SEVENTEEN

After riding to Portsmouth to bid Philip goodbye, Anne returned to court, which had moved the short distance from Hampton Court to Richmond Palace. Elizabeth had fretted uncharacteristically while her daughter was gone, and for once she did not make haste to remove the princess elsewhere. After the trauma with Philip and the end of their marriage, it was affirming to look at her daughter each day—and to know that she had won.

Not that she let Anne know how pleased she was. Being allowed to remain at court was reward enough, was it not? Besides, there was other news aplenty to keep Elizabeth occupied.

The anger in and against London’s foreign population continued to erupt in intermittent violence. Amidst the usual xenophobic graffiti and smashing of doors and furniture were disturbing undertones of religious dissension. Slurs and taunts against Protestants in general and the queen in particular kept having to be scrubbed off walls. But once seen, such venom could not be unseen.

Walsingham reported on the latest beatings and burnings of property one hot Thursday in July. “It was the Flemish weavers who bore the brunt this time,” he said.

“Is it time to send in troops?” Elizabeth asked, already knowing the answer.

“Not wise, Your Majesty. At least not yet. The last thing we want is to inflame the situation. Better to support the City and London’s mayor for now.” He paused, then added, “More disturbingly, we’ve found Jesuit literature in the houses of some of those arrested. It appears at least some of the instigators have Continental backing.”

“We’ve always known that.”

“Suspected it, yes. But now we have proof.”

“Proof for what purpose—to drag Philip back to England and try him in court? And what would be the charge? Hardly treason, as he is himself head of a separate kingdom. One that is politically and religiously opposed to ours.”

“The danger, as Your Majesty well knows, is that Continental backing means Continental funding. Money talks, and dirty money talks loudest of all.”

“What do you want from me, Walsingham? To let events play out in order to trace the money trail? I have little patience for allowing violence to flourish in my kingdom simply to aid your investigations.”

“What if I told Your Majesty that, among the Jesuit literature, we found several crude badges in the shape of nightingales?”

“I would ask how you can possibly be certain that a crudely shaped bird is a nightingale? Perhaps it is a swan, and is meant to represent my throne.”

Beneath her surface dismissal, Elizabeth was deeply uneasy. She was starting to dream about nightingales, great flocks of them descending from a clear sky to peck at her hair and face. It was irritating. She could not fight dreams; she needed hard information.

“You’ve heard from Dr. Dee?” she asked abruptly. “He and Lucette are set to arrive in Portsmouth in three days.”

“Yes, Your Majesty. Dee tells me that there will be two additions to their party: both Nicolas and Julien LeClerc.”

“Indeed?” Elizabeth pondered that somewhat surprising news. “Could it be that Lucette is actually coming back to England with a proposed husband in mind?”

“Or she intends to deliver the Nightingale mastermind into my hands.”

Elizabeth gave a pointed smile. “Or perhaps she intends to do both. She is a remarkably resourceful girl. Does Dee think she has found the mastermind?”

It was never easy to decipher Francis Walsingham. In sober black, only his white ruff relieving the effect of a man dressed for death, he had a face made for secrets. The deep-set eyes beneath the dramatic widow’s peak of his hair gave nothing away. Not even to her.

“Dee has committed little to writing, which could be for safety’s sake so as not to alert the opposition that we are aware of their plot, or because Lucette herself has not confided much.”

“If it’s a choice between the two,” Elizabeth noted drily, “I tend to favour the latter explanation.”

“You know her better than I do, Your Majesty. It will be interesting to see what occurs when they land in England. I think I shall take my cues from Lady Lucette for the present. Is her father riding to Portsmouth to meet her?”

“No. He is sending his second son to fetch her. Would you like to ride along?”

Walsingham sat pensive, then said carefully, “I think I will let her have her head for now. If she is bringing us the Nightingale mastermind, then she has earned the right to set the immediate direction of events.”

Elizabeth pondered that unusual trust of Walsingham’s. He was addicted to control—whatever he himself did not personally handle, he did not trust. So his wariness with Lucette, she decided, was more likely to do with a wish not to spook a high-tempered noble girl into opposing him rather than because he trusted her intelligence instincts.

She spent the afternoon being entertained by Anne and her coterie of youngsters. It was flattering to have men twenty years younger than herself paying court, even if she was far too intelligent not to be cynical about such attention. But cynical or not, what woman wouldn’t enjoy having her beauty praised and her wit honoured? Though the clumsier of the young men were not so smooth, and thus made it plain they were aiming merely to please their queen.

Of them all, only Brandon Dudley and Kit Courtenay managed to be truly engaging. Brandon, as the gossips had long noted, was very like his late uncle Robert. Of course he did not have the easy familiarity with her that Robert had enjoyed, but he had the same Gypsy-dark good looks, and a dry wit that stung those it targeted without drawing blood—quite.

Kit, on the other hand, was as innately charming as his mother, with a ready smile and sense of mischief that encroached on without quite violating propriety. Of all the young men in her court, Kit was the most familiar with her, a privilege he was quick to exploit.

“You will let Anabel come to Wynfield, won’t you?” he said. “It wouldn’t be summer without her visit.”

“Her Royal Highness has been so eager to come to court,” Elizabeth replied. “Why should I let her retreat from responsibility merely for her own pleasure?”

“But it not just her pleasure,” Kit said. “It is mine…and all my family’s. Besides, if Lucie has finally chosen a husband, you’ll want Anabel’s firsthand account of the excitement.”

“If your sister thinks she has chosen a husband, she may find herself brought up sharply against your parents’ wishes. And mine. Surely she does not think she is entirely at her own liberty in the matter?”

“No,” Kit said ruefully. “But that only adds to the excitement. Lucie can be very stubborn when she’s made up her mind.”

Like Will, Elizabeth thought wistfully. Not that William’s stubbornness in getting his own way had worked to his benefit. All the more reason for her to ensure her own daughter knew perfectly well how to subdue her desires to the greater good of England’s people.

But Elizabeth could never bear to shoot Kit down entirely. Besides, he had a point. She herself meant to travel on progress from the last week of July through August, to escape London’s heat and odors and illness, and she had not anticipated taking Anne with her.

“I will discuss matters with my council,” she told Kit repressively, extending her hand, glittering with jewels, to allow him to kiss it. “And if their approval is acquired, I shall consider allowing the princess to visit Wynfield.”

He kissed her hand with the kind of graceful flourish that had always eluded his father, and said, “You are truly our most gracious and wise queen.”

Even if she knew it for flattery, she was willing to accept the triumph such praises brought.

—

Mary was quite pleased with the progress she’d made with Stephen Courtenay. Knowing something of his family, she did not expect open admiration from him, but he had taken to spending significant parts of each day in her company. He always rode with her, and she made a point of seeking his company and attention while she worked with her ladies at more feminine pursuits.

“Do you not weary of a being in a household of females, Lord Somerset?” she asked archly as she drew her needle through her current tapestry-in-progress, a depiction of Penelope at her own loom, spinning and unspinning day and night until her husband’s return. “I imagine your upbringing was much more masculine.”

“I do have two sisters, Your Majesty, and a mother. I think our household was well balanced between physical and intellectual pursuits. And if I am not myself handy with a needle, I admire those who are.”

“I am, of course, no stranger to physical pursuits,” Mary mused. “I was an excellent huntress, and loved both the pursuit with hounds and falconry. I miss the wider options of my former life greatly.”

“Then you must at least appreciate being allowed to ride. You have not always enjoyed such freedom.”

She shot a suspicious glance at him, but even when bordering on an indelicate subject, Stephen Courtenay managed to look innocent. She decided not to take offense. “It is true that my cousin has occasionally exercised her will against me most unjustly.”

“Unjustly?”

“I am as much a queen regnant as my cousin, and so it is unjust by any law of men to keep me confined. And even more unjust according to God’s laws. You must agree.”

His eyes were opaque, in a way that piqued Mary’s interest. He really was a most handsome young man. “I agree,” he said thoughtfully, “that God’s laws are always just. The difficulty is in how men and women interpret God’s laws. I am inclined to think we see the world as we ourselves are, and not always with the clarity of God’s vision.”

She sighed, and shook her head. “Dear Stephen—may I call you Stephen?” It was a courtesy easily offered, and if he did not look appropriately abashed by her kindness, he did nod at the honour she was bestowing on him by using his given name. “Stephen, do you not know that difficulty is at the very heart of Church doctrine? We must have priests, anointed by God and his earthly representative, the pope. Without that authority, who can we trust? Any man can claim to speak for God. We must listen to those who are rightly ordained.”

“My lady Mary.” It was said so earnestly that Mary forgave the familiarity of the address. In truth, it touched her and reminded her that, despite being thirty-seven, she was still a woman young enough to fall in love. “I have no quarrel with the honest faith of any man or woman. I am quite certain that I do not speak for God, and so my concern will ever be with upholding the life of my queen and the security of this realm of England. Elizabeth would be your friend if you would let her. Why oppose her?”

Because I can, Mary nearly retorted, but that was not entirely true. Because she must, or else be resigned to offending God by relinquishing a position He himself had given her at birth.

And because this time Mary was going to win. One did not give up the game when one was on the brink of triumph.

But she merely smiled that lovely, heartbreaking smile of her youth, and rested her long white fingers on the back of Stephen’s hand. “It is kind of you to trouble yourself about me. I shall remember that always.”

When I am free, she meant. And have it in my power to reward those who were kind.

—

The day after Kit rode out to Dover to bring back Lucette, Anabel talked Pippa into a quiet cruise along the Thames in a pleasure barge. She invited no one else.

There were plenty of guards, of course, and sometimes Anabel felt sorry for them. Caught between her own wish for independence and her mother’s commands to keep her close, she imagined the men had often had cause to curse the two high-spirited women who were the center of England’s political life. A pity for them, she thought, and kept Pippa close enough to her that they could speak without too much being overheard and reported back to Elizabeth. Or Walsingham.

“What do you think of Lucette’s Frenchmen?” Anabel demanded. “Is she going to marry one of them? I cannot imagine why else they would return to England with her.”

Pippa was unusually pensive. “I think the situation is complicated,” she finally ventured.

“Well, she cannot marry them both, so perhaps I’ll enjoy myself flirting with the spare one when I come to Wynfield.”

“You don’t think that might reflect poorly on you?”

“What do you mean?” Anabel asked sharply. There were some privileges even the closest of friends should not take, and scolding her was one of them. “My mother practically demands that men flirt with her. No one thinks less of her for it.”

“You do.”

Anabel’s temper, which slumbered deeply but roused like a dragon—or like a proud Spaniard—announced itself in the tightness of her lips and the narrowing of her eyes. She could feel it pounding in her temples as she said, “Do not presume to tell me how I feel. Ever.”

But Pippa was her dearest friend partly because she could not be cowed by the most royal of furies. “Of course not. You are well able to know your own mind and feelings.”

They remained in huffy silence for a bit, but Anabel could never stay angry with Pippa. “So, my reader of the heavens, is Lucette going to marry one of those handsome Frenchmen or not?”

“If she asks me, I will tell her. Otherwise, it is no one’s business but her own.”

“And presumably one of the LeClerc brothers.”

“Or both of them,” Pippa said softly.

Anabel looked at her sharply, but she didn’t press. Even a royal recognized when Pippa’s limits had been reached. If she tried to press her now, her friend would simply slip through her fingers, all graciousness and laughter but without revealing anything of substance at all.

Time to turn to something less fraught. Like politics. “The queen has asked me to write to Mary Stuart. I do not think her council is in agreement with that request.”

“As James’s mother, I suppose,” Pippa said thoughtfully. “It’s a clever move on the queen’s part—show due deference to Mary’s birth. She’s prickly about her status and always complaining about your mother. I imagine inserting you into the middle is by way of defusing the situation.”

“Do you think so?” Anabel mused. “I rather think I’m more likely to inflame Mary’s pride. Whatever fawning letters I may write, she can never overlook the fact that she is as surely imprisoned as if she were in the Tower. What use will she have for contact with a girl whose only interest is in the son who, in Mary’s mind, should not be King of Scotland? At least not yet.”

“Then you will just have to employ every single bit of your royal charm so that Mary feels she is doing you a favour by allowing you to correspond with her son.”

Anabel raised a skeptical eyebrow. “The son she has not seen since he was a year old?”

“I rather think Mary Stuart is prone to the romantic vision of life, as opposed to the practical. Make it easy for her, Anabel. It costs you nothing and might ease tensions with the Scots queen. And that can only be to England’s benefit.”

They returned to Richmond in a sedate fashion, only to be met at the Richmond Castle pier by a phalanx of grim-faced guards who would not answer questions and practically swept the girls off their feet until they were safely behind several pairs of locked doors. Even then there were no answers forthcoming, and Anabel paced until her feet hurt while Pippa sat silent, turned inward.

At last Lord Burghley entered. He looked tired and every year of his age, lines etched deeply around his mouth. “I apologize, Your Highness,” he said, raising a hand to stop her flow of complaints and worries. “We did not mean to leave you in suspense, but there were measures that needed to be put into place immediately.”

“What measures? What is going on?” Anabel heard her sharpness and knew it for fear.

“An hour ago, there was an assassination attempt on Her Majesty. A pistol at close range, that mercifully misfired. The man has been taken to the Tower for closer questioning, and a search made of the grounds and chambers to ensure there are no others lying in wait.”

Anabel drew a steadying breath. This was not the first attempt on her mother’s life. It was, however, the first time she herself had been in close proximity and part of the immediate aftereffects. She felt almost light-headed with relief and was glad when Pippa put an arm around her shoulder.

“Thank you for your care, Lord Burghley,” Anabel said. “I imagine my mother is even now arguing with Walsingham about whether she is permitted to leave her chambers in the immediate future.”

The Lord Treasurer said wryly, “I wager that is an argument the queen will win. Her Majesty will never allow her movements to be dictated by fear or threats. Tomorrow she will be about England’s business once more. No doubt she will summon you shortly to reassure you herself.”

When Burghley had gone, Anabel looked at Pippa. “Do you still think a few letters to Mary Stuart will ease tensions? As long as there are two queens on English soil, my mother’s life will never be safe.”

—

Elizabeth refused to settle, forcing Walsingham to pace with her as she restlessly circled her privy chamber. She had sent her ladies away after the immediate furor, not wanting to be surrounded by shocked females, and she gave full vent to her displeasure.

“In my own palace, Walsingham!” she raged. “The temerity of the man! To threaten the Queen of England in her own home.”

“Would it have been less offensive if he had shot at you in the street, Your Majesty?” She always knew when Walsingham was annoyed with her; he clipped off the ends of his words and let sarcasm colour his tone.

“Who is he?” she demanded.

“We’ll know more tomorrow. I’ll go to the Tower myself tonight and question him.”

“I want answers,” she ordered. “Answers that can be trusted. How am I to rule if I do not know precisely what my enemies are about?”

“As I’ve long said, information is our most precious asset. If this man is part of the Nightingale Plot, then our need for information grows more acute. May I suggest that when Lucette Courtenay lands in Dover, she be brought to court with the LeClerc brothers? I feel certain that one or both of them has information pertinent to Nightingale. Let us deal with them up front.”

Elizabeth stopped moving and closed her eyes. The bands of a sick headache were making themselves felt around her head, and she had to will herself not to show it. For one brief moment she wished that she didn’t have to deal with this, that she was nothing more than a king’s sister placidly wed and valued mostly for her appearance and wit.

She opened her eyes and looked out at the privy garden, sedate and controlled in its beauty. As she must be controlled. “Very well,” she answered. “Bring Lucette and her trailing Frenchmen to court. Phrase it as a generous offer on our part, to welcome them. Might as well remind everyone that Lucette’s future is very much of interest to me, and you can do whatever it is you do to uncover their secrets. In ten days I leave on progress.”

“What of Princess Anne?”

“I want her out of London,” Elizabeth said flatly. “I will not risk her being confronted by an assassin. She can go to Wynfield Mote. There is no one I trust more than Dominic Courtenay, and Wynfield is easily isolated from outsiders.”

“If one of the LeClerc brothers is involved with Nightingale—”

“Then you must make certain you uncover the danger before Lucette takes either one of them home with her.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Now to deal with the emotional reactions from her daughter and Lucette. All told, Elizabeth would prefer to deal with assassins.