There were times when Pippa looked at him that Kit felt as though they were two parts of one whole. And other times when she seemed as foreign to him as an ancient Roman would have been.
Today, he felt only that she was his sister and dearest friend. That there was nothing about him she didn’t already know and forgive. And so, less grudgingly than he’d intended, Kit began to talk.
“I can’t do it,” he confessed. “I cannot sit around Anabel’s household and watch the parade of men hoping to claim her. Don’t ask it of me.”
“I wouldn’t. I know you need to go.”
“But she doesn’t.” As Kit spoke, he felt hollow at the truth of his words. “And that’s the hardest part of all—that Anabel does not know why I’m going. She thinks I’m merely being difficult.”
“You could tell her the truth.”
“To what purpose? You know better than anyone, Pippa—Anabel is not meant for me. I’ll get over it. I’m not stupid enough to stay hopelessly in love with a woman I cannot have.”
It was as blatant a lie as he’d ever told, for he and his siblings lived daily with a father who had only ever loved one woman, one who had remained steadfast at the cost of his honour, his left hand, and very nearly his life. Did Kit’s siblings ever feel, as he did, that such a love was both a hope and a dreadful burden?
“Yes,” Pippa said, and Kit thought for a moment he’d heard her only in his head. It happened from time to time, this silent communication—mostly in moments of strong emotion—but no, just now her mouth was moving, although she was answering the question he had not uttered aloud. “We are not Mother and Father, Kit. You must rule your own life and your own heart. Go to Ireland. Work hard and be yourself. You were not wrong when you said you needed to discover your own path. Go and find it.”
“And you?” he tried to tease, but it came out more wistful than light. “Pippa, must your path always parallel the princess? Do you not wish for independence?”
“What makes you think I don’t have it? Independence is not a matter of situation but choice. I am where I choose. You can always trust me for that.”
And then, as Pippa so often did, she walked away, leaving her brother to try and decipher another of her cryptic statements. So he did what he usually did—ignored it and went about his own business.
There was plenty to do in preparation for Ireland, and Kit threw himself into filling requisition lists and planning supply routes for the Earl of Leicester’s trip. On his last day at court he was walking abstractedly through the halls of Greenwich calculating the weight of horses on board ship when a woman—blonde, beautiful, experienced—called his name.
And suddenly abstraction gave way to wariness, for Eleanor Percy fixed him with an amused expression that promised a playfulness he had no patience for. She was of an age with his mother, but behaved as though any man would be grateful for her attention. It was an effort wasted on the Courtenay men, but that did not stop her from trying.
“Where are you off to with such a distracted expression, Lord Christopher?” Eleanor was one of those women who purred rather than spoke, her words a caress that made his hackles rise. She went on without pause. “Oh, that’s right…you’re going to Ireland. I suppose you must be sulking at being forced to leave the princess. But then royalty does tire of their lapdogs so quickly. Just ask your parents.”
Or I could ask you, he thought ungraciously. How long did you keep the last king entertained before he pushed you out of his bed?
Kit shuffled mentally through the various marriages in Eleanor Percy’s past, trying to pin down the right name to give her at the moment. Finally he gave up and said simply, “My lady.” He bowed, and began to walk once more.
She stepped in his path, so that he could not continue without absolute rudeness. Stoically, he waited for her to say whatever it was she’d stopped him for. “I imagine we’ll cross paths from time to time in Dublin. Lord Leicester seemed quite pleased at the prospect of my company.”
“You’re coming to Dublin?” was all Kit could manage.
“Oh, yes. And a little further. An invitation to Kilkenny from the Earl of Ormond, you know. And there will be so many of our eligible young men in Ireland this autumn, how could I deprive Nora of their company?”
And there it was. Kit wanted to swear aloud, but stifled the impulse. Now he knew why Eleanor had stopped him. Her daughter Nora, despite being the acknowledged daughter of Henry IX, remained unmarried at the age of twenty-seven. Either because Nora was naturally shy and resisted being courted for her blood or because her mother was considerably less than shy, and few men wanted Eleanor Percy as a mother-in-law.
Eleanor would settle for no less than an earl for her daughter, and would prefer a duke. And if she could spite her former antagonists through matchmaking, all the better. Eleanor wasn’t talking to Kit for his own sake, but because his older brother, Stephen, was Earl of Somerset and would one day be Duke of Exeter. What better vengeance on Minuette than to trap her son for Eleanor’s daughter?
Sure enough, Eleanor said, “You must persuade your brother to come to Dublin, or at least Kilkenny, during our visit. The Earl of Somerset should not be spending all his time in the wastelands beyond the Pale.”
There was little Kit liked less than being courted solely for his relationship to his older, wealthier brother. “As you pointed out, I will be mostly in Dublin. If you have Lord Leicester’s promise to see you, then I’m afraid the company of one Courtenay brother will have to suffice.”
Derision lit the edges of her smile. “As long as it is the right brother.”
Rude or not, Kit stepped around her and went on his way. But not before he heard her call after him, “I expect the princess would not be so ready to part from your older brother as she is from you. It’s a pity there is not another title to go around in your family—perhaps Princess Anne is merely using you to get to Stephen.”
—
Stephen spent the month of July on his lands in Somerset, mustering a handpicked force of able and willing men who had been trained by his father, often alongside Stephen himself. Two weeks into training Edward Harrington arrived to act as Stephen’s second in command. Harrington had been the Duke of Exeter’s seneschal/steward/man-at-arms for years before Stephen’s birth, with a taciturnity surpassed only by his battlefield skills. After the expected period of discomfort in feeling that his father was watching over his shoulder, Stephen relaxed into the new relationship. A commander could not afford to scorn men of skill, and he knew Harrington would be invaluable in Ireland.
The company rode out on the first day of August. When they left Stephen’s castle at Farleigh Hungerford, it was with laughter and teasing from those left behind, a sense of adventure among those marching, and Stephen was confident in the abilities of his 150 soldiers and glad to be finally on his way.
His father had appeared at Farleigh Hungerford the last day, asking if he might ride with them to Bristol. In another man it might have been awkward and caused Stephen’s force a sense of split loyalties. But no one knew better than Dominic Courtenay how authority could be as much a matter of expectation as ability, and he would never interfere in his son’s command. At least not publicly.
In the end, Stephen discovered, his father’s topic of discussion had little to do with military matters. They reached Bristol the afternoon of August first, with a ship prepared to take them on board the very next day. Stephen allowed his men to disperse with orders to be returned to their encampment by dark. Then he walked with his father along the Severn Estuary.
“Any last words of advice?” Stephen was quick to ask. Better than having it offered without asking.
“Be careful with Oliver Dane. He’s an old Irish hand who dislikes English interlopers as much as he does the Irish rebels. As long as you make clear you are not interested in encroaching on his Irish lands or rights, you should be all right.”
Stephen huffed a laugh. “I hardly feel I deserve what I have in Englan
d—I shall make clear to Captain Dane that Ireland is not in my ambitions.”
“What are your ambitions?”
“Personally or professionally?”
“There is little difference between them for a belted earl. Since you were twelve we’ve received many overtures of interest from good families with daughters.”
“You’re not planning to marry me off already, are you?”
“And if we were? I must confess, Stephen, I haven’t the slightest idea how you would take it if I announced one day that I had secured you a marriage.”
How would he take it? Stephen wondered. He hadn’t spent a lot of time thinking of marriage—twenty-one was indeed young. “I suppose I would thank you for your concern.”
“Don’t look so stricken, son. Surely you don’t seriously expect your mother and me to arrange you a marriage without your knowledge or consent.”
No, he supposed not. Other sons of dukes would expect to be dutifully wed wherever their family required. But the children of the Duke and Duchess of Exeter were, first and foremost, the children of a love match, one that had defied royalty and endured prison. They would not balk at the thought of love—after all, Lucie had married her French Catholic spy against all good sense. But his sister had also walked through a valley of pain and sorrow to get there. Stephen wasn’t sure it was worth it.
“Honestly, Father, it might be simpler if you chose for me. And don’t tell me Mother doesn’t have some very specific ideas of her own,” he teased.
“It’s not marriage we’re concerned with at the moment, Stephen. It’s the women that you will encounter in Ireland. I have campaigned more than once in my lifetime. I know what happens in the camps of soldiers.”
How on earth was he supposed to respond to that? Do tell, Father, what were you like on campaign? Surely there had been women before his mother—she was five years younger than her husband, after all. But Stephen didn’t want to know, he didn’t even want to guess. Why on earth bring it up?
As though he could read his son’s embarrassment, Dominic asked wryly, “Would you prefer to have had this discussion with your mother? If I hadn’t promised to address the matter myself, she would have taken it in hand.”
Stephen choked. “In that case, say what you must.”
“It might not be what you fear, Stephen. I simply want you to consider this—never take what is not freely offered, and then only if you are certain you will not leave pain behind. That is poor payment for any woman, whoever she may be.”
“No virgins, no wives, and no force? I remember. I promise not to shame myself or you, Father.” To lighten the subject, and because he was feeling unfairly singled out, he added, “I presume Kit has already been given the same lecture for his time in Dublin?”
With hooded eyes, his father said simply, “Kit’s lectures will never be the same as yours.”
Because you are the eldest, ran the unspoken words, and my heir. Because your life and honour must be impeccable if you ever hope to live up to me.
There were times when Stephen envied his younger brother so much that he could hardly see straight.
—
In all her years as queen, Elizabeth had never met so subtle and capable a negotiator as her own daughter. Though Anabel was only nineteen, she possessed her father’s certainty and her mother’s stubbornness, traits that she ably employed in negotiating her immediate future as Princess of Wales.
“In addition to Ludlow, I need a home rather closer to London,” Anabel said. Not for the first time.
Elizabeth had been admittedly dragging her feet on the issue, not so much because she disagreed as because she wanted to remind her daughter that there was only one queen in England. But when even Burghley backed the princess, Elizabeth knew her daughter was in the right.
That didn’t mean she would make it easy. “And which palace would you like your queen to abandon?” she asked tartly. “Windsor? St. James? Perhaps I should simply move out of Whitehall and pass the seat of government into your hands.”
Anabel didn’t—quite—roll her eyes. “The point of me being near but somewhat independent is to learn from you, Your Majesty, and to learn how to run my own royal household in a controlled environment where I cannot do too much damage. Of course I do not want to run England. Not for many long years.”
Sometimes, it was like speaking to herself, Elizabeth thought. Other times, it was like speaking to Anne Boleyn. And every now and then, just for a flash, it was like speaking to William.
With a heavy sigh meant to convey giving in with weariness (though Anabel would correctly read it as assumed), Elizabeth capitulated with the decision that had already been taken in her privy council more than a fortnight ago. “In addition to Ludlow Castle, you will also be given Syon House and Charterhouse. Does that meet with your approval?”
How could it not? Syon House would not come as a great surprise, for Anabel herself had suggested it months ago. Once an abbey, Elizabeth’s father had granted the lands to John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland. Upon his execution in 1556, the land and beautiful house Northumberland had built had passed back to crown control. But Elizabeth never made use of the house that had once been a prison for her half sister, Mary Tudor. Because Syon House came with ghosts, and one of those was Northumberland’s fifth son, Robert.
Situated very near Richmond Palace, it would make a gracious home for the Princess of Wales when she wished to be more central than the Welsh borderlands could afford. And when she wished to be at the very heart of things? No place better than Charterhouse.
Just a mile from Whitehall (itself the largest palace complex in Europe), Charterhouse had been the London home of Elizabeth’s uncle, George Boleyn. As Duke of Rochford and both regent and chancellor in his time, he had commanded more power than any man in England, save the king. Charterhouse had been witness to ambassadors and foreign royals, to negotiations and threats and careful deploying of English power. Charterhouse was also the site of Lord Rochford’s assassination. In the twenty-five years since, it had been used primarily as a temporary residence for visiting dignitaries and those wealthy Continental merchants whom England needed to impress.
Anabel looked suitably surprised, which pleased Elizabeth enough for her to add graciously, “If you want to learn how to rule, nowhere better than in my uncle’s home. I expect the very walls are soaked in Lord Rochford’s genius.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Then, after a moment, Anabel added, “Mother.”
“Now,” Elizabeth continued briskly, “more important than the physical residence is the makeup of your own household. Philippa Courtenay, naturally, will be chief of your ladies, but you need an older, more experienced woman to take charge.”
“I can think of no one better than Lady Leighton as the public face. Of course, Madalena will take care of the details, as she always has.”
Madalena Arias had been a gift to Anabel from her father, a lady-in-waiting who had come to England at the age of ten and firmly attached herself to the five years’ younger princess. Her grandmother had been a converso Moor, making Madalena darker than the usual Spaniard and, Elizabeth conceded, extremely attractive. She served Anabel faithfully, though Elizabeth was always watchful, afraid of Philip using any tactic against his daughter.
“I approve your chaplain and steward. That leaves you two posts to fill—Master of the Horse and household treasurer.” Elizabeth spoke casually, knowing how insulted her daughter had been by Kit Courtenay’s refusal to accept the former post.
But, like her mother, she had mastered the art of moving on, and if not feeling indifference, at least feigning it well. “What do you think of Robert Cecil for Master of the Horse? Lord Burghley might be pleased to have his son expand his experience in public service.”
It was an astute choice. “He’ll do very well. And treasurer?”
For the first time, Anabel looked a touch defiant, as though anticipating a refusal. “I should like Matthew Harrington.”
She had sense enough not to say more, for Elizabeth knew perfectly well who Matthew was. His parents had been Minuette and Dominic’s loyal companions through their disgrace and exile, and their only son had been rewarded with an education to match that of the Courtenay sons. Matthew had studied law and, for the last year, been part of Lord Burghley’s staff in his role as Lord High Treasurer.
Young, yes, but so was Anabel. And Pippa. As Elizabeth had once been young, with Minuette and Dominic and Will…Youth had its faults, but also its strengths. And with his bloodline and upbringing, Matthew Harrington would be the most faithful of servants.
She nodded once. “I think Matthew is quite a good choice. Provided you can persuade Lord Burghley to part with both his son and his protégé.”
Her daughter’s smile was blindingly confident. “Pippa says Lord Burghley has been training Matthew specifically for my household. He will be glad to have him with me.”
“And Philippa would know,” Elizabeth retorted wryly. “Very well. We shall make all the necessary arrangements and announcements before leaving for Wales next week.”
Where Anabel would be formally invested as Princess of Wales and begin her public tasks, meant to bind the hearts of England as firmly to herself as to her mother.
And where she would meet for the first time the French representatives of Francis, the Duc d’Anjou, and begin the delicate formal dance of possible betrothal.
6 August 1581
Dearest Lucie,
We arrived in Chester earlier today. It has been more than two weeks since we left London, in slow procession north and west to this town once so precariously held by the English on the very doorstep of Wales. Now, of course, the divide is cultural rather than political and it is from here that Anabel takes center stage. Over the next two weeks we will travel through northern Wales, freely crisscrossing what was once such a hotly contested border, making our way as far west as Caernarfon and thus onto Wrexham, Oswestry, and Shrewsbury before riding in triumph into Ludlow, where Anabel will be formally invested as Princess of Wales.
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