The Boleyn Reckoning (26 page)

“Married?” With part of his mind, William noted Elizabeth’s lack of reaction as she hovered near Minuette and realized his sister
had already known. He stored that knowledge away for future handling.

Not a lover, but a husband. So much worse, to know that Minuette hadn’t given herself lightly to some ambitious lord who’d wanted only her body; no, she had bound herself both body and soul. He struggled to grasp the meaning of it, but he kept seeing her with that glorious hair loose, eyes closed and shoulders bare, breathing ever quicker beneath a man who …

Wasn’t him. “Who?” he ground out between clenched teeth.

But there could only ever be one
who
. William knew it even as he asked the question.

He read the answer in Minuette’s pitying eyes and turned his back before she could say it aloud and complete his destruction. This was … how could … what was he supposed to do now? Everything he was, everything he trusted, wrenched away in a dozen words.

He didn’t know she’d moved until he felt her hand on his arm. “I am so sorry, Will.”

In one swift movement he turned and struck her with the back of his hand. The ruby ring he wore caught her across the cheekbone and raised an ugly welt. She made no sound despite the tears in her eyes, just dropped her hand and waited for him to hit her again.

“Don’t call me that,” he spat out, hating the unsteadiness of his voice.

They stared at each other for a long moment, her hazel eyes steady as ever, as William let the swirls of hurt and confusion settle into clarity. At last he lowered his arm, which had indeed been raised for a second blow. “Guards!”

The two yeomen stepped into the courtyard and William gave crisp orders. “Escort Lady Somerset to her chamber. She is unwell. Ensure that she is not disturbed.”

She went without protest. When they had gone, Elizabeth said desperately, “William, don’t let your anger get the better of you. Think before you act.”

“I am thinking. I am thinking that I’m scheduled to meet Dominic in the tiltyard in ten minutes. I am thinking that today we will not fight with wooden swords. I am thinking that you had best go straight to the gallery to watch. Don’t say a word to anyone.”

He turned on her ferociously. “I am also thinking that you were keeping secrets from me, sister. I shall deal with you in due course. Do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly clear, Your Majesty.”

Dominic stood at the south end of the famous Whitehall tiltyard, searching the gallery for Minuette. He saw Elizabeth seated in the front row, looking remote and solitary despite the many surrounding her. Perhaps Minuette was resting. Or perhaps she simply could not face anyone in these last hours.

Harrington came from behind and pulled him into the shadows cast by the viewing stands. “Carrie passed me a message from Mistress Wyatt.” Dropping his voice to a whisper, the big man added, “She bids you remember that, next time you play chess, you have promised her the white queen.”

The message was so nonsensical that Dominic could only stare. Chess? They hadn’t played chess in months. And when had Minuette ever cared what colour she played?

Colour.

White.

White is for warning
.

Before Dominic could think what to say or do, William approached from beneath the stands. He wore a linen shirt and dark blue doublet of unusual plainness suitable for sparring. The padded
leather jerkin which would protect his chest was still only partly laced. Dominic’s attire was a near-perfect match to the king’s, differing only in the green of his doublet, and he realized that the tiltyard was the one place he had ever felt himself William’s equal.

The king did not look at Dominic as he spoke, turning a short dagger restlessly over and over in his hands. “We’ve quite an assembly to watch us today. What do you say to giving them a show? Forget wood—let’s use steel.”

“Rebated?” Dominic asked without really paying attention, for he was trying to decipher Minuette’s vague warning.

There was a heartbeat’s pause before William laughed. “Naturally. I wouldn’t want to harm you.” The king’s eyes turned to him then like a hawk’s, fixed and unblinking. “And I can only presume you would not wish to run me through. At least not in front of witnesses.”

He knows
.

Dominic couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. What had William done with Minuette?

William strode away, calling back as he went. “I’ll send the arms master with a sword.”

Dominic turned on Harrington. “Where is she?”

“In her chambers, with a guard posted outside. Carrie brought me the message.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know.”

“Find out.”

Harrington vanished as Dominic watched William swinging a heavy, broad-bladed sword in the middle of the yard. Even blunt-edged for training, it looked deadly. It kept catching the sun, deflecting the light into Dominic’s eyes.

Within a minute Dominic held a similar sword and he tested it,
weighing the balance and fitting his hand to the best position. He slowed his breathing and tried to focus on the coming bout. William looked in no mood to be gentle.

The thought of Minuette under guard didn’t make Dominic feel especially gentle himself.

Both securely laced into training gear, the two men met in the middle of the tiltyard and saluted each other. Dominic was taken aback by the ferocity of William’s initial lunge and for a moment he thought the king had overreached in his anger. The shock of that first blow rang through Dominic’s sword and up his arms, but he knew what he was about. He instantly gauged the strength of William’s thrust and met the force with corresponding weakness. He allowed William’s sword to trap his and push it down, but Dominic was already moving by then, charging through so that he could bring his sword up and at William’s side from an unexpected direction. Only a quick sidestep on the king’s part saved him from a hit, and the crowd roared in appreciation.

After that first emotional attack, William got control of himself and set about moving with skill and precision. He used his anger well, as Dominic had taught him, letting it fuel him without the loss of control that would lead to mistakes. Dominic found himself evaluating William as he had in the training exercises of their youth. Economical in his grace, nothing showy or flowery, just sharp, neat movements and disciplined footwork. And always those blue eyes, gauging and judging and storing up offenses to avenge. But Dominic was confident in his own skills and greater experience, hampered only by the fact that he didn’t particularly want to injure his opponent.

William had no such scruples. He landed several hits on Dominic’s chest and side, including a long slashing cut below his rib cage that would have finished him if the sword had been sharp. As it was, Dominic knew he’d have a wicked bruise in the morning.

Think
, he commanded himself. He’d taught William everything he knew—what would the king try to win this? Even as he thought, Dominic saw William plant his feet, preparatory to kicking upward in a move borrowed from Dominic’s service in Wales. Dominic dropped his sword hand behind him in an instant, out of reach. But William hadn’t been aiming for his sword. The kick landed hard in the center of Dominic’s stomach and he ended on his knees, doubled over and gasping for breath.

Where he realized his immediate problem was not lack of air.

The silver blade at his throat was perfectly steady, the edge of the dagger close enough that Dominic could feel it as he breathed out. He raised his eyes to William’s, no longer opaque but blazing in fury, and thought,
He might do it
.

Several women in the crowd cried out, but all settled swiftly into a smothering silence. And still Dominic stared at William. At last, very softly, so only the two of them could hear, Dominic said, “That’s cheating.”

“That’s winning.” William moved the dagger until it rested flat and cold against Dominic’s cheek. “Do the unexpected. Your advice, was it not? Was that before or after you made her a
whore
?”

Like flint to tinder, fury surged through Dominic. He forgot the crowds, forgot his own doubt and guilt, forgot that William had some right to feel betrayed. To hell with fairness.

Dominic allowed his eyes to drop, until he was staring at William’s boots. The dagger against his cheek moved slightly, not to draw blood, but in a slight relaxation of tension. When the dagger moved, so did Dominic, propelling himself off his heels, his head meeting William’s stomach with satisfying force.

William was still wheezing for breath by the time Dominic was on his feet. The dagger was on the ground, but William held tight to his sword. The look blazing from the king’s eyes was murderous. Dominic could have moved then and dealt him serious harm before
he’d recovered, but he wanted the satisfaction of beating his rival fairly.

This time William unloosed his ferocity entirely—and this time Dominic met it in kind. The force of each blow vibrated clear to his shoulders, but Dominic kept moving, matching cut for cut and thrust for thrust. Without the distractions of conscience, Dominic’s experience and strength came to the fore. William could not match his battlefield instincts. Dominic simply moved, reading a dozen different signals at once so that he always knew from the balance of William’s feet or the shift of a shoulder from where the next blow was coming. Dominic was a master of countercutting: his defensive moves were also offensive, turning every thrust to his own advantage. William could not hope to match him.

The swell and roar of the watching crowd could have been the clamour of a battlefield. Dominic knew there must be shock and doubt among some of those watching, but more of them simply reveled in this sudden eruption of violence between the king and his closest friend.

There came a moment when William stepped out of reach and Dominic had a brief hope that it was over. But before he could even finish the thought, he saw that the king had given himself just enough room to lunge. Dominic moved at the same instant. This time it wasn’t swords that met but flesh, Dominic’s left hand holding off William’s sword while his own right hand was caught in the king’s vicious grasp. Dominic felt the pulse of hate and anger and pain flowing through William and knew that this was what his friend wanted, that nothing else would do but that he tear at Dominic with his bare hands.

Locked hand-to-hand and eye-to-eye, time slowed and Dominic saw a friendship’s memories between one painful breath and the next: his early days of training with William, and his first flash of respect for an eight-year-old prince who refused to be coddled;
a ten-year-old’s solemn face as he gripped the orb and scepter and took upon himself the weight of a realm; a changeable sixteen-year-old, quick to take offense and quicker to apologize.

A friend who had, above all else, valued Dominic for his uncomfortable honesty.

Dominic dropped his arms so abruptly that William stumbled forward. They released their desperate hold on each other, William’s breath rasping harshly and Dominic beginning to be aware of numerous aches and pains that the heat of the fight had masked.

He wasn’t certain what he expected. The possibilities flew through his mind: arrested or killed where he stood. He had time for one wild moment of regret when a sudden force and sound rocked the air. Dominic stumbled, ears ringing, at the unmistakable release of black powder.

In seconds William was surrounded by guards. There was another explosion and another and a breathless guard came running into the tiltyard.

“What’s happening?” the king shouted at the newcomer.

The stricken guard seemed unsure of delivering his message so publicly.

“What?” William demanded, in a voice that brooked no delay.

“Explosions between here and the Tower. Perhaps an attempt to free the Lady Mary—”

“Get my horse and half-armor,” William shouted, and several of his guards broke into protest. “Now!”

“Your Majesty, this could be an attempt on your life—”

“Then get me a damned
unrebated
sword and arm yourselves. We’re riding to the Tower!”

This was fear as much as fury, Dominic knew. Always William preferred to spring into action when uncertainty arose. That didn’t make it the wrong move.

Even now, with all in ashes around him, Dominic’s first instinct
was to stand with William. He’d be needed for this. He took one step before he remembered that, needed or not, he wouldn’t be at William’s side. Not today. Perhaps not ever again.

Across the length of the tiltyard William shot him an unreadable glance. Dominic waited for the king to summon guards, to place him under arrest as surely he’d already placed Minuette.

William opened his mouth, then shut it and strode away.

The spectators broke into a swirl of noise, women’s panicked voices rising and men rushing to arm themselves and join the king while Dominic stood frozen in the middle of the yard. He didn’t even blink until Harrington’s urgent voice sounded once more in his ear. “I’d get out of here if I were you.”

“Where is she?” Dominic demanded, following Harrington into a secluded spot beneath the stands, unlacing the bulky leather training jerkin as they went.

“Still in her chambers. No one’s saying much. All Carrie knows is that she was escorted back under guard. I don’t think she’s been arrested, but I’d say it’s a safe bet your secret is known.”

“Did Carrie say … Is Minuette all right?”

“She’s fine. Except …”

“What?”

“According to Carrie, she had the mark of a man’s hand across her face.”

Everything around him went red. “He hit her.”

The voice that replied was cool, composed—and feminine. “He slapped her,” Elizabeth corrected, stepping forward from the gallery.

Dominic clenched his hands and tried to match her tone. “What happened?”

“Eleanor Percy happened. We should have guessed that if anyone could unearth your darkest secrets, it would be her, though clearly she did not know the whole of what she’d uncovered. And
rather than lie her way out of the matter, Minuette told William the truth—all of it. The marriage, the child … how could she have been so stupid?”