EIGHT

Nicolas’s customary life at Blanclair since 1572 had been one of solitude and contemplation. Not a natural state, and one to which he had only disciplined himself from sheer necessity. He had become a reader these last years, though he knew himself for only a dilettante scholar. Though he could still ride and hunt and hawk, he’d found less pleasure in physical activities after St. Bartholomew’s Day. Each one served in some way as a reminder of what he’d lost.

With Julien in residence this summer, at least Felix stopped pressing him to come to the practice yard. With Julien in residence, the child paid not the least attention to his father.

That was hardly a new experience. Julien had always been the more engaging of the two, the more openhearted, the more likely to make friends. It hadn’t bothered Nicolas when they were younger because he had plenty of companions of his own and ways to pass the time. After Paris, there had been several very bad years, but then Nicolas woke up to his new life and found new means of entertaining himself.

And now here was Lucette, going out of her way, it seemed, to entertain him.

In her second week at Blanclair, Nicolas spent part of each day with her. What might have been merely a chore was actually something close to a pleasure. If only this were before Paris, he might have seriously considered proposing to her. He could never entirely predict what she would say or how she would respond, and after eight years spent with so few people, Nicolas took great delight in the unexpected.

On Thursday the sixteenth of June, Nicolas invited his son to ride with him and Lucette on an afternoon excursion. The boy could hardly contain his excitement, only slightly dampened when informed that his uncle Julien had work to do and would not be accompanying them. (Nicolas knew that work of his brother’s would involve being shut up in his chamber writing mysterious letters to mysterious people for a mysterious purpose. Though not so mysterious to Nicolas.)

“Very well,” Lucette said with spirit as they rode out of Blanclair, “where is this surprise tour taking us today?”

Felix looked to his father to confirm, and Nicolas nodded once. With a near-shout of joy, Felix burst out, “We’re taking you to Fleury Abbey!”

Nicolas didn’t know why he was so excited. Though, with Lucette to ride next to, Felix would probably have taken similar joy in simply circling the stables for several hours.

The purpose of the afternoon wasn’t really the abbey, though Nicolas was never less than perfectly prepared and had a host of stories with which to entertain her. The purpose was to insinuate himself further into Lucette’s graces, and to glean as much about her family and England as she could be manipulated into sharing.

It was only four miles to the abbey—a distance they could easily have walked—but the brief ride was enlivened by Lucette’s intelligent questions and seemingly genuine interest in their destination. Nicolas told their guest of the founding of the Benedictine abbey, and of how the bones of St. Benedict himself had been brought there in the seventh century from Monte Cassino.

“That’s how the abbey and the town got its name,” Nicolas pointed out. “St. Benedict on the Loire,” he pronounced in careful English. Then again in French, “Much of the building is Romanesque, but there was a good deal of damage inflicted by the Huguenots in 1562. Still, it is true that England’s abbeys suffered destruction on a far greater scale,” he ventured, willing to prick her Protestant heart a bit.

“So they did,” she agreed. “It is a pity that beauty cannot be considered safe from sectarian violence. Still, better to lose art and architecture than lives. England at least has not had religious massacres.”

And clearly she was willing to prick right back. Nicolas inclined his head in acknowledgment of the hit and changed the subject. “I understand your parents are at court just now. An unusual event, as I recall.”

“Yes.”

“And your siblings?” Though he knew perfectly well where all three of them were.

“Stephen is at Tutbury, with Queen Mary Stuart. Kit and Pippa are also at court with my parents.”

“But principally in attendance on the Princess of Wales, no? I remember how close the three of them were, even as little children. I could never be certain who was the most mischievous—your brother Kit, or Princess Anne.”

That wrung a smile from her. “They incite each other in the worst way. At least Pippa is levelheaded enough to keep them from the worst excesses.”

“And do you think it a good idea that the princess is kept so separated from her own father?” Nicolas didn’t really know where he was going with this line of questioning. He trusted that anything Lucette said of importance would make itself known.

For some reason, this last question displeased her. With a slight stiffening, Lucette replied, “Fathers and daughters are always complicated. Who can say if their relationship might not be the better for the distance?”

He lapsed into silence after that, allowing Lucette to draw Felix into delighted conversation. He could not care less about Anne Tudor’s relationship to her father, except insofar as her birth made her valuable. And because of that value, the princess would always be closely guarded. The man who could manipulate the nature of that guard…that man would hold a critical piece of European power in the balance.

They made a quick tour of Fleury’s highlights: the eleventh-century Tour de Gauzlin, the square tower built by the abbot who was also a bastard son of King Hugh Capet; the Gothic north portal with its black pointed arch and stunning reliefs; the spacious sanctuary with its Roman mosaic floor in polychromatic marble; and the tomb of King Philip I and the shrine of St. Benedict himself.

On the return ride, Nicolas dropped all politics and history and simply made himself agreeable to Lucette. He might not have used those skills on a lady like herself for many years, but he had not forgotten. His charm was not as natural as Julien’s, but it sufficed to bring colour to her cheeks and no doubt remind her that she had once thought him the very pinnacle of male perfection.

That she had been ten years old then hardly mattered—he knew how to play on a woman’s emotions.

But all that playing left him in an uncomfortably aroused state. When they returned to the chateau, he ate alone at a small round table in his bedchamber, then wrote two letters for his personal groom to hand deliver to Paris. After midnight, when he was sure the household was mostly sleeping, he sent for Anise.

The girl was country-pretty with her fresh skin and natural figure. Nicolas had anticipated her assignment to attend Lucette and begun cultivating her several weeks in advance. Now the maid was all too ready to gossip between kisses. About Lucette’s curiosity. About her questions concerning the family…but mostly Julien. And most intriguingly, about the casket Lucette kept in the bottom of her trunk. Anise had been frankly shocked to discover it contained a dagger. Nicolas had been less shocked.

The maid would be useful for a time. And when she wasn’t? Nicolas had ways of ridding himself of women who got too near.

19 June 1580

Hampton Court

We leave the day after tomorrow for Portsmouth to await the Spanish. I would prefer not to make the trip, since all will return here soon enough, but Elizabeth has asked me to come. For her sake. “I had to go to Philip without you when I married him,” she said plaintively. “Because Stephen was an infant at the time,” I retorted, but she had wrung my heart and so I agreed.

Just as well to keep an eye on the twins—or really, to keep an eye on Kit. Pippa was born wise, a trait she surely did not inherit from me. And also I will go for Anabel’s sake, though she has not asked me. She is high-strung, like her mother, and vulnerable, like her uncle. I have loved her dearly from her birth, and if my presence in the background is a comfort, I am happy to provide it.

Besides, it will keep me from fretting about my older children. Lucie has written only twice since leaving Dover, dutiful letters that break my heart with their courtesy. I have written to her, of course, but I have also written to Renaud, asking him to use his judgment and perhaps speak to my daughter of the pain she has carried since Elizabeth gave her that damned necklace of Tudor roses.

Stephen writes more often and warmly, but no less evasively than Lucie. Whatever he is truly doing at Tutbury, I do not think it confined to playing gracious attendant to Mary Stuart. Whenever I see Walsingham at court, I eye him balefully and wonder what games he is up to with my son.

Life was much simpler when I was the one conspiring with powerful men and women. But then, I knew everything when I was twenty. Don’t we all?

Julien was finding it seductively easy to enjoy himself at Blanclair and forget about the many balls he traditionally juggled in Paris. Another reason not to come home, his professional mind scolded. But since he was here—and, as far as the Catholics were concerned, on legitimate business—he let himself be lulled into the pleasures of a simple life. Family, home, gardens and horses, swordplay and swimming with Felix. They were headed to the river for the last when Renaud delayed his second son.

“A word, Julien?”

His hesitation was, he hoped, unnoticed. “Of course. Felix, I’ll meet you in the Sun Garden in a quarter hour.” He was relieved when his father did not correct the timing; he could endure anything for a quarter hour.

When had his father’s company become something to be endured?

Renaud seemed to be asking himself the same question, for once they were in his study, he began, “You should come home more often. Blanclair has been a livelier place this summer.”

“I’m flattered that you think me the reason, but surely all the credit goes to Lucette.”

And just like that, his father had gotten him to speak of her. Julien could see from Renaud’s expression that he was satisfied, and perhaps also wary. “I know you agreed to come for Charlotte’s sake, but to all appearances you are glad enough to stay for Lucette’s sake.”

This could get dangerous very quickly. Julien picked his way with care. “She is engaging in her English way.”

“Since when do we speak to each other in such formal terms, Julien? I have never seen you look at a woman the way you look at her. I would like very much to be glad of it, if only I am assured your interest is serious.”

“Isn’t that a question her father should be posing?”

“I stand here in his place, as you perfectly well know. I don’t know entirely why Lucette agreed to come here—nor do her parents. But we all suspect it was not her sole purpose to snare a husband. Still, if you are serious about her, then I would caution you to be certain of her feelings before proceeding further. She most definitely has a mind of her own.”

“Why, Father, are you worried about a mere girl hurting my pride? How very strange. I can take care of myself, thank you. But your concern is noted.”

“Is it? Then add to my concerns the fact that Nicolas is also eyeing her with more interest than is wise. If you’re only trying to torment him, using Lucette, then don’t. I do not want her caught between the two of you trying to best the other. Is that clear?”

“I promise not to mix up Nicolas and Lucette. I think I can keep my intentions toward each straight in my mind.”

Unfortunately for Felix, Julien’s mood had been spoiled by his father’s warnings. The poor boy kept trying to engage his uncle in his water horseplay, but Julien could not stop thinking of Nicolas and his interest in Lucette. That could not come to a good end, for anyone. And was it fair for Julien to take advantage of his brother’s misfortune, when that misfortune lay at his very own feet?

After a half hour in the river Felix gave up and the two of them threw on shirts and breeches soon made damp, hair tousled dry by rough linen. Julien repented his abstracted mood and, in a sudden fit of playfulness, tackled the boy into the high grass. “You’re it,” he called, then took off running.

Felix bolted after him like a colt, and Julien took care to be caught now and again. Thus laughing and damp, they ran into the low-bordered rose garden and straight into Lucette.

She was reading a letter, and shot to her feet, dropping the pages. Julien stopped dead, staring like an idiot. Only Felix kept his composure, gathering the pages and returning them with a bow.

“Pardon, mademoiselle,” he said. “You will forgive our appearance, but we have been swimming.”

“Yes, I see,” she said, that telltale flush colouring her cheeks.

Julien swallowed. How could he not think of anything to say? Being quick with his tongue was his stock-in-trade. Finally, he managed to stammer out, “News from home?”

“Mmmm.”

He knew that noncommittal sound—he’d made use of it plenty. It meant one did not want to answer the question.

Once again Felix was quicker than his uncle. With a worried tilt of his head, he said, “Are you quite well? You look…” He trailed off politely. Even at seven years old, a Frenchman knew better than to utter anything but compliments about a lady’s appearance.

Lucette did look distracted. Flushed, as he’d already noted. And as though she could not look him in the eye.

“I am not feeling well,” she said. “I believe I have a sick headache coming on. Perhaps I’ll retire now and miss dinner. I’m sure a good rest will see me better tomorrow.”

She threw a general, determined smile in their direction before retreating rapidly. Julien’s wits began working in direct proportion to her increasing distance, and so did his cynicism.

You’re lying, Lucie, he thought. Whatever the reason for locking yourself in your chamber tonight, it is not because of a headache.

—

The Spanish ships anchored in Portsmouth on June twenty-fourth, a day of near-Mediterranean sunshine and a freshening breeze that blew the sea-salt scent to where Anabel stood on an open balcony of her grandfather’s Southsea Castle. In a few minutes she would be expected to appear at her mother’s side to welcome King Philip, but for now she let her heart be tugged toward the impressive ships and bright Spanish colours. It was the nearest to sentiment she could allow herself, for it would not do to show weakness in the coming days.

She could feel Pippa two steps behind her, Kit silently at his twin’s side. Kit wasn’t often silent, but he knew how to choose his moments, and more than anyone on this earth her two dearest friends knew how Anabel had longed as a child for her father’s presence.

In her eighteen years, she had passed less than a thousand days total with Philip, some of that when she’d been just an infant. Since then the King of Spain had made only two protracted visits to his English wife and daughter—in 1570 and 1575. Looking back, Anabel could recognize that both those visits had less to do with her and more to do with attempts to breed another child, but she’d been too delighted when young not to believe Philip’s sole interest in England was his daughter.

Usually it was Pippa who said the instinctively right thing, but today Kit approached her and said softly from just over her shoulder, “I feel sorry for him, Anabel. His Majesty of Spain is about to be confronted with the most beautiful princess in Europe. The shock of what he cannot regain will be, I imagine, very painful.”

Anabel reached back with her left hand and Kit grasped it, quick and reassuring. “Time to go, Your Highness,” he murmured, and Anabel turned away from the ships and braced herself for the game that was about to begin.

For once, her mother had waited for her before entering the hall. She flicked a glance over Anabel—from hair dressed intricately at the crown, then falling loosely down her back to the blue and silver gown edged with pearls—and nodded once.

“Adequate,” Elizabeth pronounced, then nodded to the steward that they were ready.

Elizabeth herself wore a cloth-of-gold gown studded with gems, a cartridge-pleated ruff so stiff and wide her head seemed entirely separate from her body. It was a dress meant both to proclaim her position and reinforce her solitude. It was the dress of a queen meeting the king of a not-entirely friendly nation, not that of a wife reuniting with her husband.

Kit and Pippa had already joined the crowd, and Anabel felt a moment’s piercing solitude as she followed her mother to the two thrones side by side—one beneath the colours of England, the other beneath the arms of Spain—and the slightly plainer chair with curved arms set defiantly at the queen’s side.

They did not sit, yet, for it would be another quarter hour before the Spanish arrived, and Elizabeth kept her close as she conversed with the Earl of Shrewsbury and Sir William Paulet. Anabel would have preferred her own circle, but was this not what she had been pressing for—to be at the center of court life? She could hardly complain about getting what she wanted.

At a signal from the attendants, Elizabeth proceeded to her throne, where she stood for a moment—not so much studying the crowd as allowing herself to be studied. With a graceful movement, she sat, and Anabel gratefully took her own seat. She was cross to discover that she was trembling.

Not exactly a private family reunion, though those invited to witness it were few, only three dozen of the court’s most important. (Besides Kit and Pippa, whom even Elizabeth rarely tried to exclude, as though she also thought of the three of them as a single unit.)

And then the doors at the far end were opened and Lord Burghley preceded the Spanish entourage.

Anabel’s first impression was that Philip had aged more rapidly than Elizabeth, though logically she knew it was only that she had seen him so infrequently. Considered objectively, Philip was an upright figure, unmistakably royal in bearing apart from the understated luxury of his deep black clothing. His light brown hair, once noticeably tinged with red, was now sprinkled liberally with white, but not to his detriment. He had the same mustache and pointed beard she had always known, and she had to bite down hard to keep tears from forming.

She did not, of course, come first. Where another father might impulsively swing into his arms a daughter he hadn’t seen in five years, this was a family of royals. Her father did fix his eyes on her as he came up the hall, and she flashed him the briefest of smiles.

Then Elizabeth stood, in a nicely judged piece of theater, and took the last two steps to greet her husband. “You are most welcome, Your Majesty.”

Philip gave a low bow and his English was perfectly serviceable. “It is my great pleasure to return to England, Your Majesty.”

As her parents faced off, both clever and calculating and forever wary of each other, Anabel knew that she would do everything in her power to keep from being married to a king. She did not want a marriage of balanced equals, always pushing against each other for the advantage. Better to marry a man who would owe everything to her, for then at least there would be a chance of personal affection—or at least a good imitation of it.

Then it was her turn. She had stood, naturally, when her mother did. Now her father stepped to her and gently lifted her hand to his lips. “Cielita,” he said, “I have counted the hours until this day for many years. My heart could not be happier.”

As a royal princess born, Anabel knew how to accommodate two states of being at once. Just now there was an undeniable burst of little girl pleasure that her father loved her. But that did not discount the calculation that was as much a part of her parents’ legacy as her hair or eye colour.

Philip felt guilty at his years of absence. And a father who felt guilty might be manipulated into giving more than he meant to.