The Boleyn Reckoning (13 page)

“Dominic!” Minuette looked torn between fury and tears.

“I’m sorry. I thought it would be easier after we … But it’s harder.”

He stood so near her that surely she must feel the heat pouring off his skin, but he was just gentleman enough not to touch her without consent. For a moment she hesitated, then she opened the second door and led him through to her bedchamber.

They made it to the bed, but just barely. Dominic could not be slow and he could not be gentle. He managed to shed his own clothes along the way, but Minuette was still half dressed when he laid her down. His hands moved from the tangle of her shift to the lines of her bodice and then the bare skin of her arms and shoulders that gleamed beneath him and he was drowning in her scent and taste.

She rested her head on his chest afterward, heavy and warm in his arms.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into her hair.

“I’m not,” she said lazily, and Dominic thought that if her voice continued to sound like warm honey he would never be able to leave.

“I put you in an impossible position. Surely William will be suspicious after that dance. How could he not be?”

“William’s displeasure was not about suspicion. I know it is painful for you to hear, but he would never dream of suspecting this. He doesn’t know that your distance has as much to do with your own guilt as with his actions. William thinks you despise him, because of Renaud and Scotland last year. He looks at you and feels only your contempt. And though he is too proud to say it, or even admit it to himself, he needs you to lean on. Without you, he’s …” She faltered, searching for the right word.

Dominic supplied his own. “He’s dangerous.”

“He’s lost.”

Dominic closed his eyes. Minuette was right, he didn’t want to hear this. He didn’t want to know that William still looked to him for advice and security, for stability in a world that offered him none. What had William said when he’d made Dominic a duke?
I shall have one duke in England who is loyal only to me
.

He ran his hand down his wife’s bare shoulder and calculated how long it would take him to remove what remained of her
clothing. “I will try to help him, love. I will try to swallow my own guilt, as well as my desire to rip his arms out every time he touches you.”

She relaxed into his embrace. “I wish you didn’t have to go.”

Dominic tightened his arms. “Even with Carrie standing guard, a chess game can only deceive for so long.”

Her next question was so soft he might have imagined it. “What are we going to do?”

Dominic moved his hand to her cheek, drawing his fingers along it before bending to kiss the hollow of her throat. “We will do what we must, together. If anything happens while we are gone from one another … We’ll think of some kind of code, something that no one else can decipher.”

“Like what?” He could hear the smile in her voice.

“Colours, perhaps.” He continued to kiss her, moving from throat to collarbone. “If I hear from you that the skies are a lovely blue at Hampton Court, I shall know that all is well and you are safe. What else?”

Minuette’s laugh was heavy with desire. “Green. If I send word that I am longing to be at Greenwich again, you shall know that I am longing only for this.”

“My bright star.” He drew her down then, and set about the pleasurable business of stripping her entirely. But in the activity that followed, she whispered one more colour in his ear. “White is for warning.”

When William and Dominic headed southeast to review coastal defenses, Elizabeth remained behind to maintain a royal presence in London. She and Minuette stayed at St. James’s Palace, and that was where Robert Dudley made his return to court.

He had been released from the Tower a week earlier, along with his three surviving brothers, but where John, Ambrose, and Henry
had retreated to the country as rapidly as possible, Robert wasn’t one to run away. Elizabeth knew, from Francis Walsingham, that he had taken up residence at Ely Place—the only London property left to the Dudley family after Northumberland’s execution. She had expected Robert sooner, but when he was announced by a disapproving Kat Ashley, Elizabeth still found herself taken by surprise.

He had chosen his moment well, when she was more or less alone in her own chambers. Elizabeth refused to leave the presence chamber for the more intimate privy chamber. Let Robert read into that what he wanted, but she was not going to be afraid of facing him before others or of the talk that would ensue. There were four women with her. Minuette was not among them—she rarely was, these days, and Elizabeth wondered how long before William removed her officially from her service—but those present were biddable and discreet and would release just the right amount of information to the curious.

If she wished for anyone at this meeting, it was Walsingham. She had quickly come to depend on his pragmatic counsel as well as his intelligence gathering. She allowed herself one thrill of nerves and pleasure at Robert’s familiar, beloved figure bowing to her with unusual gravity before stiffening her spine beneath her peacock-blue dress edged in brilliant blue and gold feather designs.

“You are looking well, Your Highness,” Robert said, striking just the right note of deference.

She studied him before answering, head tilted to the side as she took in his more than usually slender frame and the slightly more sober clothing than normal. She was glad to say truthfully, “You look as though your time in the Tower has not permanently affected you.”

“Not physically.”

“And what permanent nonphysical effects do you anticipate?”

She had still not invited him to sit, but he gave no sign of impatience.
He had the gift of grace whatever his situation. “Confinement is hard on the body, but considerably harder on the spirit. It will be a long time before I stop waking in the night simply to reassure myself that I am free to leave my chamber if I wish it. Before I stop imagining that I hear footsteps approaching to take me somewhere even less desirable.”

“Perhaps you will remember that the next time you are tempted to act against the interests of the Crown.”

“My intent was never to injure the Crown, but only to advance my own interests. A sin, to be sure, but one motivated by a most sincere and desperate love.”

She gestured abruptly for him to take a seat, if only to stop that line of conversation. She did not want to hear about Robert’s love today. “What will you do next? Your name has been officially cleared, but I am not certain that my brother will welcome you back with open arms just yet. And for certain Dominic will not.”

With a shrug (also familiar—how many of his gestures and mannerisms did she know so intimately?) Robert said, “I am the Crown’s to command. Is there some task I can undertake for you while the king is touring defenses?”

When she eyed him narrowly, he hastened to add, “I welcome anything, Elizabeth, no matter how menial.”

She did have a service in mind—not menial, but also not pleasant. “Walsingham is liaising with William’s household to prepare for the state visit of Philip of Spain. He could use a gentleman to put a better face on some of the interactions. You know how to flatter and inspire, and certainly how to prepare grand ceremonies. I think you would be well suited for this role.”

A role designed purely to welcome Elizabeth’s future husband to England. She had to give Robert credit—other than the involuntary twitch of a muscle beneath his left eye, he didn’t flinch. “It would be an honour, Your Highness.”

“Report to Walsingham when you leave here. He will have assignments for you.”

With that assured grace Robert rose and Elizabeth extended her hand to allow him to kiss it. It was a less personal kiss than was his wont, but again he was nicely judging his behavior. No liberties, no tantrums, nothing but earnest and humble service.

Elizabeth tightened her hand when he would have released it and said, “I am truly happy to see you, Robert.” And then, before his relief could turn to complacency, she added, “Will not Amy regret your continued absence?”

The ironic twist of his mouth was more than familiar—it flooded Elizabeth with all the remembered mischief and laughter and tart wordplay of their years of friendship. “Amy cannot possibly object to any request of yours. She is delighted to share me with the court.”

That was as bold-faced a lie as any Robert had ever told … and it made Elizabeth’s heart sing.

With Northumberland’s execution and Rochford’s disgrace, the Protestant faction at court was in severe disarray and the Catholics had been handed a rare opportunity to redeem their position and royal favour. And lest vindication leap into something more, there was one woman who had to be managed and placated: Mary Tudor.

Minuette sighed deeply when William asked her to attend his half sister at Beaulieu while he and Dominic were away minding military matters. She had been used as a court messenger before this and, although Mary was suspicious of anyone who came from court—and particularly one partly raised by Anne Boleyn—Minuette had always received a grudging acceptance from the eldest Tudor sibling.

But that was before Framlingham. Almost two years ago Minuette
had been the catalyst of the late Duke of Norfolk’s arrest. She had discovered the crucial piece of evidence in that case, which led to Norfolk’s death and Mary’s own house arrest. And now Lord Rochford had admitted to forging that piece of evidence. Minuette did not anticipate a pleasant visit.

She had underestimated the effect on Mary of being allowed to return to her favorite palace of Beaulieu. Released from her hated house arrest, and no doubt buoyed by Rochford’s fall, Mary was in a triumphant temper. Minuette, on the other hand, had always found Beaulieu oppressive. The overall effect was of a palace—and a woman—stubbornly clinging to the past. Massive carved chests, bulky velvets and damasks at the windows, and an overabundance of gloomy reds and browns combined with Mary’s stifling righteousness left Minuette twitchy and anxious.

Most unusually for Mary, she attempted to tease. “Mistress Wyatt, who could have guessed that you would be the cause of my brother’s release from the French betrothal? Almost I could welcome you for that alone.”

Minuette curtsied low, startled by the change in Mary’s demeanor. Dignified and royal had always been the first words to come to mind when one thought of Mary Tudor, but today she looked contented. Like a sleek cat who has caught its mouse and disdains every being less fortunate than itself.

Despite her teasing words, Minuette knew she was not truly welcomed as William’s intended bride. Mary would not even bother to protest that it was not a suitable match, for so much went without saying. Perhaps she believed William would come to his senses and thus, for now, Minuette could be welcomed as a diversion that had disconcerted the French. Another of Mary’s old enemies.

Mary had far more old enemies than she had ever bothered to make friends.

“Thank you for allowing me to come to Beaulieu, my lady.” Minuette knew how to play the game of pretending Mary was autonomous and not tied to William’s every whim.

“I suppose there is a purpose to this visit.”

“To enjoy your company is not purpose enough?”

Mary narrowed her eyes, giving her a fleeting but strong resemblance to Elizabeth when displeased. “No one attached to court has fewer than three purposes to every action. Shall I guess yours?”

“If it pleases you, my lady.” Minuette could afford to let Mary be haughty; it cost her nothing and gave Mary an easy way to feel superior. Sometimes she thought that was why she was sent to deal with this trickiest Tudor family member—to defuse Mary’s pride in attacks on someone of inferior status rather than letting her wounds fester and finally spill into something truly dangerous.

“No doubt one purpose is to do with the proposed visit of King Philip. What does my brother want of me in that regard?”

Straight to the point; Minuette could respect that. “The king knows how greatly it will please you to have Philip in England. It is his wish that you should attend all the royal festivities on the occasion of the Spanish king’s state visit.”

The state visit that would end in his betrothal to Elizabeth. What, Minuette wondered, would be Mary’s reaction to her younger sister of seventeen years wedding a man whom, in another world, Mary might have had for herself? She would know that it was a political marriage, and publicly Mary had to agree that it met every stated wish of her heart—a bond between England and Spain that would put paid to the French connection for years.

But it would be Elizabeth who would reign as Queen of Spain, Elizabeth whose children would carry the same royal blood as Mary’s long-suffering mother. Life, Minuette thought with great understatement, is not fair.

Perhaps her pity showed on her face, for Mary’s own expression
altered and she grew all at once curt. “We shall discuss your other purposes at another time.”

Minuette realized that, beneath her elaborate crimson gown and perfectly coiled hair and some private sense of satisfaction, Mary Tudor looked drawn, as though her outward appearance was a thin mask over an expense of nervous energy. Henry’s eldest daughter was forty this year, an age when she must begin to admit that patience was never going to be enough to win her the freedom to marry and have children. Her life would always be this: a shadow on her brother’s throne, an unpleasant symbol of a broken marriage and a shattered religion that most Englishmen and -women would be happy to forget.

As Minuette curtsied good night, Mary asked suddenly, “Is it true that Lady Rochford has been arrested for an attack upon you?”

“It is true that she has been taken to the Tower,” Minuette answered cautiously.

“Because she tried to kill you.”

How fast gossip spread, no matter how remote the household. “That is the charge, my lady.”

“But Lord Rochford himself is not under arrest, though he plotted behind my brother’s back to destroy my own reputation as well as that of the late Duke of Norfolk.”

What could possibly be answered to that? It was true enough, in its way.