“She doesn’t do it to be kind. She writes to you because you matter to her.”
“Anabel writes to me because I am not her mother. Because as much as she cares about me, I am not the one whose good opinion matters most to her. She can afford luxuries such as being imperfect with me.”
“Is that pity speaking?” Elizabeth snapped.
“It is experience,” Minuette retorted a touch sharply. “You are the one Lucette turned to, prickly as she was, during her years of uncertainty. Because our daughter loved us too well, and was afraid of being hurt by that love. Also, admittedly, a person at one remove can often see more clearly. You knew that Lucette needed the truth. Not that I will ever agree with the way you went about it. But you read rightly her need for facts.”
“And what do you read rightly of Anabel’s needs?”
“Her need to be useful. She will be a symbol on your behalf, as she must, but to be a symbol without a purpose will slowly kill her spirit. Let her be useful, and she will thrive.”
“Fair enough. Then I will advise that, when Stephen returns from Ireland, you encourage him to take up residence in his Somerset holdings. He has been well trained, now he must be independent. He is not Dominic.”
“I know that.”
“But he must be made to feel that you know it. Everyone he ever meets is comparing him to his father—and Dominic is a most difficult man to live up to. I will let my daughter be useful if you will let your son be free.”
“Since when does a queen make bargains?”
“Only with you, my friend. Don’t let it go to your head.”
—
The morning of Anabel’s formal investiture as Princess of Wales began with Pippa dropping a letter and a package on her bed. “If you don’t get up, it’s entirely possible your mother will change her mind and keep all the honours for herself.”
“Too late,” Anabel yawned, propping herself up as Pippa, a brocade sleeveless gown over her nightdress, settled herself on the bed as well. “Now that I’ve been formally introduced to foreign representatives desiring my marriage, she can’t put me back under lock and key.”
“And what do we think of Jehan de Simier?” Pippa teased.
Anabel teased right back. “What should I think? Any guidance from my personal seer?”
“Nothing you cannot see for yourself. He’s entertaining, but I suspect quite clever behind it. Make no mistake, he’s taking notes for Anjou. And for all his time spent with your mother, you are the one he’s noting.”
“Hmmm,” Anabel mused. She had thought herself prepared for this business of suitors, approaching the matter as she did everything in her life—with study and preparation. But meeting Jehan de Simier and hearing stories of his friendship with the Duc d’Anjou had been a something of a jolt to her sensibilities. A reminder that this matter of political suitors would end in the most personal of ways—in the marriage bed.
Anabel shivered this morning as she thought of the more intimate matters of taking a husband…and beneath the shivers, a memory of hazel eyes locked on hers across a chamber smoky with tension and threatened violence.
She shook her head and picked up the package. “What’s this?”
“For luck.”
It was a book, old and fragile in its binding. De Libero Arbitrio—On Free Will—by Erasmus. “An original edition from 1524,” Pippa told her. “Lucie had Dr. Dee find it for you. Seems fitting for your future.”
Anabel hugged her friend, wishing for a moment they were no more than friends, that there wasn’t an entire kingdom holding its breath behind these doors waiting for her.
But the regret lasted only a moment. She would never give up her rights and responsibilities. Not for anyone.
Pippa handed her the sealed letter, raised and uneven as though enclosing something besides paper.
“Words of lavish praise?” Anabel asked. “Wise counsel for my new formal position?”
“I don’t know. It’s not from me.”
Pippa said nothing else. She didn’t have to. Anabel broke the anonymous seal and opened the pages. Out fell an oval badge, made to hang on a bracelet or ribbon around the neck. The white enamel was branded with a dark green panther in rampant position.
A panther for Anabel, Pippa had declared—more than ten years ago, wasn’t it? A summer at Wynfield Mote as a child, at ease with the Courtenay children as she was never at ease elsewhere. Fierce but loving.
The three of them—and it was nearly always the three of them, as though Anabel were as much part of the twins as they were of each other—were assigning heraldic symbols to one another. Pippa chose Anabel’s. Then Kit had chosen—what else?—an owl for his eerily wise sister. And then it was Anabel’s turn to anoint Kit.
A raven, she pronounced, having spent time studying the meanings of various birds. She’d thought at first a cock, for what boy didn’t want to be known for courage and readiness to fight? But then she’d come upon the raven. One who makes his own fate, and is ever constant by nature. Anabel was clever for nine years old, but mostly she just liked how it sounded.
Only half aware of Pippa silently next to her, Anabel picked up the sheet on which Kit had written in his surprisingly neat strokes.
A panther for fierceness, green for hope. May you have all that you have ever hoped for, Princess. Your raven stands ever constant at your command.
For one moment she let herself be tugged by memory—then fiercely shoved it back. Clearly Kit was not constant at her command, or he would be here today.
She dropped the badge and letter on the bed and shoved her way free of the covers. “Time to begin,” she announced.
The day unfolded in a series of perfectly planned and executed moments. Anabel knew the power of symbols and the importance of ritual to a kingdom’s people, and was somewhat surprised at her own peaks of emotion during their display. Draped in a mantle of crimson, long hair flowing loose down the back, she knelt before the Queen of England (the mother in Elizabeth held firmly in the background at this moment) and received the Honours of the Principality of Wales.
The gold ring for duty, the golden rod for good government, and the sword that symbolized justice. Then the coronet to herald her new, officially invested rank. It was old, by far the oldest item among the Honours. The Talaith Llywelyn had belonged to the last native Welsh prince; after Llewelyn’s death in battle in 1284, Edward I had brought his crown to London and kept it with the other royal jewels and regalia. The iron coronet was of a curious design, more like a cap than a crown, the gold plating Edward had given it burnished and roughened by centuries, so that dark iron drew the eye beneath the old gold. It was heavy, but Anabel could swear it was not the weight of the iron she felt, but the very weight of her future as Elizabeth placed the coronet on her head.
Then, for just a moment, it was simply her mother looking at her with pride and complete and utter understanding. No one on earth could understand like Elizabeth the weight of ruling as a woman, and Anabel felt that there were only the two of them present as she spoke the formal words of fealty. “I, Anne Isabella, Princess of Wales, do become your liege of life and limb and of earthly worship, and faith and truth I will bear unto you to live and die against all manner of folks.”
Speeches to the crowd followed, including Anabel’s, delivered in flawless Welsh. No nerves at all, for she had prepared meticulously for all the moments of this day.
Except for those few that pulled at her heart. Such as when her mother, before the feast that evening, presented her with a locket ring of the same design she herself wore. The impossibly tiny miniatures in the clasped oval on Elizabeth’s thin gold band were of Elizabeth and her mother, Anne Boleyn. Now, she presented Anabel with images of the two of them. Anabel blinked, surprised by gratitude and love, and her mother moved smoothly on so that the moment did not become uncomfortably emotional.
Then there were the embraces and whispered words of pride from Minuette Courtenay. Anabel could never think of her as Lady Exeter, howev
er formally she might address her in public, and next to her mother there was no woman whose good opinion she cared more for in this world. Dominic did not embrace her, nor whisper. Instead, he said clearly, “Even more than your mother’s, I am yours to command, Your Highness.”
Your raven stands ever constant at your command.
It was Kit who shadowed her through the day and into the night. Kit she kept turning to for comments, Kit whose honey-bronzed hair was like no one else’s, Kit whose laughter and unfailing friendship Anabel missed so much she could hardly bear to think on it.
She wanted Kit back, whatever it took. Which meant she had to acknowledge the truth of why he’d left.
He’d left because of her. Because of what had happened at Wynfield Mote a year ago, when she and Lucette Courtenay had been held hostage by a Catholic troublemaker. It had been Kit who walked into the hall of his family home with the necessary information to have Anabel released. And when he’d walked in, those clear hazel eyes of his had locked on her with an intensity that stole her breath far more than fear ever had. It was the tension of…
Why balk at the word? The tension of love. Not the love of a childhood friend, or of a subject for his future queen. There was nothing political or calculated or planned to that emotion—it simply existed. Kit loved her. She had known it in her bones at that moment.
And ever since, she had been pretending not to know it.
Kit had made it easy for her, she could see that now. Kept his temper when she’d raged at him for not doing what she wanted, refusing to back down when she insisted he stay in England and serve her. She would never have guessed he could be so self-sacrificing. And while he said nothing, she had pretended to believe it did not lie between them.
Because if she once admitted Kit’s love, then what might happen to her? If she once allowed herself to think of it, what might she feel?
There were some commands even a queen could not give. Stop loving me, for instance. Stop getting in my head and making me remember your eyes and your laugh and how you are the one I look for a dozen times a day.
Kit might be hers to command, but she was not his to love. Not ever.
—
For five days following her daughter’s investiture, Elizabeth’s government and court life was centered on Ludlow Castle. It was a testing period, to see how the Princess of Wales’s household could work with the queen’s without too wide an audience to comment on every moment of friction between them.
But some matters required still more privacy. Such as meeting with her niece, Nora Percy. Elizabeth welcomed the girl into an alcove off her bedchamber that had been set up for the queen to read and write in solitude.
It was always a bit of a shock to realize how much Nora looked like her mother. She might have been Eleanor reborn, with blonde hair and catlike brown eyes…except that Nora had none of her mother’s blatant sensuality and aggressive charm. Those traits had brought Eleanor into a king’s bed when she was only eighteen and had kept her alive through multiple changes of fortune.
Elizabeth much preferred Nora’s reserve, and she smiled now with a fondness few ever received from her. “Did you enjoy Ireland?” she asked.
“A little.”
“Not sorry to leave your mother behind?”
Nora, whatever she felt, could never be brought to openly criticize Eleanor. “She will do well enough without me at Kilkenny.”
“I assume that means your wishes are unchanged?” Elizabeth queried.
For the first time, Nora lost a little of her self-possession. “I do not…No, Your Majesty. I have nothing to ask differently.”
Nine years ago, the eighteen-year-old Nora had been a shy girl newly come to court after a quiet life with a musician uncle in Yorkshire. For the daughter of two such personalities as Eleanor Percy and William Tudor, Nora had kept to herself to a surprising degree and Elizabeth had quickly dismissed the girl as weak.
Until that weak girl had requested a private audience and asked the queen—her aunt—for a favor. “My mother has been matchmaking since I was little,” Nora had said calmly. “She would have married me off long since if it were not that your consent is also required.”
“And you have a particular young man to whom you would like me to give consent?” Elizabeth had asked, a little amused.
“I do not wish to marry, Your Majesty,” Nora had answered. “I would ask you to refuse consent to all who might ask in the coming years.”
And so Elizabeth had done, a little bemused but willing to grant what cost her nothing—and what displeased Eleanor in the bargain. Ten times in the last seven years Elizabeth had refused men who had wished to claim Nora.
Now Elizabeth studied the girl—woman, she corrected herself, for Nora was twenty-seven, though she looked younger—and wondered if she had finally met someone capable of changing her mind.
But if she did not wish to say, Elizabeth would not force the issue. “May I take it you are not interested in returning to Ireland?”
“I would prefer to return to York for a time, Your Majesty. My uncle Jonathan is ill. It would be a comfort to us both for me to go home.”
“As you like,” Elizabeth said. She did not add that Nora would be missed, for truthfully the woman moved through life with a delicacy that seemed to leave little imprint behind her. Though she had come to know this niece of hers well enough to recognize that was a deliberate choice on Nora’s part.
With personal business completed, Elizabeth turned her attention to the more practical matter of judging how smoothly her daughter’s household and council functioned. It did not take long to appreciate how well Anabel’s treasurer worked as a liaison between households. Which made sense, since he’d been trained by Lord Burghley. But Matthew Harrington also came from the Courtenay household. Elizabeth had known his mother, Carrie, since she’d become Minuette’s personal lady almost thirty years ago. During those turbulent times, Elizabeth had often had cause to give thanks for Carrie’s steadiness and loyalty when Minuette most needed it. Matthew’s father, known to most simply as Harrington, had once been in Lord Rochford’s service but took to Dominic Courtenay as though the two men had been meant to work together since birth. Elizabeth couldn’t truly say she knew Harrington—she doubted anyone but Carrie and Dominic could say that—but he had been a godsend in keeping Minuette alive during the months William was determined to kill her.
Matthew Harrington, an only child, was twenty-two, brown-haired and calm-featured like his mother, tall and solid like his father. His mind had been well sharpened by his studies at Oxford and in Burghley’s household this last year. Every morning at Ludlow, he attended upon Burghley and whichever council members were present that day for a sort of daily overview of events and expectations. Occasionally Elizabeth herself was present. As she was the day before their planned departure from Ludlow, when a breathless messenger interrupted their discussion on travel plans with a sealed missive for Walsingham.
Her chief secretary and spymaster had a face even Elizabeth had difficulty reading after all these years. But where a man could control his features, he could not always control his colour. Beneath the widow’s peak and pointed black beard, Walsingham’s skin grew ashen as he read.
“What?” Elizabeth demanded.
“Ireland,” he said. “Word from the Earl of Ormond at Kilkenny.”
“Surely the rebels have not so quickly regrouped as to be able to attack in the east.”
“No, Your Majesty. This is of a more…personal nature.”
She raised a single eyebrow. Walsingham was not usually so hesitant. “Do I need to read it myself?” she asked.
“I think, perhaps, we should excuse young Mr. Harrington first.”
There were any number of reasons why a member of Anabel’s household—and a young one at that—would be excused. Matthew took no offense, but there was a quizzical look in his dark brown eyes that Elizabeth felt mirrored in her own.
When it was just Elizabeth, Walsin
gham, and Burghley, she said simply, “Tell me.”
“Stephen Courtenay has been injured and four of his men killed. Not at Carrigafoyle—they were heading to Kilkenny with women and children who’d been taken prisoner. They were ambushed.”
“Will Stephen recover?” It was surprisingly difficult to ask. Life would be so much easier if sentiment were removed from the equation.
“It appears so. But one of the men killed was Edward Harrington.”
She heard Burghley’s indrawn breath and knew she was going to have to say something, but for just one moment she was twenty-four again and desperately trying to save her friend’s life from her brother’s wrath and there was Harrington, ready and willing to take orders from anyone as long as it meant doing what Dominic would have wanted. Elizabeth had ruled long enough to know how rare a quality that was.
Walsingham spoke again. “Shall I inform Lord Exeter?”
“No. Bring them to me, Dominic and Minuette both. I will tell them.”
I will tell them their son who I sent to Ireland is damaged in body and soul. And that the man they sent with him to keep him safe is dead.
20 September 1581
Anabel,
Mother, Lucie, and I arrived at Wynfield Mote last night. Father has gone on to Bristol with Matthew; they are prepared to take ship to Ireland if the boys do not soon cross. I am worried about Matthew. I was there when they told him and Carrie of Harrington’s death and he behaved precisely as I would expect. Every thought now is for his mother’s care and comfort. But he must have sorrow of his own. He would not speak of it. Not even to me.
Pippa
25 September 1581
Anabel,
We’ve had word that Stephen and Kit are expected in Bristol tomorrow. Your mother has sent a contingent of royal guards to travel with them as they bring Harrington home.
There was no question of him being laid to rest anywhere else. Whatever family he had when young, I have never heard him speak of it. It was from Wynfield that he set out all those years ago to protect my mother when the king burned her home—and it is at Wynfield that he must lie.
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