“Why?”
“Why do you think?” For a second, Rochford’s humility slipped into impatience. “To protect you and England. The Catholics might be held at bay, but only just. The end of the regency was a particularly vulnerable time. I am hated, William, I know that. Far better an imaginary plot that I controlled to bring them down than waiting for a real one that might catch us by surprise and do lasting damage.”
William shoved his chair away from the table and got to his feet. For the first time since his illness, he was seized with the urge to prowl, and his uncle stood up and watched him as he had so many times before. In the swirl of thoughts rearranging themselves in light of this information, one image blazed glaringly clear before him. “Are you telling me that you resurrected that broadside about my mother? You are the one who wanted that vile image seen once more? I thought your crowning virtue was devotion to your sister!”
Rochford’s face darkened in anger. “My crowning virtue is devotion to a Protestant England and protecting my sister’s children.”
“So much for your vaunted sibling love,” William went on, as though his uncle had not spoken.
“Don’t you ever question my love for Anne!”
“You pinned a knife to my bed! You called my mother an incestuous whore! What can I not question after that?”
Rochford slammed his palms on the table and glared up at William. “It is the Catholics who originated that filth and I used the lies as I saw fit! Norfolk is dead, Mary is on a tight leash, and you are well on your way to consolidating your hold on your people’s affections. I did that for you.”
“And what about Northumberland? He was as devoted a Protestant as could be found in England. Did you send him to his death for my sake as well?”
“He did that himself.”
“Entirely?” William’s blood cooled a little and his mind began to work more clearly.
“I didn’t mind goading him—he made himself such an easy target, what with his touchy pride and open ambitions. I admit that I was happy to cultivate doubts about the evidence against Norfolk and cast suspicion in Northumberland’s direction. But I had no idea he would be so stupid as to let his son marry Margaret Clifford—nor that his stupidity would lead him into arming men and holding your sister captive. You can hardly blame me for Northumberland’s treachery in that!”
As William’s first burst of temper lessened, he realized that his uncle had kept well away from the one crime that Rochford must know he could never forgive: the attempted murder of Minuette. Adopting Dominic’s traditional pose of crossed arms and apparently negligent leaning against a wall (it irritated William no end—hopefully Rochford would read in it the same disdain), he contemplated his uncle’s clever, lean face. “You tried to kill my future queen. Tell me why I shouldn’t drag you straight to the Tower and have your head for that.”
“Because it wasn’t me.”
“Robert Dudley was used to distract Minuette in order to give someone the opportunity to poison her necklace. If it wasn’t for his father’s sake, then I must assume Robert was under your orders.”
“Under my orders to speak with her, yes. To warn her away from you. Neither of us had anything to do with poison.”
“It was you who arrested a Northumberland man as the poisoner. Was he truly the poisoner?”
“Yes.”
“Was he truly one of Northumberland’s men?”
William had his answer in Rochford’s hesitation. “No.”
“And of course he’s been executed for his crime, so I can hardly ask him if he were taking orders from you. Convenient.”
“He didn’t take orders from me any more than he did from Northumberland. He took his orders from my wife.”
William rocked back on his heels, stunned. “Are you trying to tell me that Lady Rochford is an assassin? Why wouldn’t you tell me that before?”
“Because it was convenient to push Northumberland a little farther away. And because, for all her sins, she is my wife and I did not care to have a woman of my household arrested.”
“What possible reason could Jane Boleyn have for killing Minuette? Why does she care whom I love?”
“She might not care, but one of her women cares a very great deal and Jane has always been easy to persuade into malice.”
William swore long and inventively. “Eleanor.”
His uncle inclined his head in agreement. “A woman of cunning and spite, rather like my wife. The two of them together—”
“And your wife just told you this? In the intimacy of the night—except that you do not spend your nights with her. So where did you hear this?”
“In the intimacy of the night, as you said. But not from Jane.”
“You’ve been sleeping with Eleanor?” William let out an explosive laugh that was as much shock as amusement.
“She is quite skilled, Your Majesty.”
“You think I don’t know that? Or are we trying to dance around the fact that Eleanor was my mistress before she was yours? At least, I’ll do you the credit of assuming you waited until I was finished with her. I wouldn’t have thought her your type.”
“I do not require to respect the women I bed.”
William couldn’t decide whether to be furious with Rochford’s aplomb or to admire it. He shook his head and studied the man: impeccably dressed without ostentation, wearing his authority with ease, arrogantly sure of himself even while confessing to various crimes … in short, a man William had often longed to shake during the endless years of the regency. And now Rochford had delivered himself into his hands.
“So your confession, if I may sum it up, is that you conspired against one of the leading members of the nobility—one of your fellow members on my regency council—going so far as to create false evidence that blackened my mother’s name as well as others. And don’t think I’ve forgotten Alyce de Clare—a woman who died in the midst of doing your bidding. You further conspired to cast the guilt for those acts onto another member of the nobility, solely to consolidate your own position in the kingdom, in this case using the man’s own son against his father’s interest. And in the matter of the attempted murder of the only woman I have ever loved, you claim it was your wife’s conspiracy—without your knowledge or consent, but with your willingness to shield her afterward. Tell me, George, why are you confessing now?”
He had never in his life used his uncle’s given name. It made him feel more a man than anything he’d ever done, especially when Rochford flinched. When his uncle answered, his voice was stripped of its usual irony.
“Because Lord Exeter and Princess Elizabeth have an engagement with you tomorrow morning, in which they will accuse me in order to clear Robert Dudley’s name and free him from the Tower. Well, that at least is your sister’s motive. I don’t doubt Courtenay feels it his sole duty to be honest.”
“And you thought coming to me first would make me lenient?”
“I haven’t actually committed a single crime against the throne or yourself personally. And I have now handed you the women who conspired to kill Mistress Wyatt.”
If there was one thing William could do instinctively, it was make quick decisions. There was hardly a pause before he said, “I want you away from court tonight. Don’t leave London. You may retire to Charterhouse and wait to hear from me.”
That could mean almost anything, but Rochford did not press for details. He bowed in apparently genuine submission. “As you say, Your Majesty.”
“One thing more,” William added as his uncle straightened warily. “How do you know what Dominic and Elizabeth mean to tell me tomorrow morning? I hardly think it likely they would confide in the man they mean to accuse. Are your spies that embedded in my own court?”
Rochford’s expression grew thoughtful. “No, Your Majesty. Though I knew they had each been to see Robert Dudley, I did not know how far things had gone until someone warned me.”
“Who?”
The name was the very last one W
illiam would ever have predicted. “Mistress Wyatt. She is the one who counseled me to confess before accusations could be laid.”
When his uncle had left, William sat up long into the night, drinking and pondering upon Minuette’s audacity. What did she think she was doing, meddling with a man like Rochford? Did she not know the dangers of court politics? She was not Anne Boleyn—and William was glad of it. He did not want a queen who made enemies and then broke them.
He would have to make sure Minuette understood her position in his kingdom.
Minuette waited until long after midnight, aware that Rochford had only this one night to preemptively confess and certain that William would send for her when it was finished. Surely he would be rocked by his uncle’s lies. Surely he would want her for comfort or, less likely these days, advice.
But when the palace had grown nearly silent and no summons came, she at last allowed Carrie to undress her.
“Is everything all right?” her maid asked. Carrie’s brown eyes were as soft as always, and in the last few months she had gained a little weight, enough so that she no longer looked on the verge of illness, and regained some of the cheer Minuette remembered from her childhood.
“I hope so,” Minuette answered. “I will be up early. I am sorry to keep you so late.”
Carrie let her hand linger on Minuette’s shoulder before she gathered up her gown. “When you worry, I worry. And when you play games, I especially worry.”
“It’s not a game, Carrie.”
“Lord Exeter would not like it.”
“Do you make all your choices based on what Harrington would like?”
They had never spoken openly of the growing affection between Carrie and Dominic’s right-hand man, Edward Harrington. Carrie had every right to be offended at Minuette’s retort, but she merely shook her head. “My choices aren’t so likely to get me into trouble as yours are.”
Minuette turned those words over in her head for a long time after Carrie left her. The trouble with her choices lately was that whichever way she chose, danger hovered. Was it better to incur Dominic’s anger for going behind his back and putting Rochford on his guard, or to allow William to be blindsided by the charges against his uncle? To continue the delicate dance of strengthening William until he could bear the blow of her secret marriage, or to simply run away with Dominic and leave others to pick up the pieces? Where was the safe choice there?
But she knew that, in the end, she had made her choice the moment she married Dominic—and that choice had been entirely about her own desires.
She was up and dressed by eight o’clock the next morning, wearing a gown in a sober shade of blue to emphasize either submissiveness or piety. Perhaps both. Then she sat in her rooms, waiting. She was to meet Dominic and Elizabeth in William’s privy chamber at ten. No point trying to write in her diary, she was too fidgety and would blot the ink even if she could calm her thoughts enough to be coherent.
It was half past nine when Carrie came into her presence chamber with a guest: Lady Jane Grey. Minuette blinked with surprise. Jane was the daughter of a duke and the granddaughter of the late king’s sister and she had never sought Minuette’s company before—why did she do so now?
No matter what she wore, Jane always looked subdued, like a spring garden after a rainstorm. However elaborate her gowns or hair or jewels, something in her very nature made her look wise and almost otherworldly. She wasn’t plain, but she behaved as though she were, or as though her appearance was far too trivial to deserve attention. Although Minuette was a year older, Jane always made her feel young and very frivolous.
“Forgive my intrusion,” Jane said in her quiet manner. “If it is not convenient, I can come another time.”
As it was not inconvenient to pass the time with an unexpected guest, Minuette replied, “You are quite welcome, Lady Jane. Was there a particular conversation you wished to have?”
For all her soberness, Jane showed a flash of ironic humour. “My wishes so rarely enter into anything these days. It is my mother, rather, who wished this conversation to occur. And I thought you might prefer me to her.”
Minuette most certainly preferred Jane to the shrewd, formidable Duchess of Suffolk. Frances Brandon had spent her eldest daughter’s lifetime positioning her as the only choice for William’s queen. The French betrothal had been a great irritation. No doubt Minuette’s sudden elevation had sent the duchess into a Tudor rage.
“And what is the subject of this conversation?” she asked Jane.
Beneath her submissive manner, Jane had a streak of stubborn honesty that manifested itself occasionally in bluntness. As now. “Are you and the king quite serious in your intentions?”
Minuette picked over her words cautiously. “Have you ever known William to be less than serious in matters touching his kingdom?”
“He truly intends to marry you?”
“I have not the slightest reason to doubt his intentions.”
“You will not persuade him otherwise?” Jane eyed her coolly.
“Lady Suffolk is niece to the late King Henry. Does she really think Henry’s son is open to persuasions that oppose his will?”
“My mother is capable of thinking that whatever she wishes must be so, rather like my cousin William.” Jane flashed a rueful smile. “I think she will be disappointed in this.”
“Does that trouble you?” Minuette’s conscience pricked her unexpectedly. Was she injuring Jane’s sentiments by stealing away William’s love?
The assessing gaze Jane turned on her was, for a moment, a disconcerting echo of Elizabeth’s sharpness, and Minuette was reminded that they were all cousins—even Dominic, with his Boleyn mother and royal grandmother. Only Minuette truly stood on the outside.
Finally, Jane said, “The greatest disappointment is my mother’s, that I will not be the queen she has always wanted me to be. As for myself, my ambitions have never been so grand. I prefer contemplation and study to the rush and pomp of court. I would be quite content to pass my life in a quiet manner. If I must marry, I would prefer it to be a country gentleman far removed from politics.”
“Do you have a particular gentleman in mind?”
“No. But it would not matter if I did. If I am not to be queen, then I must be a duchess. Which leads me to a question on my own account. You are well acquainted with Lord Exeter. He seems a serious-minded man. I wonder only …” Jane let her gaze wander around the chamber, flitting from the portrait of Elizabeth of York to the blue and gold curtains at the diamond-paned windows to Minuette’s modest jewelry casket. Clearly she was uncomfortable discussing personal matters. Finally, Jane said in a rush, “It is rumoured that Lord Exeter’s mother remains devoted to Rome. What are his own religious inclinations, do you know?”
Minuette felt nearly incapable of speech. It was one thing to be quizzed about William—but Dominic? She looked at the fair, slender Jane with her pretty eyes and submissive manner and, in that moment, hated her nearly as much as she was used to hating Eleanor Percy. “So it is Duchess of Exeter your mother aims for, is it?” She could not moderate the sharpness of her words.
“The only other possibility is the Duke of Norfolk, and Lord Exeter is far closer to the king.”
“And what is your preference?”
“I want a husband who will respect my convictions and share them, so that our children may be raised in an honourable and honest home. Will Lord Exeter allow me that freedom of conscience?”
Minuette had to subdue the urge to slap that righteous concern from Jane Grey’s face. In fact, the force of her violent reaction rather startled her. She managed to keep a level tone through sheer force of will. “I do not know what sort of husband he would make you. I suppose you shall have to decide that for yourself.” Minuette stood up in dismissal, though she was by far the lesser-ranked. “I’m sorry to be abrupt, but I have an appointment with the king.”
Jane did not appear to take offense, though her expression was thoughtful and Minuet
te remembered that often the most dangerous people were those on the edges whom everyone tended to overlook. “Whatever my mother’s opinion,” Jane offered, “I think you are very good for my cousin. You make him happy, and that is never to be taken lightly. I wish you well, whatever difficulties lie ahead.”
“Thank you.”
Despite feeling ashamed at Jane’s generosity, Minuette could not trust herself to say more. Was she going to have to watch Lady Suffolk bear down upon Dominic as she had spent years doing to William, dragging Jane in her wake and thrusting her into his way with single-minded determination? She remembered Aimée at the French court last year, coming out of Dominic’s chamber in the middle of the night. Jane was not quite so bad as the voluptuous Frenchwoman. But that didn’t mean Minuette wanted to watch while any woman angled for Dominic’s attention.
She had to get this business of Rochford straightened out, then put paid to any French invasion plans, so that she and Dominic could cut through their tangled responsibilities and be free.
When Dominic and Elizabeth entered William’s privy chamber, Minuette was already, as usual, at her ease with the king. She wore a gown of dark blue that echoed the damask doublet of the king, and Dominic had a sudden vision of her with a crown on her golden hair. How lovely she would look, dressed as a queen.
He blinked and nodded once to his wife, trying to clear his head of that disturbing image. She looked as though she carried unpleasant images of her own, for her hazel eyes were troubled and did not linger over him.
The king’s privy chamber at Greenwich retained the furniture and décor of Henry VIII’s reign. Although it was May, it was chilly and gray outside and a fire blazed in the wide hearth. Candles added a bit more light to the weak daylight that came through the windows but the whole effect was one of gloomy oppression.
William sat at his ease in a carved and cushioned chair, Minuette in a matching one at his side. The king’s expression was more alive than Dominic had seen in months. He instantly realized that was not, at this moment, a good thing. William’s mouth was set and squared-off, his keen blue eyes alive with irritation. And when he spoke, the very flatness of his tone announced his fury.
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