The Boleyn King (13 page)

William remembered his promise and spoke to me in private before giving Lord Thomas an answer. Thankfully, William accepted my quick refusal, but he did ask if I had any definite ideas of my own about marriage. What could I say? Although he is my dearest friend, William is a man, and so I could not say, “I should like to feel my heart beat faster at the sight of my husband. I should like to marry a man whose touch I crave in the night, and whose company I crave in the daytime. I should like a friend and a lover in one.”

At any rate, I don’t want Lord Thomas and William has told him so
.

12 December 1553
Richmond Palace

Eleanor is with child. The only pleasure I take in the news is that custom—and discretion—will force her to retire from court after Christmas
.

I have heard from Dominic only three times since he went to France. Perhaps he has a pregnant mistress as well
.

Four days before Christmas, Dominic woke at dawn with the closest thing to anticipation that he’d felt since arriving in France. Today he was leaving court with Vicomte Renaud LeClerc, a relative of King Henri’s and the only genuine friend Dominic had made here. Renaud had invited Dominic to spend Christmas with his family—a wife and two small sons—at his home in the Loire Valley. After weeks of endless talk, Dominic would have accepted any invitation that removed him from political circles for however short a time, but this invitation was truly welcome.

He slid carefully out of bed, but not carefully enough. As his weight shifted, the woman beside him stirred and woke. “Dominic?” she purred in a way that made him very conscious she was naked. “Where are you going?”

“I ride out in an hour,” he reminded her. “With LeClerc.”

“An hour,” Aimée said, with the kind of smile that said everything about her intentions. “It does not take you an hour to dress.”

He considered for the space of one breath. “No, it doesn’t.”

Aimée’s very best quality was her boldness, a quality Dominic appreciated every time he wrapped himself around her and let his mind take flight. Indeed, she was in his bed now because one night, after several weeks of hints and innuendos, she had finally waylaid him—there was really no other term for it—in a darkened corridor. He had been homesick and lonely and had taken some liberties and in the heat of her eager response he had brought her to his room.

That had been eight weeks ago. And though Aimée’s allure had not waned, Dominic had been growing steadily more restless. Even now, as his hands found her curves and his mouth tasted hers and his body roused to her own confident caresses, his eyes played tricks in imperfect flashes. For one moment he thought Aimée’s dark hair shone gold, then her blue eyes warmed to hazel … Dominic forced away those disconcerting imprints and let himself be swept into forgetfulness.

After a satisfying three quarters of an hour, she propped herself on one elbow and watched him dress. “I do not see why you wish to spend Christmas elsewhere,” she sniffed. “Would you not rather stay here with me?”

“You will never miss me,” he said, truthfully. Aimée was not known for her fidelity.

“But you will miss me—every night that you are alone.”

Perhaps. All right, yes, part of him would miss her very much. But Dominic was beginning to think that he’d given free rein to that part of himself for long enough. The previous women in his life had been warm and kind and self-effacing and it had all felt very natural, not as though every encounter was a skirmish to be won or lost.

If this were a skirmish, Dominic knew he was losing. Which meant he was glad to be joining Renaud this morning and riding away from the Louvre. He rather thought he needed a break.

When he was dressed, Dominic grabbed his woolen cloak for riding and leaned over Aimée. “A joyous Christmas,” he said, and kissed her.

She teased at his mouth, almost making him wish he wasn’t leaving, then shrugged away, letting her hair fall around her bare shoulders. “
Au revoir
, Dominic. Think of me while you are gone.”

Something in her seductive, possessive tone called to his mind an image—of Eleanor Howard dancing triumphantly in William’s arms while her husband watched from the sidelines. What was it Dominic had said to his friend that day?
Have you given any thought to the lady, beyond what you desire?

Dominic was many miles away from Paris before he could shake that uncomfortable image, but gradually his heart lightened with each mile he put between himself and the French court. Leaving aside the issue of Aimée, being a diplomat, even an unrecognized one, was more difficult than any battle Dominic had fought. He did well enough, he supposed—Rochford had not complained—but his heart wasn’t in it. In the midst of drawn-out debates on theology or the significance of Salic law in Anglo-French relations, Dominic often found himself wanting to smash his head against the nearest wall. No wonder treaties took so long to negotiate—no one could stop talking long enough to come to a decision.

Renaud, at least, was a man he understood instinctively—a soldier who was more comfortable campaigning than negotiating. But he was also French, which made him naturally more devious, and he had taught Dominic a few things about the uses of flattery in building relationships. And between coding letters to Rochford and learning which French ministers would be most open to peace with England, Dominic had a little time for things he did enjoy, such as jousting or swordplay with Renaud and his men.

As they approached a village snuggled in a wide loop of the Loire River, Renaud pointed out his boundaries. “My land, Dominic,” he said, pronouncing his name with the lengthened vowels of the French. “From river to hills. This prospect I take with me wherever I go.”

A moment later a rider came into view, dressed in the scarlet and gray of Renaud’s livery. He stayed his horse only long enough to salute them, then turned and rode rapidly ahead.

“Nicole likes to have warning,” Renaud said. “It is superstition with her that she always be in the courtyard when I return.”

The vicomtesse was indeed waiting in the courtyard as they rode in, wrapped in a fur-lined cloak, her eyes going straight to her husband. From the way Renaud had talked about his wife, Dominic had expected … something different.

She was short and a little plump, with mouse-brown hair and ordinary features. Dominic wondered what could possibly keep her husband as entranced as he’d always sounded. But just then she smiled at Renaud as he swung down from his horse, and Dominic caught his breath. Her smile completely transformed her face, and the charge between husband and wife made the courtyard pale by comparison, as though all the light and energy of the winter sun had concentrated on these two people, embracing fiercely in the open air.

By the time dinner was over that evening, Dominic had no remaining doubts about Renaud’s attraction to his wife. A wordless glance, a brief clasping of hands at table—it all served to reinforce the picture of a marriage Dominic had not known could exist. After a brief introduction to the LeClerc sons, a shy four-year-old and a rambunctious two-year-old, Nicole bade the men goodnight and swept off with her boys.

Renaud settled back with a cup of wine, basking in the contentment of home and family. Dominic could not keep from asking, though he endeavoured to be subtle, “Your wife’s family, they are well situated?”

Renaud laughed. “You mean did I overthrow all caution in marrying for love? Nicole is of the proper background, and my family was pleased with the match. Not that it mattered to me. From the first time I laid eyes on her, I thought only of Nicole herself.”

“And if she had been …” How to finish that sentence without rudeness?

With a lift of his eyebrows, Renaud finished it for him. “A peasant? A serving maid? Would I still have taken her, if everyone around me had disapproved?” Renaud twisted his face in a wry expression. “Who can tell? She is who she is. I cannot imagine her different. All I can say is that Nicole, as she is, is the only one for me.”

Dominic stared into the fire, at the blue flames leaping into crackles of orange. There were images in those flames: the sheen of honey-coloured hair, the scent of a dying rose garden, and the appeal of hazel eyes.

“And what of you, Dominic? You are restrained with the women at our court.”

Remembering Aimée’s adventuresome nature in bed, Dominic thought “restrained” was not the word he would use. He parried the question. “Not as restrained as you are.”

“I am married.”

“So are most of the men at court. It doesn’t seem to bother them.”

“Ah, but I am deeply in love with my wife. Which causes me to wonder who you might be in love with. Is there a betrothed waiting for you in England?”

“No.” Dominic blinked hard, and the fire became once again just a fire.

Something in the tone of his voice must have warned off Renaud, for he declined to pursue the subject. “Shall we speak of your king, then? What manner of man is this William? One to bring King Henri to terms?”

Snatching the opportunity, Dominic said, “Surely that depends partly on Henri as well.”

“True enough.” Renaud studied him. “Is William his father’s son?”

“In some things.” As Dominic looked at Renaud’s curious face, a suspicion came to him that perhaps this invitation had not been entirely for friendship’s sake. Renaud served his own king, after all.

Choosing his words with greater care, Dominic continued. “William is quick and has a perfect memory. What he hears once, he remembers. He has learnt well from his uncle how to see the larger picture, how history is woven together out of seemingly random people and events. He is not as subtle as the Lord Protector, but he knows how to use the strengths of his advisors.”

“Lord Rochford, yes.” Renaud drew the name out in a way that made Dominic smile. The French had always been ambivalent about George Boleyn. “He will continue to be powerful after the regency is ended.”

“Yes. But William is his own man. He is young and impatient, but he has not been idle. He is prepared to rule—and he means to rule well.”

“And his temper? His father had a most notorious temper.”

Dominic held Renaud’s gaze steadily, letting him know that he recognized the drift of these questions. “He does not act in anger, nor does he let passion overrule his practicality. His temper will never get the best of his ambitions.”

“A paragon, then?” Renaud lifted his cup in an amused salute. “Perhaps you confuse your king with your friend.”

“Cannot he be both?”

Renaud’s lips tightened, and with a shake of his head he set his cup down. “Let us speak frankly, as becomes men-at-arms. You know why I ask about your king, and I hear how cautiously you answer. It is the game of diplomats, and we will play it as we are ordered. But it is not our natural environment.”

He laced his fingers together, his voice gathering conviction as he spoke. “Kings are not men like us, Dominic. Their world is one of distrust and intrigue. They talk and twist and look always for their own advantage. So do we seek advantage, but only on the field of battle. And that is never personal. If you and I were to meet in the field, we should fight with every weapon at our disposal and we should not stop until one or the other of us had won the day. And when it was done, we could meet afterward without malice. Our fight would be honourable, and so would be defeat or victory.”

“And kings do not have honour?” Dominic felt defensive on William’s behalf, though he recognized himself in Renaud’s assessment.

Renaud shrugged. “Of their own kind, yes. But make no mistake, it is not of a kind we understand. Kings are devoted to their own interests—always. It is a little like the religious heretics. They do everything driven by the belief that they are right and they alone know God. Kings are just as fanatic. They are true believers—in themselves. And true believers are always dangerous.”

“What is your point?”

“It is good to serve your king,” Renaud replied, reaching for his cup once more. “Just don’t imagine he will ever return the favour. Friendship with kings is always one-sided.”

“No more,” Elizabeth protested as Robert tried to pull her into another galliard. She moved nimbly out of his reach and sat next to Minuette on a trestle bench across the table from William.

It was the day after Christmas, and there were three dozen men and women gathered for a private celebration with their king. Not one of them was older than twenty-five. Elizabeth had heard Lord Northumberland grumbling in the courtyard earlier about the bad influence of the “young and flighty.”

Elizabeth scanned the ambitious and flattered guests. Eleanor was here, of course. Pending motherhood had not lessened her obvious appeal—if anything, it had enhanced her generous curves in a fashion the men seemed to find pleasing. Even Robert’s eyes rested briefly on her cleavage as she crossed the room and seated herself cozily next to William.

Minuette was absorbed in conversation with Eleanor’s twin, Jonathan Percy. Of all the guests he looked the most ill at ease, too serious and shy to relax in such close proximity to his king.

Elizabeth’s eyes drifted back to where Robert stood, Gypsy-dark and smiling as he spoke to Jane Grey. After this week’s festivities, Robert would be leaving court for at least a month. It should not trouble her—he had a home, after all. But she was all too aware that Robert going home meant Robert seeing his wife.