Robert caught sight of a second man behind Dominic and frowned. “You’ve brought a friend. Or is it an interrogator?”
“Francis Walsingham,” the man said.
“Yes, I remember you. Came back from France with the princess. Friend of John Dee’s.”
Walsingham inclined his head in agreement.
Despite himself, Robert could not help the lift of hope in his chest. “Elizabeth sent you?”
“Her Highness,” the intelligencer answered repressively, “did not.”
“So she still won’t speak to me,” Robert murmured. Then, louder, to Dominic, “In which case, you might as well go. I’ll speak to Elizabeth, or no one.”
Dominic held his gaze, with a steadiness that Robert found unnerving. He had always thought it a simple matter to understand Dominic, but there was something new to his expression. That something new continued in the indefinable tone with which he said, “You will speak to me, or you will end as your father. Make no mistake—there are many calling for your head. And as of now, no one asking for clemency.”
“Don’t try to threaten me, you’re not cut out for it.”
“I’m not threatening, I’m telling. Your father is dead, Robert. If you try, perhaps you can smell the blood in the air. Your brother, Guildford, met the same end. You, John, Ambrose, Henry … all the remaining men of your family are held here, and there are many who hope not one of you leaves these walls alive.”
Robert felt his carefully cultivated facade of lighthearted indifference beginning to crack. He had been kept isolated since his imprisonment in November, neither allowed to see his brothers nor receive letters from the outside. Robert was a social creature and the solitude had worn on him more than he’d have thought possible. In his mix of boredom and anxiety, he had taken to carving the stone walls as so many previous prisoners had done. He stared now at his initials, carved confident and deep beneath a pattern of leaves, and admitted to himself that he had never been as sanguine as his father about the chances of mercy. Because Robert knew whose hand was behind all of this—and he knew there was no mercy in that particular hand.
During those endless nights, he had often cursed himself for ever getting involved with George Boleyn. It was true that Lord Rochford was skilled at getting what he wanted, which included manipulating people he wanted to use, but Robert knew he had been eager to be used. His ego had been flattered at working with the foremost power in England. And how could he have refused Rochford’s promise to do what he could to ensure Robert’s divorce and a chance to seriously court Elizabeth?
In the beginning it had seemed almost like playing. Flirt with a pretty woman, create an illusion of threat to take down an old adversary of his family … what could go wrong?
The answer, in hindsight, was plenty. For Alyce de Clare—the pretty woman—was dead, and after the destruction of the Howards, Rochford had turned his sights on Robert’s family. And now here he sat in the Tower, cut loose from Rochford and as likely to be executed as forgotten.
Shifting his attention to the other man in the room, the one who came from Elizabeth’s household with or without her permission, Robert asked, “Walsingham, will you speak for me to Her Highness? Tell her that I only have her best interests—”
The rest of that sentence was driven back into his lungs by the force of Dominic’s shove. Robert’s instinct told him to shove back, but Dominic was quick and strong and he had Robert pinned against the wall with one forearm pressed against his windpipe before he could move. Not enough to choke—just enough to let Robert know that he could choke if he wanted to.
How was it he had failed to remember that Dominic was a soldier? He was so quiet and self-effacing that it was easy to forget that he might have any talents at all beyond being William’s friend. But then, royalty rarely had use for friends who weren’t talented.
“Listen to me,” Dominic said. “This is not a game. This is life and death. If it were only your own life you were playing with, then I’d say have at it and I would sit back and watch you play this game straight to the gallows. But there are others at stake. Everyone seems to forget that Elizabeth was not the only prisoner your father took, and it was not the princess who was targeted by an assassin. I want the man behind that.”
Robert gave a strangled laugh through the pressure on his throat. “Why is it always about Minuette? You, William—neither of you can think straight when it comes to that woman.”
Even as he spoke, the words rang in Robert’s head with deeper meaning. Could it be … Dominic and William so close, sharing everything, but one thing that could never be shared was a woman …
Robert might have whistled if he hadn’t been half choked, but the expression in his eyes must have been sufficient to alert Dominic. “Keep your conjectures to yourself,” Dominic said softly, pressing harder on his throat, and this time there was no mistaking the threat.
Abruptly, he released Robert and stepped back. Walsingham had watched it all dispassionately, and Robert wondered what report he would make to Elizabeth. If he reported to her at all in this.
“Easter is in two weeks.” Dominic’s habitual control was firmly locked in place once more. “The court will be at Whitehall. On Easter Monday, I will come again. And you will tell me everything. Places, orders, plots … and names.”
“If I don’t?” Robert couldn’t help himself; it was second nature to spar.
“Then I tell William that you have confessed to intending to divorce your wife, marry Elizabeth, and kill the king himself in order to rule England.”
There was a sound from Walsingham, something between amusement and approval. Robert looked into Dominic’s hard eyes and said slowly, “I understand.”
As the two walked out, Robert called after them. “Dominic? Someone has taught you well. But he’s still better at ruthless than you are.”
William prayed alone, as he did so many things these days. A relative term, to be sure—there was a gentleman standing against the door of his private chapel, with more outside to guard against intrusion—but he had spent more time with fewer people in the last four months than in his entire life.
He prayed silently, the same words he’d offered to Heaven since the moment he’d woken from near-death. I thank Thee for Thy grace and salvation. I thank Thee for the sign of Thy favour in sparing my life. Make me worthy. Make me Thy weapon, Lord.
And running beneath, the wordless plea of every waking hour: May I please Thee, Lord, that Thou wilt make me whole.
For what could the smallpox have been but a sign of God’s displeasure? William had spent many hours contemplating his sins as his body mended, and he had come to two unshakable conclusions. First, that he had sinned greatly with his lies to his people and all of Europe about his marital intentions. Second, that for him to heal completely—and no, he was not necessarily expecting that the scars on his cheek would disappear overnight (though he wasn’t necessarily not expecting it, either)—and in order for his mind to be settled after the great upheaval of nearly dying, he must tell the truth about the woman he loved.
William let his plea to Heaven settle into his bones, to be carried with him everywhere, and opened his eyes. He did not rise, not yet. Dominic was expected any minute and William would hear the report of Northumberland’s end firsthand. But while he remained on his knees, he could think.
There was much to think about. Just because he wanted to tell the truth of his love did not mean it was a straightforward task. Though William had been physically isolated for much of the last four months, he was not ignorant of the happenings in his kingdom and the wider world. The French troops that had instigated last autumn’s battles had seemingly vanished from the Scots landscape. Mary of Guise, regent for her daughter, had made formal protest against the subsequent English incursions but they had lacked heat and the force of righteousness. Which was to be expected, since the French were in the wrong and everyone knew it. Not eighteen months ago William had sat across from King Henri of F
rance as the monarchs signed a treaty of peace. England had kept to the terms. William’s betrothal to the young Elisabeth de France still officially held—so what had prompted the French to make that savage thrust across the border and then withdraw?
Obviously they were unhappy with the English gains two summers ago, when they’d picked up Le Havre and Harfleur, and wanted revenge for their losses. But the fact remained that the French had not moved against those cities, but across the English border. A much more intimate threat. Because they had learned that England had approached Spain and (rightly) guessed that William intended to marry his sister to King Philip and then himself abandon the French princess to whom he was betrothed.
William did not mean to marry the young Elisabeth de France, that much was true. But he’d thought he would have more time, that the French betrothal had bought him several years of peace, as Elisabeth was still only ten years old. But someone didn’t want him to have those years. Someone was pressing the matter to a head, certain that outside pressure would force him to withdraw from Minuette.
Someone was very much mistaken.
That someone might simply be the nameless French observers and politicians who had watched Dominic and Minuette and Elizabeth during their visit to France last summer, but William did not discount the possibility that there might be a very specific someone, perhaps even in England, who had alerted the French to the peril. There were more than enough Englishmen who did not want him to marry Minuette.
He’d kept his suspicions to himself thus far. The obvious person to discuss it with was Dominic—but their friendship had altered in the previous months. And not as a result of the smallpox.
When William had woken from danger and begun his slow recovery from the illness, everything that had come in the weeks before had been blurry and unfocused. He could remember the outline of events—fighting in Scotland, arresting Northumberland—but details and emotional contexts eluded him.
Except for one very detailed, very emotional memory: the look on Dominic’s face when he’d realized how William had used him to trap his friend, Renaud LeClerc.
Not that the trap had come off. The French commander had been meant for death, not a botched assassination attempt that left LeClerc furious and still very much in control of the French armies. But Dominic had seen only his king’s betrayal. William knew that, to his dying day, he would remember the contempt in Dominic’s voice when his closest friend told him, “You used me … and you lied to me about it.”
They had not discussed Renaud and Scotland since. William had allowed Dominic to believe the details of their argument had vanished in the mists of his illness and Dominic had not pressed, perhaps remembering his own folly in walking away from the fight in Scotland in a luxury of pride and hurt. It was for the best—let them both forgive the errors they’d made in judgment—but he had not forgotten. And he was certain that neither had Dominic.
William had felt the constraint between them immediately when he’d woken to see Dominic’s face. His friend’s eyes, though grateful, had been shuttered against him even then, and William knew there were parts of himself Dominic was keeping carefully away from him. William veered between guilt that he’d caused that constraint and fury that the one man he’d always trusted no longer entirely trusted him in return.
There was a discreet knock on the oratory door. William said without turning, “Let Lord Exeter in, and then you are dismissed.”
He made a final obeisance to God and stood to face Dominic. “How did it go?”
“As well as could be expected. Northumberland was gracious. And the crowd was less unruly than I’d feared. It was a clean death.”
“And now?”
Dominic didn’t need to ask what William meant; though there was constraint between them, that didn’t change the fact that Dominic knew him better than anyone. “You keep the sons in prison, amply provided for, while you decide what punishment they have earned.”
William ticked off the Dudley sons on his fingers. “John’s the eldest, but he was not anywhere near Dudley Castle while his father planned his revolt. Rather, he was serving me by guarding Mary. Henry’s too foolish to expect much in the way of independence and he doesn’t seem to have come anywhere near the girls while they were imprisoned. Nor did Ambrose, but he’s a trickier character. Smart enough to keep his hands clean, but that doesn’t mean his intentions were pure. Robert …”
He paused, staring at the finger that indicated Robert Dudley as though it would help him see into the man’s mind.
Dominic continued where the king had left off. “It’s always Robert who’s the real danger. And the enigma. I would swear that he had nothing to do with his father’s seizure of Elizabeth and Minuette—Robert would never risk Elizabeth’s regard, not even for blood. And he is the one who freed Minuette and brought his father to surrender without bloodshed.”
William flicked his eyes to Dominic. “Robert also distracted Minuette while someone made an attempt to poison her.”
“I have not forgotten. But I can almost be persuaded that he was used in that instance, without knowing why. He may be guilty of not asking the right questions, but intent to murder? I don’t think that’s true.”
William asked the pertinent question. “Who used him, then? And don’t tell me his father—I know when you are keeping something from me.”
It was in the balance whether Dominic would lie to him. And that was something else new, that Dominic would even consider lying to him. Of course he didn’t: considering was not doing. “Robert has dropped hints, but no more. I have told him he has until Easter to tell the truth.”
“And if he does not? He’s been attainted, like his brothers. No longer a gentleman, so no trouble if he’s tortured.”
Dominic’s eyes flickered. “It will be time enough to decide that in two weeks.”
William was not surprised that Robert Dudley was ready to offer up another traitor. And Dominic was right: it could wait a few more weeks. At Easter he would spring his own surprise on the court without warning. When he did, any possible traitors would have plenty to act upon, and in their actions they would make mistakes.
But he mustn’t let his friend forget who ruled in the end. “Why so wary of torture? You must learn to be harder, Dominic, if you are to sit in the councils of power.”
“And you must learn to see the effects of your orders. Have you ever seen someone tortured?”
“Perhaps I’ll begin with Robert Dudley.”
The constraint reared up between them, almost tangible to the touch. William waited for it to flare into open disagreement, but Dominic retreated. “Let’s get through Easter, and not let politics destroy the celebrations. We all need the joy of your restoration, Will. Time enough for complications afterward.”
“There’s always time enough for complications.”
He wanted Dominic to say something else, some word of approval or satisfaction or even acknowledgment that he was king and, more important even than the title, that Dominic respected his mind and decisions.
What Dominic finally said was, “I wondered if you would be prepared to spar with me in the practice yard later? It’s not the same fighting anyone but you.”
It was as nearly a gesture of affection as Dominic could make, and William let the satisfaction of it ease the tightness in his shoulders. “Yes, I have missed sparring with you as well. Time to return to more joyful pursuits—and the best fights are always against those who know you perfectly.”
CHAPTER THREE
5 April 1556
Whitehall
We rode into London with William on Maundy Thursday three days ago. The roads were lined with people, in a manner that reminded me of the celebrations almost two years ago for his eighteenth birthday. But the lavish crowds were more wary than purely celebratory. Northumberland was not popular, but he was powerful. Almost I could hear the thoughts churning in the people’s minds: If a man such as the duke can fall, then how secure are any of us
?
There was, mercifully, very little notice paid to William’s scarred cheek, at least in public. I imagine it is being talked over in public houses and private rooms around the city, but at court discretion prevails. And in the end it is not his face that makes William king. It is his Tudor blood and his mind—and both of those remain ferociously sharp.
Lady Mary is at Whitehall for the festivities. William has commanded her presence at the Easter service at Westminster Abbey this morning. I believe the new Spanish ambassador, Renard, was tasked with persuading her that it will not touch the purity of her faith to support her brother. To all appearances, Renard is here primarily to see to Mary’s interests. That illusion will not last long.
It is Elizabeth he is here for, to arrange matters for her marriage to Philip of Spain.
Elizabeth will not talk about it. Nor about Robert. Nor, indeed, about anything more important than William’s health. Ever since Dudley Castle, she has closed off her innermost thoughts to me.
I suppose I cannot blame her, not when my own heart is ringed round with defenses.
Minuette closed her diary, a worn velvet ribbon her marker, and replaced it in the jewelry casket that held more pieces now than ever before. William had gifted her nearly every piece of jewelry she owned, save the two most meaningful: her mother’s rosary, which Minuette kept concealed beneath the false bottom of the casket, and the sapphire and pearl necklace that Dominic had given her for her seventeenth birthday. She let her fingers run over the coolness of the cabochon-cut sapphires, wishing she could wear it today, but William would be expecting rather more glamour even in church. It would have to be one of his more elaborate pieces—the rubies, perhaps, or the opals. It would depend on the dress.
She looked around the bedchamber for her maid, Carrie, and was momentarily disoriented. When they’d arrived in London three days ago, Minuette had attended Elizabeth to her chambers expecting to be quartered nearby, only to find that, as Elizabeth had phrased it, “William has assigned you elsewhere.” Her tone made clear it had been without the princess’s consent.
The Boleyn Reckoning: A Novel (The Boleyn Trilogy) Page 3