The Boleyn King (20 page)

William had been betrothed to Mary Stuart at one point—when he was seven and she was an infant queen. But Marie de Guise had smuggled her daughter away to France five years later and the English betrothal had been succeeded by a French one. Now eleven years old, Mary was only a few years from becoming the wife of the dauphin, Francis. The Scots themselves seemed content, no doubt trusting that the future Queen of France would spend her time in Paris, leaving her religiously independent subjects to their own devices. An English marriage would be far too close to home.

The only way to secure Mary Stuart was on the battlefield. But William could feel it in his bones—his chance was coming. He would know the moment and he would seize it. And then he would have what he wanted.

He sighed and ran his hands through his hair. Sometimes he envied his people—not the nobles and courtiers who surrounded him at all times, but the staunch, worthy everyday Englishmen who worked the land and served in the background and never had to trouble themselves about politics or treaties. They married for love—or at least for choice—rather than assessing every possibility without consideration for personal feeling.

Not that William’s personal feelings had ever moved him to want more than what he had with Eleanor. He supposed, if he had not been king, he might have married Eleanor last year for desire alone.
Just as well I am king
, he thought wryly. A marriage based solely on desire was certain to be a disaster.

Minuette rode out of the forecourt the next morning conscious of the pleasures inherent in being once more amongst friends. She rode Winterfall, the white palfrey that William had given her a year ago. William himself rode next to her, with Elizabeth and Robert and a dozen others behind. She felt a petty satisfaction that Eleanor had not been invited, and tried not to dwell on what she wanted it to mean. After all, it was natural that a woman who’d given birth two months before would not be prepared to ride.

Jonathan Percy’s was another face missing from this morning’s hunt. He did not care for blood sport, and he’d needed to rehearse with the choir for tomorrow’s service in any case. But he had not seemed to mind her going, only kissed her hand and bade her be safe.

Winterfall was aching to run this morning, and Minuette could feel her own blood pulsing in response.

Calling over her shoulder to William, she issued a challenge. “I’ll wager I can reach the river before you can.”

She didn’t wait for a response, but let Winterfall have her head. Some might think it cheating to begin the race while William was still talking to Elizabeth, but as Minuette was handicapped by a sidesaddle and long skirts, she thought it only fair. She knew the path by instinct, having ridden it for years. Winterfall was responsive to her slightest touch, and soon Minuette could see the main road to London running alongside the Thames.

It was as well that she slowed before pounding onto the road, for a lone horseman had just come round the bend. It took all Minuette’s strength to pull Winterfall’s head round to the right and even then she felt the whoosh of the large black horse passing so close that her blue skirts billowed up.

“Good girl,” Minuette said shakily, patting Winterfall’s neck as she slowed the horse to a walk and then a stop. Being mangled in a riding accident was not what she’d meant when she’d thought of an exciting morning. Perhaps she should be a little less careless in her enthusiasms.

It seemed the other rider thought so as well. She heard him pull his own horse around and canter back to her. Even the horse sounded displeased. Minuette adjusted herself in the saddle, prepared to apologize prettily.

She never got the chance.

As Dominic drew near Hampton Court, he moved his palfrey into a gallop. He was looking up at the turrets, just visible above the parkland trees, when he heard an approaching horse. Because he knew the lanes of the park well, he was able to swing aside in time to avoid being hit by the careless rider. But it spooked his horse thoroughly, and he had to struggle to get the black Barbary under control.

He wheeled round in the road, prepared to deliver a scathing criticism, when he realized the rider was a woman. That was enough to make him pause and look her over more closely.

For the space of a fleeting thought, he hesitated, and so he barely had time to dismount before Minuette was upon him. Then she was in his arms and he was aware of nothing but the feel of her against him.

He was home.

CHAPTER TEN

28 June 1554
Hampton Court

The sun has just risen on my eighteenth birthday. This is likely to be the only time of the entire day when even I remember that. This day is for William—and England
.

When I was young, I thought of eighteen as a mystical age, a time when I would know my future and myself. But I find this morning that I am sure of nothing. I know that Jonathan spoke to William yesterday. I know what Jonathan will ask me today. I thought I knew what I would answer him
.

I will say yes. Of course I will say yes. There is no reason I should not. But why, then, did I avoid him at last night’s banquet? For I took care that Jonathan could not catch me alone. I spent my evening flirting discreetly with the Spanish ambassador, feeling him out as to a possible marriage for Elizabeth with Prince Philip
.

I avoided Dominic last night as well, though I was aware of his every movement. From the moment he pulled me against him on the road yesterday, I have felt almost shy. It’s ridiculous—me, shy of Dominic? Might as well be frightened of William. But the fact remains that Dominic seems all at once a stranger to me. Perhaps it is only his appearance. He has let his hair grow while in France, until it brushes against his chin. And a thin mustache and the hint of a beard, which make him look … older. Darker
.

I’m being silly. Dominic is the same as ever he was. All I need do is speak to him and I will feel myself again
.

Elizabeth stood perfectly still as Kat Ashley surveyed her from head to toe, then circled the wide-skirted cloth-of-silver gown that to Elizabeth felt almost like armour. Today was about acknowledging William without completely fading into the background. The silver shimmer of Elizabeth’s dress, complemented by the Tudor roses embroidered on her sleeves and kirtle, marked her as royal without staking the first claim to power. Though her women would cover their hair in snoods for church, Elizabeth merely had a length of gossamer silk attached to her small silver crown.
It’s always my hair
, she thought.
The people want to be reminded that I got this red-gold hair from my father
.

After smoothing a nonexistent crease and tweaking a ribbon that edged one wide trumpet sleeve, Kat nodded once. “You’re ready.”

For chapel? Yes. For Mary?
Elizabeth sighed.

“Mary will come,” Minuette said confidently from over Elizabeth’s shoulder.

“Because you say so?”

“Because I believe so. Didn’t you say that whatever I believe must be?”

“You are terrifying in your certainty—you know that? You and William both.”

“And that is why you love us. In any case, Mary would not have come all the way to Hampton Court only to balk at the last minute.”

Don’t be so certain
, Elizabeth thought.
Mary is quite capable of doing what she wishes
.

The Chapel Royal was easily reached from the royal apartments—thanks to Cardinal Wolsey’s connecting gallery—and although they were entering the Royal Pew from above and behind the main floor, the crowds were still enormous. Elizabeth began to appreciate Rochford’s planned celebrations in London next week. Hampton Court had sentiment on its side, but it was not built for entertaining on quite this scale.

The Royal Pew—divided into two chambers, for king and queen—was already nearly full, though naturally Elizabeth had a seat waiting in the arch of the bowed window that overlooked the main floor of the chapel. Despite its name, the queen’s box was empty today of her mother. “One submission at a time,” Anne had agreed with William. “First Mary attends church. My acknowledgment comes later.”

Courtesy dictated that Elizabeth sit next to the Duchess of Suffolk, her most unpleasant cousin. Frances Brandon Grey had never liked Anne Boleyn’s children, her own mother having been a great partisan of Catherine of Aragon, and she generally kept her distance. But her ambition was greater than her sentiment, and so she was here with all three of her daughters, no doubt still angling to catch William for her oldest, Lady Jane Grey. Minuette squeezed onto the end of a bench nearest the door at the back, leaving the remaining empty seat in front for Mary.

Elizabeth loved the Royal Pew, for it brought her closer to the exquisite blue of the ceiling, with the golden pendants and cornices commissioned by her father; the height of the box also allowed for the greatest musical appreciation. But its best quality was that it allowed her to look down on the mass of the court rather than being in the midst of it.

From her position, Elizabeth could see a fair part of the chapel proper below. It seemed every eye was fixed on the empty seat next to her.
Half have come to watch William
, she thought,
and half to watch Mary. And that divide is at the very heart of our troubles
.

A ripple of movement and then people were on their feet and bowing. Elizabeth stood with the others and turned to see her brother framed by the doorway into the queen’s box. As she breathed in, she almost thought she was back in Westminster Abbey nearly eight years ago, the day of William’s coronation.

Ten years old he’d been, and the very model of a grave boy king. He had not fumbled once, in word or action, and when St. Edward’s crown was placed on his head, he did not stir in spite of its weight.

She could remember the restraint of the audience and, beneath the pomp, the uneasiness. From a king who had dominated Europe for decades to an untried boy in the blink of an eye—no one had known what the future held for England.

Elizabeth felt a rush of pride as she watched her brother today. Now, at last, England had an independent king—handsome and merry and well loved. With the eyes of his people and most of Europe upon him, he moved as though he had been born for it.

As he had.

Only when she heard a wordless pressure of pent-up sound around her did Elizabeth realize that William did not stand alone. With one hand resting lightly on his arm stood Mary, with her royal pedigree blazing from her figure. She did not look happy, but she did not falter as her brother—head of a Church she considered heretical—led her to her seat next to Elizabeth.

As she swept up from her curtsy, Elizabeth caught Minuette grinning at her from the back of the room. She could almost hear her friend’s voice in her head:
See? I’m always right
.

Throughout the celebration mass, Dominic did not hear a word of worship or a note of music, and he was only dimly aware of the press of people in the Chapel Royal. Even William was little more than a figure glimmering in gold and silver and jewels somewhere at the front. Dominic had never been so glad to be unimportant, for that meant he did not have to sit farther forward but could stand at the back of the king’s pew near the open doorway. By angling his body to an uncomfortable degree, he could catch glimpses of Minuette in the queen’s pew.

He kept his gaze fixed on the front of the chapel as much as possible, for he did not wish to make her uncomfortable. But his eyes kept returning to what he could see of her—the straight back inside her ivory damask gown, the slender neck wrapped in the sapphire star pendant, the great mass of hair confined in a jeweled net attached to the rounded headdress in an ivory that matched her dress. Though he missed the sight of her honey-warm hair, it did have the effect of heightening the outlines of her profile, the straight lines of nose and chin softened by the curve of cheek and lips.

Once, she turned her head to him, as if she could feel the weight of his stare, and Dominic looked hastily away. His heart skipped a few beats, and he almost shook his head at his own foolishness. From the moment Minuette had flung herself into his arms yesterday, Dominic hadn’t drawn a deep breath. He had hardly spoken to her as yet, for she had busied herself at last night’s banquet with the Spanish ambassador, making even that hardened cleric smile with the brightness of her personality.

He had not slept last night, merely lain on his bed while inside him raged a debate of body and mind, desire and discretion. Even now, he could feel Minuette’s every curve imprinted against him, and he wondered fleetingly if this was how his father had felt when Philippa Boleyn claimed his heart without even wanting to.

The prudent thing, the expected thing, would be to speak to William at once and ask formal permission to marry Minuette. But prudence warred with familial demons. He wanted her, but he would not take her by arrangement or without consulting her wishes. He wanted her to come to him willingly—joyfully, even—and that would take time. He would be patient and persuasive, and when her desire matched his, they would go to William together.

He turned his head and, this time, caught Minuette’s eye. She smiled—an oddly tentative smile that made his breath catch. Today was for celebration. A perfect day to coax her into the glories of falling in love.