The Boleyn King (35 page)

Her hand drove the shard of glass into the side of his neck. There was a terrible gurgle and his eyes widened as he stopped kissing her and then … then he was falling and there was blood on her hands, spurting wetly on her face and her dress and across the stones of the floor.
Death in the lady chapel
, she thought hazily;
will it have to be deconsecrated now?

She slid down the wall until she sat huddled with her arms around her knees. She could not stop staring at Giles, with the glass stuck in his neck where clearly it had pierced something vital. He would never get up again.

A choking, coughing sound almost sent her screaming in terror, but it wasn’t Giles. It was Dominic, on his feet almost at once and staring around as though he’d stumbled into one of Dante’s circles of hell. But Dominic would never be flustered. He took charge, kicking his own sword away from Giles and then kneeling to check the man’s pulse. He stayed there a moment, then turned on his knees to Minuette. He looked her over dispassionately, stopping at her right hand, which was still clenched and covered in blood. Not all of it was Giles’s; she had cut herself with the force of driving the glass into him.

Dominic eased himself to sit next to her and took her hand. Gently he stroked it from the palm outward, straightening her fingers. Then he lifted it and pressed it to his cheek. They stayed like that for several minutes, until Minuette made herself look at him. He looked different through her haze of unshed tears.

But his voice was unchanged, the stable, always-right, always-loved voice of her childhood. “You did what was necessary and you did it well. I know it hurts. Trust me—the hurt will ease in time.”

But she couldn’t think about Giles yet. His betrayal had at least been expected. “I found it,” she said numbly. “The Penitent’s Confession. It’s there, behind the altar. Will you bring it to me?”

Dominic brought it and, when she asked him, read it through aloud.

I, Marie Hilaire Wyatt Howard, do here confess and swear to my sins against King Henry VIII and his realm of England.I confess that I helped the King’s Concubine, Anne Boleyn, conduct illicit sexual congress with many men not the king.I confess that I did many times witness her brother, George Boleyn, in her bed in a state of undress.I confess that Anne Boleyn did weep at her son’s dark hair for, she said, “It was his father who gave it to him.”As I pray for the salvation of my soul before God, I witness that the child known as Henry William, Prince of Wales, is no true son of Henry VIII but a bastard born of the incestuous union of Anne Boleyn and her brother, George. May God curse my own child if I lie. Marie Hilaire Wyatt Howard

Minuette stared blankly at Giles’s body and said, “Carrie told me she didn’t know what my mother felt for Stephen Howard. Whatever it was, it was enough for her to lie. She must have done this for him and his family.”

“I don’t know,” Dominic said slowly. “Do you think … is this her signature?”

She looked at the fading ink hopelessly. “I don’t remember.” Grasping at the hope, she murmured, “Could it be … is it a forgery?”

“It’s most certainly a lie. The only real question is, who told this lie? Your mother? Or someone using her name?”

She stared at the signature as though focus alone could help her divine what had happened. Then she blinked, and when her eyes focused once more it wasn’t at her mother’s name, it was at the date just above it.

“The date. Dominic, look at the date.”

He looked. “Seventh June of 1544.”

Hope, slight and weak, sprang up. “Seventh June … my mother died on the eighth of June.”

“And?”

“Carrie told me—my mother had childbed fever. Carrie was with her all the last days, and my stepfather. She wasn’t conscious, Dominic. Not for the last week of her life. Carrie told me she didn’t wake once before the end. She did not write this.”

“The Howards would have known that,” Dominic said thoughtfully. “So it is unlikely that they created this confession. Or at least … it might have been Giles. He was only a child when your mother died, he likely didn’t know the details—”

“He didn’t seem to care when I found it,” Minuette said dully. “And why would he? If it wasn’t at his family’s request, then what had he to gain?”

“Revenge,” Dominic answered. “A chance to hurt you. He was cruel enough to defame your mother merely to hurt you—a rebellion might have been secondary.”

“All of this,” she cried. “Alyce’s death, my mother’s reputation  … for what? For revenge? For religion? What kind of God asks for such destruction in His name?”

“God is too often an excuse for men’s ambitions. We are all of us weak, Minuette.”

She wept then, for her mother’s weakness in loving Stephen Howard and for Alyce’s weakness for the still-unknown man who had been her death. And she wept for her own weaknesses as well: for the pleasure she’d taken in William’s touch and the desire that would have seen her in his bed that very night, no better than Eleanor, and for the bright memory of Dominic’s touch at Hampton Court, tarnished now forever.

At last the sobs became hiccups and there were no tears left to be wept. Dominic had held her against his shoulder as she cried, and when she straightened up he said, “What shall I do with the confession?”

The answer was to take it to William—and Rochford. This was what everything had been about. But though Minuette knew they would have to be told, she could not bear the thought of anyone else actually seeing her mother’s name signed to that lie. It was illogical and unreasonable and not really her decision to make, but Dominic was looking at her as though she had the right. And he would stand behind anything she chose.

That trust meant more than kisses ever could.

“Burn it,” she said.

Together they touched a flame to the Penitent’s Confession and watched the spark of rebellion crumble to ashes.

CHAPTER TWENTY

DOMINIC DID NOT sleep at all that night. After watching the Penitent’s Confession burn, he had carried Minuette to her chamber and handed her over to Carrie’s ministrations. The maid seemed to grasp the situation at once, nodding when Dominic said warningly, “I killed Giles Howard for attacking Mistress Wyatt. Keep the Howard servants away from her until she’s cleaned up.”

It didn’t matter if Carrie guessed what had really happened to Giles—she would protect Minuette. Dominic roused Robert Dudley and the Rochford men who had come with Minuette before sending Harrington to stand guard outside Minuette’s chamber. The men took charge of the gates until Robert returned just before dawn with a company of royal soldiers. Within short order, Framlingham was firmly under royal control, with Mary and the Duke of Norfolk and his family under house arrest. Dominic himself had broken the news of Giles’s death to both his father and his wife.

“How?” the duke asked, more upset at being woken than anything else.

“He intended violence. He was stopped.” Never would a word more than that pass his lips.

He had not expected Eleanor to be grieved, but even he did not expect her to say, “I want to come with you to London. I must be there when William returns.”

“The king does not consort with traitors,” Dominic said shortly, then turned on his heel and walked out. He wanted only to be out of there at first light with Minuette.

He was worried about her, and not solely because of what had happened in the lady chapel. There was more to it than that; she had been edgy and uncomfortable since he’d arrived. He couldn’t help but wonder if she knew—really knew—how he felt about her, and if she didn’t want to hurt him. If she felt the same way, she would not have withdrawn so quickly from him. She would have given him some word, some sign, that the memories of Hampton Court were pleasant. A dull ache settled in his stomach and stayed with him as he spoke to Robert Dudley.

“You speak for Rochford here. What are your orders?” he asked.

“I sent a rider to bring another contingent of soldiers from Cambridge. When they arrive, Norfolk and the men of his family will be taken to the Tower. The women will be detained here—save Lady Mary. She is to be moved to Richmond at once under my personal guard. I could use you to remain at Framlingham until Rochford sends word what to do with the women.”

Dominic shook his head. “I’m under orders from the king to get Mistress Wyatt to Whitehall and Elizabeth as soon as possible.”

He didn’t like the way Robert looked at him, or the slow smile with which he said, “Right. And I suppose after last night—whatever it is that happened in the lady chapel that you won’t talk about—she’ll be needing comfort.”

Dominic would have retorted angrily, but he was tired and there was more to Robert’s look than amusement or knowing. There was also the understanding of a man who loved where he shouldn’t. So he moderated his response. “She found the affidavit, just as she was meant to do. We destroyed it. Lord Rochford cannot possibly demand more of her.”

Robert shrugged and turned away. “Possibly not. Or possibly he will want to know why Mistress Wyatt was covered in blood from head to toe while you were not. It isn’t possible to burn an entire gown without someone remarking upon it.”

Was that a threat? Dominic dared not risk it. The last thing he would allow was Rochford interrogating Minuette. And Robert wasn’t wrong about needing someone to take charge of the women. Eleanor Howard might be capable all on her own of corrupting an entire force of men at arms.

“Damn it,” Dominic breathed out, then called after Robert. “If you can spare some men to ride with her, I’ll send Mistress Wyatt ahead and remain at Framlingham until someone else is sent to take charge.”

Tossing a grin over his shoulder, Robert said, “You’re too dutiful for your own good, Dominic. We’ll have to work on that.”

Yes, we will
, Dominic thought two hours later as he handed Minuette into the coach that would take her back to London. There were few things he’d ever wanted more than to climb in after her. “Safe journey,” he made himself say.

Her eyes were bruised with lack of sleep and sorrow. “I wish you were coming with me.”

She could not have said anything more piercing. He cleared his throat and said, “I will be there before William returns. I promise.”

“It’s just …” She bit her lip, and her right hand—bandaged across the palm from the glass—came up to her throat. That was when Dominic realized she was wearing the filigree star he’d given her for her birthday. As she touched it, she said, “There are things I would like to talk to you about. Things we need to talk about.”

Was that pleading in her eyes? Longing? “Yes” was all Dominic could manage to answer.

Her smile was uncertain, but for the first time since he’d reached Framlingham, it was real. “Then I’ll see you soon.”

Dominic watched the road until long after the coach had passed from sight.

In the end, Dominic beat William to Whitehall by only a few hours. He had meant to find Minuette at once, anxious for the promised talk, but between bathing and changing—and avoiding Lord Rochford—he still hadn’t seen her when he finally made it to the crowded forecourt of Whitehall Palace. As he wove his way toward the steps where Elizabeth and Rochford stood waiting, his eyes went straight to Minuette, one pace behind the princess.

The sound and vibration of hooves pounded through the voices, and Dominic turned to the gates. William was the first through, wearing the not-quite mourning balanced between a son’s loss and a country’s gain, a gold circlet shining on his dark hair. He was followed by Archbishop Cranmer, and then came the other lords and gentlemen of the victorious army, including the men of Dominic’s command, led by Jonathan Percy carrying the Exeter standard.

Dominic turned back to look at Minuette. He heard William’s voice rising above the babble as he dismounted at the foot of the steps. And then, as voices quieted and every head in the courtyard swiveled to William, Minuette alone looked elsewhere, searching amongst the crowd.

He knew the instant that she saw him, for she suddenly stilled, like a wind that drops all at once to nothing. They stared at each other until a sharp pain in his chest reminded Dominic that he needed air. As he breathed in, he was prepared to push straight through the crowd to reach her—to look in her eyes and know, for good or ill, what was written in them.

But in the next breath Minuette turned her head to greet William and the moment was lost.

Aware of the aches of fatigue and long riding, Dominic pushed through to the steps just as William was asking for him. “I’m here.”

He climbed until he was level with William, who threw his arm around him and said, “Well done, Lord Exeter. We have much to speak of. Will you join me in an hour?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Even as he answered, Dominic was thinking that an hour would give him time to see how Minuette was recovering. But from the corner of his eye, he saw her slipping away behind the others.

He could not shake the feeling that she had changed her mind about whatever she’d meant to share.

William paced the interior of his private oratory, feeling caged by the gilded space but knowing he needed absolute privacy for the conversation to follow. When a page showed Dominic in, he said, “Stand at the outer door of my bedchamber. I am not to be disturbed for anything.”

Clearly perplexed, Dominic said, “What’s going on, Will?”