The Virgin's Daughter, page 4
Burghley shook his head, but with a wry look of affection. “Certain it is that you are not afraid to speak your mind, Your Highness.”
“Not to you.” Anabel smiled with all the charm she had learned at Minuette Courtenay’s knee.
“Yes, the topic of your marriage will be foremost in the minds of both Their Majesties. Although not likely to be of the same mind, are they?”
“I don’t suppose either of them is interested in my thoughts on the matter?”
“Indeed, the queen would very much like it if you would write to His Majesty, King James of Scotland. On your own account, you understand, as simply another young royal on this island of ours. No need for promises yet.”
“Not that I am in a position to make promises, am I? That will be a matter for the queen and her council.”
Burghley said gravely, “Yes, Your Highness.”
Anabel stood abruptly, hardly noticing as Burghley of necessity did likewise. She stalked to the window and forced herself to linger there as though studying the view, rather than display the full range of her discontent by continued movement. “What does one write to a child, do you think? James may be king, but he has had even less autonomy than I, thanks to his inflexible councilors.”
“King James is nearly fourteen, Your Highness, and the protectorship ended this winter. Not so much a child.”
Anabel counted to twenty, as Pippa had taught her to do when she longed to lose her temper. Then, with a forced smile of acquiescence, she faced Burghley. “Of course I shall be glad to write to my cousin James. If nothing else, we can commiserate on being surrounded by those determined to live our lives for us.”
Burghley might be fond of her, but he was a committed queen’s man. And he was far too old—almost sixty—to appreciate how difficult it was to be young and vibrant and yet have every moment of every day decided by someone else. He looked rather like a stern grandfather when he said, “Princess Anne, every man—and woman—is born where God wishes them to be. We have no say in that matter, only in how we adorn the position to which we are called. Do not be so quick to dismiss the responsibilities of your life, for they march in hand with your privileges.”
No one other than Burghley could make her feel ashamed…except perhaps the Duke of Exeter. Anabel sighed, then said sincerely, “I thank you for your kind counsel.”
But don’t think I don’t resent it at the same time, she thought. For what royal appreciated being told she was wrong?
THREE
Julien LeClerc threw open the door to his Paris chambers well after midnight, smelling of alcohol and unsavory neighborhoods, and swore once at the sight of the lit candle and the figure sitting calmly in the chamber’s only chair.
“Did I startle you?” Nicolas, in the best tradition of older brothers everywhere, managed to look both amused and disapproving.
“Not remotely.” And it was mostly true, for Julien had been expecting something of the sort since Charlotte’s last letter. He’d known someone would come to try and guilt him personally. He’d even more or less resigned himself to it being Nicolas, for his brother could effortlessly manipulate his guilt to get whatever he wanted.
He had not expected Nicolas to get to his feet and put his hands on Julien’s shoulders, studying his unshaven face intently.
“What are you doing?” Julien wrenched away.
“Assessing how drunk you are. I don’t want to have this conversation twice.”
“How about we don’t have this conversation even once?”
With that pitying smile, Nicolas said, “You don’t know what I’m going to say.”
“Don’t I?” Julien retorted. Then, altering his voice to sound more like his brother’s, he parodied savagely, “ ‘Please come home, Julien, Charlotte’s begging your presence and it’s been two years now, long enough for Father to pretend to have forgiven you for not being there when Mother died and how am I to be the saint when I haven’t a sinner in residence to play off against?’ ”
In the stark silence that followed, Nicolas didn’t falter. He only said, after a moment too long, “If you’re aiming to sound like me, you’ll have to pitch your voice somewhat higher.”
And just like that, Julien was humbled. “I’m sorry, Nic. I am. It appears I am just drunk enough to be offensive but not drunk enough to be incoherent.”
“Well, since you’ve covered my essential arguments for coming home, there is only one point I can add.”
“And that is?”
“We miss you.”
Julien heaved a sigh and threw himself onto the bed. Nicolas returned to the chair and they stared at one another for a long minute until Julien had to laugh. “You always were more patient than me.”
“Which is why I always get my way. Well, nearly always.”
“I suppose if I don’t agree, then my next visitor will be Charlotte?”
Nicolas looked around the chamber, at the unmade bed and clothing dropped in heaps and several unwashed piles of crockery. “If Charlotte sees the way you’re living, she’ll hector you into far more than just one visit home. So if you don’t want to be harassed every day for the next year about living somewhere more decent, then come to Blanclair this summer and make everyone happy.”
“Everyone?”
“Felix cannot wait to see his uncle again. He has not let go of the short sword you sent him for Christmas. He thinks you are something of a cross between a Crusader and an avenging angel.”
“Pity to disappoint him with my presence, then,” Julien said, but it was halfhearted. He did want to see his nephew, who was almost eight years old now. “And Father?” he asked, because Nicolas was waiting for him to ask.
“He’s lonely. Of course he wants to see you.”
Julien scrubbed his hands across his face, feeling the grime that he never seemed able to sluice off entirely in Paris. He thought of Blanclair and its fields and woods and the chateau itself, imbued with childhood and warmth. He rarely let himself think of home because it hurt too much. But maybe Nicolas was right. Maybe it was time.
He ran his hands through his hair and narrowed his eyes at his brother. “What about Charlotte’s plan to marry one of us off to the Courtenay girl?” Charlotte thought she was so subtle, but no one knew her better than her brothers. They could sniff out her matchmaking plots in a second.
“Hardly a girl any longer,” Nicolas pointed out mildly. “Lucette is twenty-two.”
“You know what I mean. You’ll not marry again and I’m hardly suitable marriage material. I hope Charlotte hasn’t got the girl all in a romantic twitter about one or both of us. Well, you, really. You haven’t forgotten how she trailed you around all the weeks we spent in England?”
“Nor have I forgotten how much she disliked you. If Lucette has half as much spirit now as she did when she was ten years old, I think this could be quite an exciting summer.”
“Just so she knows from the first that she won’t be leaving France with a husband. At least not one from Blanclair.”
“No,” Nicolas agreed, and there was a note of wistful longing that made Julien want to swear. Or hit someone. “Try to be polite, Julien. Father is quite fond of her, what with her having been born at Blanclair.”
Julien’s head ached, and it wasn’t from the alcohol. “I’ve said that I’ll come, Nic. I’ll play the penitent nicely for Charlotte’s sake, and for Felix. I will endeavour to be the soul of civility to Lucette Courtenay. Just don’t ask me to be other than I am.”
“A dissolute drunkard possessed of a wicked reputation with women?” Nicolas stood and reached for his cloak. “That’s just a part you play, Julien. I know who you really are.”
Julien shut his eyes and heard Nicolas walk out and close the door. His brother had no idea who he really was—and all the better for him.
—
Nicolas LeClerc hadn’t been to Paris for years, and he found to his surprise that he rather enjoyed the city. He’d stayed away so long under the assumption that there would be too many painful memories of his youth. For all Julien’s behavior now, it had been Nicolas who had been on the path to being—if not a dissolute drunkard—at least well and truly wicked with women.
Everyone had always assumed Julien was the libertine, because he was younger and lighthearted, with a ready tongue and open heart that won him friends everywhere. But when it came down to it, Julien was a romantic. He believed in things like true love and honour—sometimes Nicolas thought his brother should have been born three hundred years earlier. He was not hardheaded enough for the modern world.
Nicolas, however, knew how to appreciate what was in the world around him, not colour it with what he’d like it to be. And in the real world, he was wealthy, he was handsome, and he’d had girls flocking to his bed from the time he was fourteen. Take, for instance, their visit to England a dozen years ago. He had found plenty of pretty girls willing to welcome the two exotic Frenchmen, but Julien had spent the entire time mooning over the Duchess of Exeter. Not that Nicolas could fault his brother’s taste, for she was a truly beautiful woman. But Julien had as much chance of a kiss from Minuette Courtenay as he had of becoming pope—and why waste time dreaming over a woman with a husband as forbidding as Minuette’s when there were plenty of girls willing to help you forget?
Nicolas returned to the LeClerc town house on the banks of the Seine in a much more salubrious neighborhood than Julien’s. Another example of his brother’s mystifying rectitude—he preferred to provide for himself in the gutter rather than make use of their own home. All because he felt guilty: for what he’d done to Nicolas, for the lies he’d told his family these last eight years, for not being at Blanclair when their mother died.
He’d shown up in time for Nicole LeClerc’s funeral mass, making no excuses. Nicolas knew where he’d been and what he’d been doing, but he had let Julien hug his guilt to himself. Nicolas had a better use for that information than confronting his brother.
As he had very good use for Lucette Courtenay’s impending visit.
Before going to bed he wrote two letters at the mother-of-pearl inlaid desk that had belonged to his mother. The first was to Charlotte, assuring his sister that Julien would come home this summer.
The second was addressed to a man whose name was most certainly not the one by which Nicolas called him. She is coming, was all it said.
He smiled to himself. Lucette Courtenay had no idea what she was walking into.
—
The English court took up residence at Greenwich in mid-May, and it was there that Elizabeth received her onetime closest friends, Dominic and Minuette Courtenay. The Duke and Duchess of Exeter, despite their exalted titles and position, spent very little time at court, and Elizabeth had not tried too hard to change that over the years. It wasn’t always comfortable to be around those one had known quite so well in the days before one became queen.
She knew they would come this spring, however, for they had agreed to their daughter’s visit to France, and Lucette would depart from Greenwich with Dr. Dee, bound for Dover. Elizabeth braced herself for Minuette’s suspicious eyes and wary questions about her daughter’s trip, but in the event it was Dominic who asked to speak with the queen. Alone.
When he bowed to her in her privy chamber, Elizabeth felt a moment’s déjà vu rush upon her and remembered how William had always been caught between admiration and resentment of his friend. She quite understood her brother’s feelings now, for Dominic had a way of looking at you as though he knew every flaw in your character.
But he was, at heart, a gentleman and a loyal subject. “Your Majesty,” he said, “you are looking very well.”
“Let us hope my husband thinks the same later this summer. I mean to at least make Philip regret the necessity of divorcing me.”
“You will not protest?”
“I protest only when there is a reasonable chance of success. I’m afraid Philip and I have reached the end of our mutual usefulness to each other.”
“I am sorry for it,” Dominic said, and sounded genuinely as though he was sorry for Elizabeth herself, and not just because the ruler of England was losing the partnership of the ruler of Spain.
Disconcerted, Elizabeth said sharply, “Why are you here, Dominic? You never trouble yourself to come to my court unless it is to scold me about something.”
“I’m afraid that’s the only role I’m familiar with as far as royalty is concerned.” There was a shadow to his voice, and Elizabeth knew he was also seeing her brother, William, before him, young and eager and needing Dominic’s restraining hand.
Elizabeth refused to follow that painful path. “If you’re here to complain about Dr. Dee taking Lucette to France, I’m afraid you’ve left it rather late. They leave for Dover tomorrow.”
“I know. I will ride with them.”
Of course you will, she thought. “But you will not cross the sea with Lucette?” That would rather complicate matters, for Dominic’s sharp eyes and suspicious mind would be hard for Lucette to blind.
“She does not want me.” He said it plainly, almost disinterestedly. “No, I only wanted your personal assurance that Lucette will be well guarded to and from Renaud LeClerc’s hands. There is mischief abroad in Europe these days and some men have long memories. I would not have her hurt merely because she bears my name and the queen’s friendship.”
Not once in seven years had Dominic spoken to Elizabeth of the revelation she had forced upon his family, never openly acknowledged the eruption that must have followed in his own heart. But confronted with his stern, familiar face, Elizabeth felt something she so rarely did that it took her a moment to identify the emotion: guilt.
Just as Dominic had chosen his vocabulary with care in referring to Lucette, Elizabeth did the same in making her promises. “I swear to you that Lucette’s welfare is ever close to my heart. She will be well watched, I promise.”
Dominic’s voice dropped, to a tone no one ever used with Elizabeth. “If she is hurt in any way, Your Majesty, I shall know where to look.”
Only because of their long association—and her own half-told truths—did Elizabeth refrain from sharp correction. But she would not let the implication pass. “Do you think I am unaware of my responsibilities, Lord Exeter? I am well acquainted with the threats offered vulnerable women. But as I have so often entrusted my own daughter to your care, surely you need not fear to do the same. Princess Anne, after all, must surely attract greater threats than Lucette.”
“And I would like it to remain that way, Your Majesty. Lucette is her own person, not a pawn in your political games.”
Elizabeth smiled with cold fury. “Lucette is most decidedly her own person. Do you honestly believe anyone could persuade that girl to be a pawn of any sort? She knows very well what she is about.”
“Or gives that impression. Elizabeth,” and it was as though all the intervening years since they were young together dropped away. “I love her dearly. Promise me she will come home safely from France.”
She looked at his straight body, the firm, well-balanced figure only slightly marred by the missing left hand, and knew that the last thing she needed in this delicate summer was Dominic Courtenay in a vengeful mood. “I promise, Dominic.”
16 May 1580
Greenwich
Dominic spoke with Elizabeth alone last night. He didn’t tell me what he said, but I can guess. He is not at all happy about Lucette going to France without him. But he will not protest, for fear of driving her further away.
Sometimes I confess a longing to shake both my husband and my daughter until they come to their senses! But, as I manifestly mishandled telling Lucette the truth, I am not at all confident that I know how to heal this. It was easier when I was the one who was twenty-two—now that I have children old enough to manage their own lives, I find myself praying at odd moments of night and day that they will come through without too many scars.
And yet…would I relinquish the scars of my own youth? Good and ill are too tightly wound, we cannot have one without the other. And after all—if Lucette is William’s daughter, a truth that only God can ever know for certain—would I wish her never born? No more than Dominic would.
Daughter by blood or not, Lucette has all of Dominic’s pride. It is distinct from royal pride, which assumes it is always right. Their pride is a bastion for their fear that if they are not perfect, no one will love them.
I believe I have gentled that fear in my husband over the years. I hope Lucette will find someone to do the same for her.
It had been years since Lucette had spent so much time alone with Dominic. Before her fifteenth birthday, she had loved traveling with him—Dominic would take her to Tiverton ahead of the rest of the family, or let her join him in touring some of his outlying lands in the West. She had always counted herself her father’s favorite.
This trip to Dover was an uncomfortable mix of nostalgia and awareness that things were not—and could never again be—the same between them. The easy adoration of a firstborn daughter for her all-powerful, all-wise father had been the dearest casualty of the queen’s interference. Sometimes Lucette hated Elizabeth for it, until she remembered that it was not Elizabeth who had created this mess. She had been living in a world of illusion. It was not the queen’s fault that disillusion hurt so very much.
For all that, Dominic Courtenay was a fairly simple man to get along with. Lucettte had once overheard her mother complain to him that it was impossible to have a satisfying argument with a man who would not fight back. As she recalled, Dominic had stopped her mother’s complaints with a kiss.
For all her promises to Pippa that she would speak to Dominic before leaving England, Lucette found herself nearly as silent as he was on the journey. They were in the company of Dr. Dee and royal guards, it was true, but she did not even attempt to make an effort. Mostly because she did not know, even after all these years, what to say.
I’m sorry I have blue eyes. I’m sorry the king loved your wife. I’m sorry to be a constant reminder of things best forgotten. I’m sorry I gave you all my love when it must have been a daily insult to your feelings to have your wife’s bastard calling you Father…
