The Boleyn King (33 page)

“Think, Minuette.”

“I’ve done nothing but think!” She caught herself and said more calmly, “Robert, this is too important to be left in our hands. Rochford must intervene. Send for his soldiers, have them lock Framlingham down.”

“If necessary, those are my orders.” Not unkindly, Robert perched on the uncomfortably narrow edge next to her and took her hands in his. “You are not here because you’re Elizabeth’s friend. Rochford doesn’t work that way. You are here because he believed you could do this. You have been here for a month. You can read people. You know who is keeping secrets and the ways they try to hide them. This affidavit is the most important piece of paper the Catholics could ever lay their hands on. It will be kept safe. Mary would consider it sacred. Where is it?”

She shut her eyes.
Safe. Sacred
. The most private of places—a bedchamber would be that. But Mary would know that hers was always under scrutiny. She would not risk keeping it there. The Duke of Norfolk … the most likely, except that he had not survived to his age by being careless. He knew he was under suspicion. He would not want such a document found in his personal possession—he would want to be able to deny knowledge.

Giles, then? Even as Minuette shuddered at the thought of invading Giles’s bedchamber, she dismissed it. Giles could not be trusted—not even by his father. Nothing so critical would be left to him.

Where is it? Safe, sacred, private …

A thought teased at the edge of her vision.

Sacred
.

Her eyes flew open, and she looked at Robert with wonder. “I know where it is.”

“Good girl. Where?”

“The chapel. Well, no, not the chapel itself—too many people going in and out. But there’s a lady chapel to the side, small and beautiful. And always locked. Lady Mary uses it for her private worship. Indeed, she has spent a great deal of time there these last ten days. Praying, I supposed.”

“Probably she is. Mary will not take lightly to her brother’s disposal, righteous though she may deem it.” His eyes narrowed. “How do we get in?”

“There’s only one key—and only the family have access.”

“I’m pretty good at getting into places I shouldn’t.”

“Not this time.” Minuette stood and shook out her skirts, feeling confident and terrified and elated all at once. “Giles Howard is going to let me in.”

She could play him, do as Lady Rochford had said and use the one power a woman has, seduce him into letting her into the lady chapel, and then …

And then she could throw herself down a staircase from sheer self-loathing.
No
, she thought,
it won’t go that far. Just far enough to get him close and get him distracted, and then I’ll hit him with something. Hard
.

Dominic would not approve, she thought. But he worked for Rochford; surely even he had to do things of which he did not approve.

That didn’t make the thought of explaining this to him any more palatable. Good thing she had time to think of how to word it.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

THE TREATY OF Rouen was signed November 1, 1554, in the great hall of Rouen Castle. The timbered hall was crowded with dignitaries, French and English, both royal retinues glittering in silks and velvets and jewels. William was the most soberly dressed, as befitted a son in mourning. He knew full well, though, that he still managed to look effortlessly royal in a plain purple doublet, ermine cloak, and jeweled collar. His head was bare, save for a circlet of beaten gold.

He looked down the long table to where King Henri of France sat, affixing his signature to the treaty. He was in the prime of life, but despite his richer clothing and the advantage of his years, he seemed to be trying too hard. It couldn’t be easy, William thought, losing to a boy half his age. He tried not to let his triumph show too plainly. After all, he had gotten everything he’d asked for today.

Knowing how difficult it would be to hold Rouen, William had agreed to cede the city back to the French. However, Henri had not disputed the English plan to hold and garrison Le Havre and Harfleur. The debates had been minor and tedious, as William had guessed they would be. He was certain that Henri was prepared to give way on every lesser point, thus conserving his energy to fight the issue that mattered most: Mary Stuart.

When Archbishop Cranmer had finally raised the subject of a marriage alliance, William sensed the stiffening of the French across the room. They were prepared to refuse. Politely, no doubt, but a refusal nonetheless.

So when the archbishop formally asked for his betrothal to Elisabeth de France, Henri’s nine-year-old daughter, William had nearly laughed aloud at the open mouths and bewildered expressions on every side. But he had merely continued to stare straight at Henri, daring him to refuse.

Henri did not refuse. Indeed, he appeared so relieved not to have to fight about Scotland’s queen that he agreed to his daughter’s betrothal with almost indecent haste. There had been no mention of securing Elisabeth’s approval.

Her father had summoned her for the treaty signing, that she might at least meet her future husband. The girl stood mute at her father’s shoulder with a single attendant behind her. As William rose to meet Henri in the middle of the chamber and clasp hands, the fragile-looking princess in her stiff court gown raised her head and looked straight at him. Though she had been well schooled, she was still a nine-year-old girl and she could not keep her eyes from shining.

William smiled and then, when the French king motioned his daughter forward to meet her betrothed, he bowed and kissed her hand gravely. As she sneaked another look at him from beneath lowered lashes, he thought,
I might have done worse. A betrothal composed of at least one adoring and uncritical partner is bound to be a success
.

Another thought lingered deeper, with an edge flavoured with Dominic’s critical voice:
Are you sure you know what you’re doing?

But Dominic wasn’t here.

At the banquet that followed, he found himself speaking to Renaud LeClerc. Dominic had been right—the French king had not demurred at the enormous sum asked for LeClerc’s ransom. Now the commander offered his congratulations to William. “It cheers me to have peace between us, Your Majesty.”

“And me as well.”

“I regret only that I cannot bid farewell to Lord Exeter.”

William smiled. “What would you have me tell him?”

Before answering, LeClerc studied William with an unusual focus. He said finally, “Bid him remember my words about friendship. Remind him that I would rejoice to see him ever at my home.” And then he smiled and added, “And tell him to claim his Nicole. He has waited long enough.”

The moment Dominic entered Framlingham’s walls, he was struck by a tangible sense of waiting, as though a brooding priest were hovering over this troublesome flock to see what they might do. Harrington, riding at his side, felt it too, for he grunted and said, “Good spot for an army.”

Too good a spot
, Dominic thought. They were in the heart of Catholic country here and it was all too easy to imagine rebels flocking to Mary in this valley. It must not come to that.

At Framlingham he and Harrington were greeted politely, but with an underlying unease that alerted all Dominic’s senses. “Lord Exeter, from the king,” he told a boy, who ran ahead.

Dominic said to Harrington, “Find out where Mistress Wyatt’s maidservant is. Her name is Carrie. Ask her what’s been happening here.”

Harrington accepted the order with characteristic silence and set off for the kitchens. Dominic was met at the door to the family wing by a steward who bowed. “My lord, we are preparing rooms for you. A bath, a chance to rest after your ride—”

“Where’s the family, and the Lady Mary?”

“At supper, my lord. Do you not wish to …” The steward gestured to Dominic’s creased and worn riding clothes. Dominic and Harrington had done the 140 miles from Hastings in just four days, and they looked, at best, disreputable. That could be useful here.

“I wish to be taken to Lord Norfolk. At once.”

The servants might be nervous, but not to the point of outright rudeness. “This way, my lord.”

The hall was set with many tables, but Dominic focused on the one placed crosswise to the others. There was Norfolk, expression flaring into dislike before settling into neutrality; Mary, who took a minute to place him but seemed unconcerned when she did; Eleanor, gleaming like the hardest of gems. Where was Minuette?

As he crossed the long hall to the top table, he finally found her near the end, seated between two men: Robert Dudley, which gave Dominic pause, but that surprise was swallowed up by the second man. Giles Howard. Who was leaning into Minuette as though he had been whispering to her.

Her eyes were enormous and unreadable. He waited for some sign—for her to cry his name in delight or even to come to him in welcome—but she sat frozen.

“My lord of Exeter,” Norfolk said at last. “What an unexpected … pleasure.”

Dominic forced himself to attend to the duke, tearing his eyes away from Minuette and Giles. “Lord Norfolk, I apologize for my sudden arrival. I come direct from the king in France. He wished you to be amongst the first to know that the French have agreed to nearly every one of our demands. The treaty was expected to be signed this very day.”

“Such an important day,” Norfolk said drily. “One wonders that he did not wish you by his side.”

“A mark of his deep care for you. And for his dear sister.” Dominic bowed to Mary, who looked distinctly displeased. A French treaty, signed and sealed, meant war with the emperor. That thread ran through many in this room—calculation and greed and true belief and rebellion. Oh, yes, it needed but a spark to flame into war.

The spark Minuette had been meant to find.

He slid his eyes sideways and found that her eyes were still on him, still wide and … what? Beseeching? Warning?

“Please, join us,” Norfolk was saying, and Dominic found himself at the end of the table next to Robert Dudley, one remove from Minuette. He was about to ask to change places when she unfroze and let her face light into conversation. He knew every pitch of her voice, every tone of her laughter. It was directed entirely at Giles.

He sat appalled and silent through the remainder of the meal while Minuette shamelessly flirted—there was no other word for it—with a married man. A married man who had tried to force her just over a year ago.
I should have killed him when I had the chance
, Dominic thought, but that was only to keep the blackness away.

Robert tried to engage him, but Dominic was not in the mood for Dudley charm. He only caught a phrase or two, something about Elizabeth (naturally) and asking if the sea had been calm when Dominic crossed. He gave one-word answers when forced, and otherwise ignored Robert.

He supposed he ate something; he most certainly drank. And all the while Minuette’s teasing voice wound through his memories of a more solemn Minuette in her mother’s rose garden last year:
I am trained to reflect back whatever a man expects to see
.

Clearly Giles approved of the reflection—every time Dominic looked that way, he caught the insufferable blaze of Giles’s revenge.
And me?
his mind whispered.
When I touched her at Hampton Court, when she shivered at my touch … was that part of her training, too?

Finally the group broke up, Mary retiring and the duke following shortly after. In the eddies of goodnights and movement, Dominic managed to get near enough to Minuette to say, “I have a message for you, from the king.”

Though Giles was not standing overly close to Minuette, his stance was possessive. “How is William?” he asked with an insolence that made Dominic’s fingers twitch.

“Victorious,” he said shortly. “May I speak with you, Mistress Wyatt? Privately?”

“Of course.” She seemed nervous, as though she didn’t know how to get out of there, what to say or do.

“I will bid you farewell,” Giles said smoothly, and though he did not touch her, his gaze was offensively direct. “Until later.”

He left, striding out in a manner that reminded Dominic that this was the Howards’ home, after all. All the more reason to get Minuette out of here.

“What did William tell you?” Minuette asked, and Dominic thought it an odd way to ask after his message.

“That Rochford had sent you here without William’s knowledge or permission. I’m here to take you home.”

“Is that all he told you?” She searched his face as though trying to read beneath the surface.

“He said he has missed you.”

Her cheek twitched, and she shut her eyes. Then she sighed and opened them, this time with something approaching her real smile. “I will be glad when all this is over.”

“When all what is over? I thought you were here to …” Dominic trailed off as he looked around at the servants and occasional clerk passing through the hall. He chose his words more carefully, and spoke lower. “What does Giles have to do with this?”

“Do you really have to ask?” she began, then her smile faltered. “You don’t trust me. You believe I am—what? Stupid? Shallow? How could you think … I have not forgotten, and I have certainly not forgiven. I would never be so careless with Giles Howard.”