The Boleyn King (12 page)

He didn’t realize how late it had grown until Mrs. Holly brought a tray to his room for dinner.

“Is Mistress Wyatt not back yet?” he asked, concerned.

“She is, sir. But she asked not to be disturbed.”

Interesting. Did her withdrawal mean that she had learnt nothing from Alyce’s sister? Or that whatever she had learnt was too upsetting to be immediately shared?

He tried to keep away. He finished his letters and then checked that his trunk was neatly packed for tomorrow’s departure. But when he couldn’t help it any longer, he went looking for her. Her room was empty, as were the solarium and the great hall. As he came out the front door, a voice said, “The young miss is in the rose garden.”

Dominic jumped and swore at the sudden voice from behind, and rounded on the speaker. “Someday you will have to teach me how you move so silently for such a big man.”

Harrington—three inches taller than Dominic and three stone heavier—didn’t even blink. “The rose garden,” he repeated, then padded away toward the stables.

For a man supposed to be my servant
, Dominic thought,
Harrington behaves as though he is in charge
. Rochford had put the man at Dominic’s disposal when he left court, with orders to take him to France. “He’s useful,” Rochford had said, “in more ways than one.”

Rochford hadn’t elaborated, and Harrington hadn’t said more than ten words at a time to Dominic all week. Was his usefulness confined to moving like a shadow and knowing without asking whom Dominic was looking for?

Minuette was indeed in the rose garden, already bare of blooms, leaves shriveling in the early autumn frost. It was pleasantly symmetrical, with four quarter circles bounded by a low brick wall, and Minuette sat on the single wooden bench in the center of the garden. She had an embroidered shawl around her shoulders and her hands twisted at something in her lap.

Jewels?
he wondered. They dimly reflected light back. “What do you have?” he asked.

She blinked as though coming back from a faraway thought, and used one hand to hold up a strand that was not jewels, but …

“Minuette,” he said sharply. “Is that a rosary?”

He did not need an answer. The jet beads with a heavy silver cross at the end were quite clearly that banned item of Catholic devotion.

“My mother’s,” she said conversationally. “The housekeeper gave me a casket my mother left behind when she married Howard. Though I don’t know why she didn’t take it with her—the Howards being Catholic. Supposedly it was a gift to her many years ago in France.” Minuette looked at him. “A gift from the queen, back when she was just Anne Boleyn in the French court. Ironic.” She let the rosary beads fall into a pool in her lap. In spite of her conversation, she didn’t seem to have come all the way back from wherever her thoughts had taken her.

“What did you learn from Alyce’s sister today?” he asked.

“Besides the fact that she is a nosy, bitter woman who thinks everyone she meets owes her something?”

The bitterness did not sound like Minuette at all, but before he could probe she added, “She did have some useful information, at least. About Alyce’s absences from court. I will discuss it with Elizabeth and William when we return and it should lead us somewhere.”

So it wasn’t Alyce that was bothering her. “What are you thinking about, Minuette?”

It wasn’t just politeness. He really wanted to know, with an ache that he told himself he imagined.

In an instant she had a court smile on her lips. “Oh, about fabric and ribbons and young men asking me to dance.”

William would have teased along with her, maybe even Elizabeth, but not Dominic. Not tonight, when tomorrow he would have to say goodbye to her for however long Rochford wanted him in France. “Tell me the truth.”

The smile slipped away like a shy child ducking behind a door. “I was thinking about friendship and love and marriage. And if those three can ever come together.”

The imagined ache grew. “And what prompted such philosophical thoughts?”

“Oh, the wedding last week.” Her voice strengthened. “Honestly, Dominic, I cannot understand Eleanor Percy. Not even a crown would have induced me to marry Giles Howard.”

“You are not Eleanor.”

“It’s not just her,” she said, so softly it was as though she didn’t want her words to make it into the world at all. “Giles Howard is not so much like his father—but he is very like his uncle.”

“Your stepfather.”

“I’ve always believed that my mother had no choice but to marry when Stephen Howard wanted her. But what if … I was only six when my father died and eight when my mother died. How do I know who she really was?”

Dominic let the question hang, though she hardly seemed to expect an answer. It was that vagueness that disturbed him, for Minuette was usually as clear as a swift stream. Feeling his way toward whatever her true worry might be, he finally said, “Whatever choices your mother made, they don’t alter you. I know who you really are, and you have nothing to fear.”

“How do you know? I am part of the court. I am trained to reflect back whatever a man expects to see. And I’m good at it, Dominic. Don’t pretend you haven’t noticed. You pulled me away from Jonathan Percy quick enough last week because you thought I was flirting. So I was. And if you did not like my behaviour …”

She turned to him with eyes that in the fast-falling darkness were troubled. “You are my conscience, and you are going away again. William never reproves me, and Elizabeth just sighs and lets me go along. What shall I do without your always-right voice to tell me when I’m losing myself?”

Somewhere in her tumble of words, which left Dominic wanting to jump to his feet to expend his nervous energy, there were questions he had to answer. But not strictly honestly. If he were to be honest, he would tell her,
No, I did not like your flirting. But not because you were improper or making a spectacle of yourself. I did not like it because …

Even silently, he dared not finish that thought. And still Minuette appealed to him, with wide eyes and furrowed brow, for help.

“I think,” Dominic said carefully, “that if you are asking these questions, then you are quite safe. You only stop questioning when you know you don’t want to hear the answers.”

Finally Minuette laughed; though small, the laugh was real. “I shall simply have to imagine that you are my shadow, watching over my shoulder everything I do and say. Though I would rather it was you yourself.”

So do I
. The words stuck in his throat, and he had to stand up then, because if he didn’t, he would touch her, and he didn’t dare touch her when he didn’t have himself in perfect control.

If he’d needed proof that Minuette did not feel the same way about him, it was there when she easily threw her arms around him in a hug. “I shall miss you dearly. Promise you’ll write.”

“I promise.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

1 October 1553
Greenwich

My visit to Wynfield was brief but fruitful—personally, in addition to the visit with Alyce’s sister. No longer will I have to make shift with what maids I can find wherever I am in residence. Elizabeth has been urging me to take on an attendant, not seeming to understand how limited my purse is. Being a companion to royalty is expensive and I have always had to scrimp merely to pay for my clothing, let alone a woman to care for it
.

Thanks to my visit home I have a maid of my own now, one who seems quite content with the little I can pay her. Truthfully, I had to insist she accept payment at all, for she appeared willing to serve me for nothing more than her food and a place to sleep
.

Her name is Carrie Prescott. She was born at Wynfield and, upon my parents’ marriage, my mother took her into the household and trained her as a lady’s maid. She followed my mother to the Howards’ when she remarried. After my mother’s death, Carrie returned to Wynfield, married one of my father’s tenants—one of my tenants, I suppose—and had two children by him. But they are all dead now—her husband and daughter in the plague two years ago and her little boy to the sweating sickness last autumn
.

I did not recognize her at once. She is older, of course, nearing thirty, but she is still as neat and pretty as a wren. The change is in her eyes and in the gravity of her countenance. I remember Carrie as cheerful and with a merry laugh that could always tease me out of any childish mood. She does not look cheerful any longer
.

Still, she seems genuinely pleased to come to me, and I find pleasure in helping a woman who served my mother with such loyalty. Surely whatever she can tell me of my mother will be much nearer the truth than anything claimed by Alyce’s spiteful sister
.

7 October 1553
Greenwich

I have told Elizabeth and William about Alyce’s unaccounted-for leaves from court in the last year. After checking that my memory was correct—and that she had indeed left court and lied about her destination—William had his secretary compile a list of gentlemen of the court who were also absent at the same times. There are fifty-four names on the list. And as William does not wish to alert a possibly guilty party to inquiries, he’s leaving it in my hands. Whom should I begin with? The Duke of Northumberland, with his devoted wife who has given him thirteen children? Might as well begin with him because not only is he incredibly unlikely but he’s Robert’s father. All I need do is ask Robert if he remembers his father accompanying him home in March—and that will strike two names from the list
.

Giles Howard is also on there. I’m trying not to let my own opinion prejudice my investigations
.

29 October 1553
Greenwich

Queen Anne left court this week to return to Hever. Her eyesight is growing worse, though she covers it well. Her Majesty takes care to walk only in bright sunlight or in rooms she knows well. She is beginning to avoid crowds, and I suspect it’s because she cannot always see to whom she is speaking. At Hever Castle she will be surrounded by those who have known her since she was a child, and she will be able to rest more easily
.

And Elizabeth and I leave for Hatfield tomorrow. As Hever was her mother’s childhood home, Hatfield is Elizabeth’s. It was given to her at birth, and her earliest—and happiest—memories are there. Though William is normally anxious to retain our company through the winter, he seems not to mind our leaving this year. Indeed, I wonder how long it will take him to realize that we are gone
.

15 November 1553
Hatfield

I received a letter from Dominic today, the first he’s sent me from France. It was brief and general. Honestly, if I wanted a weather report, I’d go to France myself
.

3 December 1553
Richmond Palace

Our respite at Hatfield was brief. We arrived at Richmond yesterday to keep Christmas with the court. I suppose I should be flattered that William sent for us
.

We dined with him last night. Elizabeth and I, Lord and Lady Rochford—and Eleanor Howard. Giles is in Cumberland, overseeing the manor that William gifted him upon his marriage
.

It was an uncomfortable dinner. As intimidating as the Lord Protector can be, I’ve always thought Lady Rochford far the more frightening of the two. I don’t think she likes me—but then, I’m not sure she likes anyone. Certainly not her husband. They’ve never had children, and one can only imagine Lord Rochford would rather not bed a woman with the eyes and tongue of a snake—which is saying something, since everyone knows he’ll bed almost anyone else
.

Oh, dear, I’m becoming rather shrewish. I’m sure I don’t know why
.

4 December 1553
Richmond Palace

I do know why—I just don’t want to admit it
.

I am jealous of Eleanor
.

I spent the afternoon watching William play tennis with Robert Dudley. I was seated next to Eleanor, and she kept saying things to me, things about William. About the horses he favours and the people he detests and his worries about the negotiations dragging on in the Netherlands. It wasn’t what Eleanor said so much as the way she said it—as if she were confiding great secrets about a man only she understands. I wanted very much to say, “I’ve known William far longer than you have.” But I held my tongue
.

Perhaps pettiness would have been better. As if determined to break my silence, Eleanor began to insinuate things—intimate things—that I’d rather not know. And I cannot escape the fact that she does know William better than I do, or at least more fully. When one is unclothed with a man, one is certain to learn things others do not
.

7 December 1553
Richmond Palace

I have been asked for as a bride
.

When I heard that Thomas Seymour wished to marry me, my first impulse was to wonder what a widower thirty years my senior could want with me. I have but a very small fortune and no family ties to speak of. But the truth is, I know perfectly well what Lord Thomas wanted. He is very fond of young women—his indiscretions have been a source of gossip for some time. Unlike many gentlemen, he is not afraid to flaunt his affairs. I suppose I should be grateful that he was willing to marry me rather than persuade me into something less respectable. But all I can feel is a shiver of disgust when I think of him wanting to touch me
.