Scotland. Esmé Stewart, Duke of Lennox and favourite of the young King James, was an impressive figure from the moment of his arrival at Hampton Court. Forty years old, born and raised in France, Stewart was at the height of his power and attraction. From the first moment, he cast even the royal Anjou into the shade. He was built along elegant lines, slender and fine-boned, but there was no mistaking his masculine appeal. His dark eyes gleamed with appreciation as he bent over Anabel's hand in greeting.

“Your Highness,” he said in a honeyed tone that once would have had Anabel exchanging eye rolls with Kit, “I fear my king will never forgive me for laying eyes on you before he could. But be assured that I am here wholly to speak for James himself.”

“Wholly?” Anabel teased. She had learned the trick of it these last weeks.

“I could not swear that one or two compliments of my own might not slip through. Don't tell my wife,” he added with a conspiratorial wink.

With a laugh, Anabel passed Stewart over to her mother's councilors, who were less likely to be impressed by his manners. They would want to know what was being offered for their princess in terms of cold, hard advantage.

Anabel spent the next few hours attending to her own business matters. Matthew Harrington had proved the wisest choice possible as her treasurer—like Burghley, he had the knack of tying together seemingly unrelated matters and making the most complex transactions clearly understandable in a wider context. They worked well together, and even her mother had commented on how profitably Anabel's investments and estates were faring.

Matthew also had the knack of sticking to essentials. He did not engage in small talk or gossip. So Anabel was taken by surprise when he said at the end of their workday, “I hear that Esmé Stewart is an appealing man.”

“Would you like an introduction?”

His mouth twitched up and Anabel realized how it suddenly lightened her heart to see any sign of happiness. Matthew had always been reserved, but since his father's death there had been an unmistakable oppression to his spirits. “Lady Philippa said that you would like him. That if it were Stewart himself being offered, you might be tempted.”

“She said that? Before or after she went to Spain?”

“Before.”

“Well, unless Pippa offered to find a way to divest Esmé Stewart of his wife and four—or is it five?—children, then there is only James on offer from Scotland. A sixteen-year-old Protestant king, or a twenty-four-year-old French Catholic prince? Which one would be best for my account books, do you think?”

“That I cannot tell you, Your Highness.”

“I suppose I shall have to wait for Pippa's return for guidance. It cannot come soon enough.”

His answer was so quick and fervent, she almost didn't recognize his voice. “I agree.”

Oh dear. How many romantic secrets were being kept around court just now? At least the best that could be said of her situation was that no one in France or Scotland was likely to be brokenhearted whatever choice England made.

The morning after Esmé Stewart's arrival, the queen summoned her daughter for a private tête-à-tête. Anabel had been enjoying the last few weeks so much that she was slow to recognize the purpose behind this particular conversation. They settled into cushioned seats embroidered in a riot of flowers and vines, a table with gingerbread and pear cider in easy reach.

“And how do you like the Duke of Lennox?” her mother asked.

“Does it matter? I am not on offer to Esmé Stewart, but to the king who is young enough to be his son.”

Her mother merely blinked and waited. Anabel sighed. “I would say he is a very good man. Having met him, I believe that his conversion to the Protestant faith is sincere, and not politically motivated. He serves his king well.”

“So he does. And just now, there is no one in Scotland better situated than the Duke of Lennox to offer us the truth of James's intentions. And the truth is, James refuses to discuss any possible bride except you.”

Anabel didn't think she quite matched her mother's air of disinterest. “Of course not. He is determined to have England.”

“Marrying you does not give him England,” her mother pointed out sharply. “There is no question of any husband of yours receiving the crown matrimonial. It will be a marriage of rulers, not kingdoms. Only if you have a son together might the question arise of a united kingdom.”

“Pity for my own father I wasn't a son, then.”

Did that make her mother flinch? Elizabeth had never shown any sign of wishing Anabel had been a boy, but then the queen was excellent at hiding her true feelings.

“It would not have mattered. England and Spain could never be reasonably combined, whatever your sex. But England and Scotland? I suspect that is inevitable.”

“It sounds as though you are decided. I will be betrothed to James, and the Duc d'Anjou will go home. Disappointed in his ambitions.” As for her, Anabel hardly knew what she felt.

“Not so disappointed,” her mother disagreed.

The queen reached for a cup of cider, then drew her hand back. In any other woman, Anabel would have thought it a sign of nerves.

But her mother's expression was one of disinterest as she continued. “I do you the courtesy of informing you first of what I will discuss in council later today. When we announce your betrothal to King James of Scotland, we shall simultaneously announce my own betrothal to Francis, Duc d'Anjou.”

Surprise made Anabel indelicate. “You are twice his age!”

“And has that ever been an issue for a king taking a wife?”

“You are not a king.”

In the furious snap of her eyes, the Queen of England subsumed the mother. “Of course I am! And so must you be. If you are determined to play the child, then you will never be fit to rule.”

All at once Anabel knew precisely what she was feeling. Cold, hard fury. She had controlled her own impulses. She had put Kit out of her mind as best she could. She had submitted to being paraded like a broodmare, to setting her mind to accept men she had no personal attraction to, had allowed herself to believe that sentiment had no place in affairs of royal matrimony. But what was her mother doing if not behaving sentimentally?

With an inward snap that could almost be heard, Anabel completely and thoroughly lost her temper.

“If this is what ruling is,” she said with controlled venom, “then I want no part of it. Announce whatever you wish. With the decision made, you have no need of me to pretend to flirt with men who are not interested in anything other than power. I shall go to Ludlow. When my body is required to seal this arrangement, you will let me know.”

The Courtenay family landed at Portsmouth the first week of August and spent one night at Southsea Castle, where, two years ago, Kit had watched Anabel say goodbye to King Philip for good. It was more of a relief than Kit had expected to set foot on English soil once again, to be surrounded by voices he didn't have to try to understand. Only then did his body relax and he realized how tense he'd been while in Spain. As they rode out the next morning, he whistled a jaunty tune, earning an answering grin from Pippa.

“Feels good to breathe again,” she said. “You were making me nervous all those weeks in Spain.”

“Me?”

“I kept waiting for you to snap at King Philip every time he asked about Anabel. You were like a dog defending its territory—all laid-back ears and bared teeth.”

“What? I didn't…” He floundered, then shrugged his shoulders and asked simply, “Was I that obvious?”

“Only if one were looking for it. And King Philip
was
looking for it, I'm afraid. He might even welcome Anabel's marriage to Scotland or France as long as it keeps you out of the picture.”

“Well, she's not going to marry me, so I'd say Spain has nothing to worry about.”

“Spain has plenty to worry about, almost as much as England. Sometimes I wonder what might have happened if King Philip and Queen Elizabeth had never married each other. I doubt the two countries could ever be friends, but perhaps their enmity would be a little less barbed without the personal aspects.”

Kit shrugged. “What might have happened is of no matter. Only what is. Spain and England are on a collision course. The only question is when and how sharply they collide.”

“Not the only question.”

“What else is there?”

“How prepared we are for the collision. War is coming, Kit. Anyone who's paying attention can see that. All eyes are on Elizabeth and Philip. Anabel is considered little more than a pawn in her parents' games. But I think…” Pippa's voice trailed away, and Kit, turning sharply on his horse to see her face, marked the faraway gaze. The one that always gave him chills.

Then Pippa snapped back into the moment. She met her twin's eyes and said, “Anabel is no one's pawn. She is not simply a piece on the game board—she
is
the game. I have seen it.”

Rarely did Pippa speak so plainly. Kit opened his mouth to question her, but his sister urged her horse forward until she was riding next to their mother. Leaving Kit to wonder just how plain Pippa's visions were.

They spent the second night in Haslemere. News of their arrival had been spurred ahead by faster riders, and they were met along their route the next morning by an anonymous rider carrying a private message from the queen. They encountered him at a hamlet, no more than six houses and a tiny church, and read the message practically on the side of the road.

Kit knew it couldn't be good—the queen would not go to such trouble merely to welcome them back when they were expected at court shortly—and was relieved when the first part proved simply to be word that they'd found the missing Spanish soldiers in Ireland when they'd marched to the relief of Askeaton.

He wasn't sure what that meant for Stephen, but there didn't seem to be any immediate danger to his position.

But it was the last part that made the world collapse inward, two lines that his mother refused to read aloud but mutely passed to her husband and then to the twins.

Anabel has fallen seriously ill with fever. Don't spread the word, but come straight to Hampton Court.

Kit was allowed to ride ahead with a single guard as fast as he could push, while his parents and Pippa followed at a more reasonable rate. He was glad to have his parents' agreement to the plan, but he would have gone on without it. It was not possible to hold back when Anabel was ill. Kit had paused just long enough to pull Pippa aside and ask, “What should I know?”

He probably didn't have to put it to words, for no doubt she could feel his fear as her own, beating through both their bodies like a flood. He couldn't feel her to the same degree, so he needed her to speak.

She wasn't as comforting as he'd hoped, nowhere near as certain as she'd been yesterday. “I don't know, Kit. I think it will be all right, but everything's…I don't know. There's too much in the way.”

The remaining twenty miles to Hampton Court passed in a blur of speed and barely controlled imagination. It wouldn't be smallpox, would it? The queen had fallen ill with smallpox when Anabel was a baby and nearly died from it. Wouldn't she have said if it was smallpox? But no—the queen would not have put anything that inflammatory into writing. The government was controlling the flow of information. That was probably what scared him more than anything. If they were controlling information, it was because they didn't trust people with the truth. Not yet. And that augured ill. The last time information about Anabel had been controlled was when she was held captive at Wynfield Mote two years ago.

He clattered into Hampton Court in as much of a lather as his horse and darted through courtyards and up staircases that were less populated than usual, a fact that increased his tension. Finally he spotted someone who could direct him—Lord Burghley's son Robert—and hailed him.