The Boleyn King (21 page)

As the Te Deum rose to its conclusion, William had to refrain from a sigh of relief. He was accustomed to working through church services, not sitting perfectly still while watched from all sides. After Archbishop Cranmer’s final prayer, William led the way out of the king’s pew and waited for both of his sisters. Offering an arm to each of them, William made the short progress to the great hall, where Mary had one final part to play.

Beneath the soaring hammer-beam ceiling, the great hall was packed with people, the rich fabrics and bright colours of their clothing merely a continuation of the tapestried walls. He noted several in particular: Jane Grey looking fair and neat next to her formidable mother, Robert Dudley winking at Elizabeth, Northumberland standing at a slight remove from the rest of the council.

Those in the room lowered as one into bows and curtsies as William took his place on the dais. A gilded and cushioned throne waited for him beneath the canopy of state, the rich cloth hung above to signal his authority, and to one side of it stood his mother. William left his sisters flanking the opposite side of the throne and went to Anne. He took her by the hand and raised her up. He could have sworn that the great hall vanished for a moment and it was just he and his mother acknowledging what the two of them had wrought. He had meant only to kiss her hand, but on impulse he kissed her on both cheeks instead.

“Rise,” he commanded the audience as he sat. For perhaps the first time in his life, not a soul was looking at William. Mary had all the attention she ever could have asked for.
Will she balk?
William wondered.
Will she refuse to submit? Will she faint to avoid it?
He hoped not. Fainting women were not his specialty.

It was the slightest movement that could almost have been imagined, but everyone was so intent there was no chance of missing it. Her expression like stone, her eyes looking far beyond this room, Mary turned just enough so that she might be said to have been facing in the general direction of Anne and lowered her chin.

The crowd let out its collective breath. It was done. William smiled warmly at Mary in thanks. She looked tired and perhaps legitimately ill. He would make this next part quick so that she might retire with dignity.

In the arched imperial crown of the King of England, Ireland, and France, with the jeweled collar over the crimson velvet and ermine state robe he had worn to the church service—with Henry’s queen on one side and his two daughters on the other—William had never felt more ready to take his father’s place.

He began with the announcement of what had been already widely rumoured. “Lord Rochford.”

William counted it to his uncle’s credit that he managed not to look complacent as he stepped before William and bowed low.

“My lord Rochford, we are grateful for thy service to our crown and kingdom. Thou hast kept our realm safe and prosperous through our tender years.” At the edge of the dais, he saw Minuette’s lips quirk.

Repressing the urge to wink at her, he continued. “We appoint thee Lord Chancellor of England. Long may your wisdom aid us.”

As William presented his uncle with the Great Seal of England, the mark of his new office, there was a slight murmur from the crowd, though no great surprise.

“Master Dominic Courtenay.”

Unlike Rochford, Dominic did look surprised, and the interest of those watching sharpened. He stepped forward and bowed graciously enough, but William did not miss the question in his eyes.

“Thou hast long served us well. Thou are first amongst the knights of England, rightly renowned for both prowess in arms and honest diplomacy. Thou hast earned what we freely give.”

William extended his hand, and his steward was ready, laying in it the sword Dominic had given him last year. “Kneel.”

William touched him lightly on each shoulder. “Dominic Courtenay, Marquis of Exeter.”

Whatever the crowd had predicted, it had not been this. That title had belonged not to Dominic’s father but to his traitorous uncle. For fifteen years the crown had held Exeter’s land, though his wife and son had been released from the Tower four years ago. William knew that some had expected him to return the title to Exeter’s son, who, at twenty-seven, had shown none of his father’s inclinations to rebellion.

But he had determined some time ago to pass the title and estates to Dominic. Not quite all of the estates—he had left the dispossessed Edward Courtenay several lesser manors—but the bulk of the wealth, along with the hereditary rights, was now Dominic’s.

In the surprised silence of the great hall, Dominic proclaimed his fealty to William and England. When he stood, there was just time for William to clasp his hand warmly before Dominic was surrounded by a surge of well-wishers and power seekers. William’s lips twitched again at the look on Dominic’s face as men and women alike sought to speak to him at once. With the official ceremonies ended, everyone was anxious to assert his or her own position.

A soft hand slipped into his, and Minuette’s voice was in his ear. “That was generous.”

He grinned at her. “What is the point of being king if one cannot be generous to one’s friends?”

Eleanor had wound her way through the press of people and now took possession of William’s free arm while speaking to Minuette. “Wasn’t it a wonderful surprise? I always think these gestures are best when only a few people know beforehand.”

William wondered why she made it sound as though she were one of those who had known before. Removing his arm from Eleanor’s grasp, he said, “Minuette, I haven’t forgotten it is your birthday as well as mine. I thought I would let you name your gift from me.” He leaned forward and pitched his voice in a conspiratorial whisper. “Perhaps, once you have spoken to Jonathan, you will have a better idea what you might desire.”

She blushed prettily, and William knew he’d been understood. Minuette could have the grandest wedding in the kingdom at his expense—she need only name when and where.

Refusing to be snubbed, Eleanor thrust herself into the conversation once more. “A Christmas wedding, perhaps? Although you may not wish to wait that long. I’m certain my brother would name the earliest possible day.”

Minuette freed her hand from William’s, looking unnaturally flustered. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m needed elsewhere.”

With a warmth that William did not believe for an instant, Eleanor said, “Take care how you treat my brother’s heart. It’s quite fragile.”

“Is it?” Minuette said. “Not at all a family trait.”

Before William had absorbed her rudeness, she was gone. With the merest nod of his head, he made to leave as well, but Eleanor caught him by the arm once more. He could feel the points of her fingernails even through several layers of fabric.

With a seductiveness that had never failed to stir him before, she said, “I do hope your entire week won’t be taken up with public ceremonies.”

Allowing his eyes to wander the length of her body, William said, “No, I don’t imagine it will.” He let complacency settle in her expression before adding, “As a matter of fact, I’m going to dine in private later with my closest companions.”

Already gleaming with gratification, Eleanor looked ready to purr.

William leaned closer and said, “With your husband at court, I wouldn’t dream of keeping you away from him. Perhaps I’ll see you at the dancing tonight.”

He could feel her fury burning into his back as he walked away, and for a moment he was disconcerted. He didn’t like the way she had talked to Minuette, but was that reason enough to dismiss her out of hand? She was the mother of his child, after all.

He would think about it later. Perhaps after a glass or two of wine.

It took nearly an hour to be released from the crowds, but finally William retreated to his privy chamber with Dominic in tow. Elizabeth and Minuette were there waiting for them. With a wave of his hand, William dismissed the attendants. “Leave us. We will serve ourselves.”

A table had been laid with smoked salmon, artichoke pie, glistening pomegranates, and gingerbread stamped with the lion of England. And wine, both red and white. William was very glad of that wine—he had the beginnings of a headache.

When the door shut, he was suddenly aware that he was standing alone, with the other three grouped together. The weight of his state robes and crown seemed to emphasize the heavy silence that settled into awkwardness.

Is this what being king means?
he thought desperately.
Always standing alone?

But then Minuette did precisely the right thing. She curtsied deeply, raised her head to him from her lowered position, and winked.

In a moment, the four of them were laughing together and all was once again simple. Minuette approached William and began to untie the thick cord holding the state robes in place across his shoulders. “Now that we have done our duty to our king, we can dispose of this at least.”

“Let me,” Dominic said, as Minuette pulled the robe free and nearly collapsed from the staggering weight of it.

“Good heavens,” she said. “However can you stand it?”

“I’m trained for it. Like riding—begin small and work your way up. I suppose the robe I’ll wear in twenty years will be twice that weight.” William poured himself wine and drank.

Dominic stood still in the doorway to William’s bedchamber, frozen in place with the robe still in his arms.

“Dom? What’s wrong?”

He said nothing. Elizabeth moved first, William and Minuette together behind her. As they moved, Dominic continued into the bedchamber and laid the robe on William’s bed. He still did not speak. He did not have to.

Scrawled in paint on a linen sheet was a vicious message:
The Penitent’s Confession is true—Long live Queen Mary!
It was pinned to the bed by a knife.

Heedless of the women, William breathed out an oath. “Where will this end?”

Dominic answered, “I think our own counsel is no longer sufficient. Rochford must be told.”

“I quite agree,” drawled Rochford’s familiar voice from behind William. He turned slowly and found his uncle watching them from the doorway. “I wondered when the four of you would come to that conclusion.”

“You knew?” Elizabeth asked bluntly.

“I know everything that goes on at court, and most everything that goes on outside of it. Did you never consider that these kinds of attacks would not be confined to you alone?”

William was getting good at reading his uncle. “You have been targeted as well?”

“I have.”

“And you did not tell me?” He felt his anger growing and reminded himself to use it rather than be swept away by it.

Rochford raised one insolent eyebrow. “You did not tell me, either.”

“I am king!”

William thought someone jumped—probably Minuette—when he shouted, but Rochford seemed almost pleased. “So you are, Your Majesty. What do you command?”

“That you tell me everything. Now.”

“Of course. Would you care to withdraw to greater privacy?”

Rochford’s gaze scanned Elizabeth, Dominic, Minuette, dismissing each of them with his eyes.

“I would not. We will speak together—all of us.”

That displeased Rochford; it was obvious in the tightening of his jaw. William did not give him time to object. Leading the way back into the privy chamber, he pulled out a chair and said, “Would you care to join us, Uncle? I would appreciate your … insights into this matter.”

“By all means.” Rochford held a chair for Elizabeth; Dominic did the same for Minuette.

When they were all seated tensely around the circular table, Rochford said, “Perhaps we might begin with that message. The Penitent’s Confession—you have all been dabbling in this matter for some time, so I presume you’ve heard of it?”

William nodded. “Elizabeth and I have, from Minuette. Sorry, Dom, there hasn’t been time to tell you everything.”

Rochford leaned back in his chair and drawled, “I’d wondered if that was the reason for Stephen Howard’s visit to Beaulieu. So he’s feeding information to his stepdaughter. Interesting.”

“You know about that?” Minuette asked.

With surprising sharpness, Dominic said, “Does someone want to tell me what the Penitent’s Confession is?”

“A Catholic rumour,” Rochford said. “A claim that one of my sister’s household had, on his or—more likely—her deathbed, sworn an affidavit that Henry was not William’s father. It’s a tissue of lies wrapped in whispers.”

“That is not a whisper pinned to the king’s bed,” Dominic said flatly, meeting Rochford’s stare with one of his own. “Minuette, how did you come to hear of this?”

“As Lord Rochford said, while I was at Beaulieu the Lady Mary was visited by my stepfather, Stephen Howard. He spoke to me privately and offered warning that the Catholics are looking for this affidavit. He wanted me to … well, to speak for him. To assure the court that he personally has no ill intentions toward the king, whatever his family might do.”

“So Norfolk lied to us.” Elizabeth spoke softly, but William heard the steel in her words. He nodded at his sister to go on, and she said to their uncle, “Can one falsely sworn affidavit truly be that dangerous? Surely it has been so long ago that everyone would greet it as the mere ravings of the discontented, even if it is not an obvious forgery.”

“I do not think you appreciate how deeply resentment of your mother still runs. Make no mistake—religion may be the driving force, but Anne has always been the flash point. If William had not been born a boy … if Henry had not been so taken with his healthy son—” Rochford broke off, his face dark with anger and—could it be fear? William wondered. Or the memory of fear? “Anne came perilously close to losing more than just her crown in the year before William’s birth. Henry was always unpredictable and easily persuaded in his tempers. So yes, niece, this affidavit could be truly dangerous—and I assure you that the forgery will not be obvious—dangerous enough that we must keep it out of Norfolk’s hands at all costs or it will be used to raise an army for Mary and drive us out once and for all.”

“Why can’t Norfolk simply create his own false affidavit that meets these criteria?” Elizabeth replied. “We’re allowing him the opportunity, what with Mary being in his household the remainder of the summer.”

“He’s always had the opportunity,” William said. “Mary being there won’t change that. But if Minuette’s stepfather is correct that his brother is searching for it, that implies that Norfolk believes it’s a true document, one not currently in his possession. And if he has evidence for his search … that might lead us to further conspirators.”

In the silence that fell, Dominic alone moved. He stood and walked to the bedchamber. “What are you doing?” William asked.

“I’m going to lay a fire and burn that message. And if I might make a suggestion?”

William nodded.

“Keep your bedchamber guarded even when you are not in it.”

Dominic didn’t have to say why. Only a very limited number had access to William’s bedchamber in any case.

Which meant that whoever had left that message—and the knife—was someone he knew well.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

IN A LIFETIME of long days, Dominic thought, this one was the longest. He was late into the great hall for the dancing. By that time he was so keyed up from lack of sleep, long days of travel, and the events of the day that he had to keep blinking himself into reality. Every time someone called him Exeter, it took a breath or two for him to answer. He kept expecting someone to tap him on the shoulder and tell him it had all been a mistake.

He felt he had accomplished little enough in Europe, and so he had claimed last night at the final gathering of the regency council. But in spite of the general resentment of the French, the lords had been gracious in their thanks, and even Rochford had unbent so far as to shake his hand and say softly, “Never underestimate the power of backstairs diplomacy.”

Dominic suspected that the next encounter with France would have little to do with diplomacy, backstairs or not. He had seen the look in William’s eyes and knew his king was itching for the opportunity to fight the French. The next move was Henri’s—and Dominic planned to keep in good fighting condition until then. Like William, he preferred the thought of an open battlefield in France to the twists and uneasiness of the Penitent’s Confession and Catholic conspiracies. Better to face off against a known enemy than brood over a hidden one. Rochford could do the latter well enough—as he had pointed out earlier. “Let me monitor conditions for a few weeks,” he’d concluded after Dominic had burnt the banner. “I am not certain it is wise to allow Lady Mary to continue on to Framlingham with Norfolk.”

“I think it is,” William had said with conviction. “Most important, I gave her my word. She came to chapel with me—and managed to acknowledge my mother without throwing anything. Her reward is a stay with Norfolk. And if we wish to draw out the enemy, we must give him space. If we give her a measure of liberty in this, the traitor may very well be drawn out. Especially if it is Norfolk.”

He’s starting to think like Rochford
, Dominic thought, and didn’t know if he was pleased or not. Normally he would celebrate any restraint from William—but while restraint was one thing, cold-blooded calculation could be turned to something else entirely.

When he at last entered the great hall, his eyes went straight to Minuette with the unerring instinct of a man besotted. She positively glowed in a dress of shot silk that swirled through every shade of blue and green when she moved. She spoke to a young man that Dominic recognized as Jonathan Percy, her head tilted to the side in a manner that made his chest ache.

“How is the newest peer of the realm?” William came up next to him, sounding remarkably pleased with himself.

“I’m not sure I’ll ever learn to answer to Exeter.” Dominic smiled a little. “Thank you. It was as generous as it was unexpected.”

William shrugged, but Dominic did not miss the satisfaction in his eyes. “It was for my sake as much as yours. I need you independent. You now rival Norfolk and Northumberland as a landowner.”

“And you don’t mind tweaking their noses a bit.”

“Not at all.” William grinned. “But that doesn’t take away from the fact that you’ve earned it. There is no man on this earth I trust more than you.”

William uttered the words easily enough, but they struck Dominic with a force he would not have expected. For the first time since his father’s death, he felt the weight of his family’s disgrace slip away, and in that moment it was not William he saw before him but his king.

“I live only to be worthy of that trust, Your Majesty.”

William clapped him on the shoulder. “Now, tell me about France—and not the boring diplomatic details. Plenty of pretty women at Henri’s court, I’ll wager.”

Minuette rushed back into Dominic’s mind, and he answered automatically while his eyes searched the room for her. “Very pretty.”

There was a long silence, broken by William’s unregal snort. “That’s it? Really, Dom, it is possible to take discretion too far.”

But Dominic’s roaming eyes had lighted on Minuette, dancing now. “Does Percy spend a lot of time with Minuette?”

“Still playing big brother? Jonathan Percy is harmless enough. A musician—I stole him away from the Bishop of Winchester. He composed the music for this morning’s service.”

Dominic, who had not the faintest idea of what this morning’s music had been, nodded vaguely while William continued. “He spends all his spare time writing sonnets to Minuette.”

Feeling a trickle of ice along his veins, Dominic asked, “Is he serious?”

“He’s asked for her, if that’s what you mean.”

It was as though all the colours in the room had dimmed suddenly. “They’re betrothed,” Dominic said flatly.

“You’d have to ask Minuette that. I told Percy he’d need her permission before he gained mine. But she seems to like him well enough. Young, poor, poetic—yes, I imagine she’ll take him.”

The fog that seemed to have descended on Dominic spread, deadening both sight and sound. He was hardly aware of William moving away, and if the king said anything else before leaving, he did not hear it. The only thing he could see clearly was Minuette’s coronet of burnished hair as she left the hall on Jonathan Percy’s arm.

No doubt they would walk in the gardens or somewhere else a little more private. No doubt Percy had things of a personal nature to say to her. No doubt he was as certain of her answer as William was.

In an instant, the adrenaline that had buoyed Dominic through this day vanished, and he was left feeling exhausted. He had thought only about himself. He had never considered that she might fall in love with someone else.

As he stared unseeing across the hall, he felt a near overpowering urge to follow her. No, not just follow her—stop her. He need only ask to speak to her. She would not deny him that.

And then … what? Dominic knew he could be persuasive. He had titles and wealth and royal kinship on his side. Any other woman would gladly dismiss Jonathan Percy in favour of a marquis.

But Minuette wasn’t any other woman. Oh, he might be able to convince her, for he knew her weaknesses—already he could hear sentences forming in his head, the effortless manipulation of her emotions and loyalties. He could do it, he thought; he could tear her away from Jonathan Percy.

But he wouldn’t. Though he felt as though his bones might crack beneath the burden of jealous desire, he would not override her choice. If she wanted Percy, she must have him. William had left her free to answer for herself—Dominic would do no less.

Minuette knew she could not avoid Jonathan forever. So, determined not to let nerves get the better of her, she sought him out as soon as she reached the great hall. He greeted her as he always did—with a mix of awe and gratitude that she had always found pleasing. But tonight she could not help contrasting his shy and halting words with the easy conversation of William or Dominic.

Such a comparison was laughable. William and Dominic were her friends, the nearest thing she had to brothers—of course they conversed easily with her. They didn’t even think of her as a woman.

She smiled and laughed and danced with Jonathan and acquiesced when he asked her to walk in the gardens. It was only when they reached the quietness of the riverbank and Jonathan turned her to look at him that she grew nervous.

He told her of his audience with the king and of William’s permission to proceed. Minuette kept her eyes modestly lowered while Jonathan’s voice strengthened. He spoke of her beauty, and her kindness, and her virtue, in words that flowed ever more easily as the poet in him took over. And when he grasped her hands in his and asked her to marry him, she looked up, prepared to make him happy.