“Is it true Lord Rochford continues to receive visitors in state at Blickling Hall despite his disgrace?”
“So I have heard, Your Highness.” Norfolk cast a covert glance around the chamber, as if looking for spies to this conversation and wondering just how treacherous she intended to make it. “He does not appear to have been overly inconvenienced by the Norwich protests.”
Mary knew better than to speak plainly, but who could be surprised at her displeasure with Rochford’s continued arrogance? It would be more unusual if she didn’t speak of him.
“Is there any chance his status will change when Lady Rochford is brought to trial?” she asked.
“Unlikely. It is well known that Lady Rochford despises her husband. Any claims she makes against him will almost certainly be dismissed as spite. And despite their complicated relationship, Rochford is a great favorite with the king. I do not think William will send his uncle to the Tower, let alone the block.”
“So though he is deprived of his position as Lord Chancellor, George Boleyn remains a duke, he retains hold of the greatest private wealth in England, and he continues to work against those of the True Faith,” Mary summed up. “What damage might he do while King Philip is here?”
Norfolk shrugged. “What can he do? William has made it very plain he will not go back to the French marriage, so what options are there? One of them must marry a Catholic. William seems only too glad to offer up Elizabeth in exchange for his own liberty.”
Discussing marital plans left Mary feeling restless and dissatisfied. She returned to the problem of Rochford sitting at Blickling Hall, unpunished. “He is the most dangerous man in England. He hounded and hunted your own grandfather to his death, smearing the Howard name and honour in the bargain. Not to mention the claims Rochford made against me in the same plot. Why should he remain untouched?”
“Because he is the king’s uncle,” Norfolk answered bluntly, and despite his youth, he had his grandfather’s arrogant surety. “Lady Mary”—no more use of her title now, she noted—“you will never persuade the king to charge his uncle with treason.”
She smiled, something she did so rarely that it felt strange on her face. “I do not mean to persuade the king to anything. I mean to act of my own accord. The greatest injury Rochford offered was against me and all Catholics—as their figurehead, I will see that injury punished.”
Norfolk looked wary, but not frightened. This young man might not burn with religious fervor, but he hated Rochford with a passion not to be taken lightly. A legacy from his grandfather, despite their ties to the Boleyns. “How?”
“We will speak again soon.” No need to tell him that her ideas of vengeance were hazy at best. Mary operated more on theory than practice, counting on the men she inspired to fill in the details. “Can I count on your support?”
A considering pause, but Mary knew her audience. This Duke of Norfolk could be swayed by personal appeal, so she added, “I would be in your debt.”
“I could ask for no greater honour, Your Highness.”
And that was one piece put in play.
The day before William’s twentieth birthday, Elizabeth received Robert Dudley in her favorite chamber at Hampton Court, the one she’d had as her own since she was a child. The palace might be a little old-fashioned now, but she loved the tall, narrow windows and the red-bricked towers and courtyards. She remembered three years ago, looking down through her window to spy Robert’s dark head in Clock Court, and knew that however much anger passed between them, part of her would always be looking for Robert wherever she went.
“Tell me,” she said playfully as Robert crossed the room to stand next to her at a table spread with jewelry, “which do you think for William’s celebrations tomorrow? The Spanish ambassador will be present and I am meant to appear suitably demure.”
With raised eyebrows, Robert said, “I do not think even a religious habit would make you appear demure. And if Philip is any sort of man at all, it is yourself he will fall in love with, not some trumped-up image of submissive womanhood.”
He surveyed the pieces—pearls and gold and cabochon jewels in brilliant tones—and finally laid a finger on an enameled circlet of Tudor roses. “These, I think. A subtle reminder of position will be more effective than a blatant display of wealth.”
Elizabeth had been thinking the same thing, and she shook her head at this unnerving symmetry of thought. “Especially since Spain’s wealth is far greater than England’s. If Philip has me, it will be for my position and not my riches.”
“If Philip does not have you for love alone, than he does not deserve you.”
Would there ever be a time when that low, intimate voice failed to stir her blood and make her treacherous heart beat faster? Robert was clever and charming and duplicitous and probably incapable of fidelity … but for all that, she had not been so happy in months.
To disguise her pleasure, she retorted, “England has quite enough of royal love matches with William and Minuette. I believe my brother has a grand gesture in mind for their shared birthday tomorrow. I hope he knows what he’s doing.”
As so many men seemed to ask her lately, Robert inquired, “Do you ever wonder about Minuette’s feelings in the matter?”
“Minuette is naturally concerned about the political ramifications, but she has loved William since they were children. Personally, of course she wishes for everyone to be contented. And I must admit, she seems to be learning very quickly. She may not be as far in over her head as I feared.”
“You’ve told me before that, where kings are concerned, love will always be weighted on one side. Does it not seem to you that Minuette’s love may not be as highly weighted as William’s?”
“Say what you mean, Robert.” And why do you care? she wondered. Perhaps because Robert thought his own love weightier than hers, and in a roundabout manner was asking for a reassurance she would never give.
“England has seen this behavior before—a king so in love he defied everyone to have his bride. I know you often wondered about the depth of your mother’s love in return. Do you ever worry about Minuette’s?”
It was true that Minuette had become far more reticent in the last year or two, much less likely to share her mind with Elizabeth. But surely that was normal when a man became more important than a friend. Surely it only meant Minuette was growing up.
“We are going to Hatfield next week for a respite before King Philip’s arrival in August. I will talk to her then. If there is anything for me to worry about, I will know it when we are alone and far away from court.”
“Be discreet, Elizabeth. Navigating between two people in love can be a delicate business.”
For the first time since Dudley Castle, Robert touched her. His fingertips were light as a summer breeze on her cheek, and Elizabeth crossly noted that her trembling was out of all proportion. Robert’s instincts were always pitch-perfect, and gently he curved his hand to her throat and tipped her chin up with his thumb. His kiss was both apology and promise, and Elizabeth let all thoughts of Minuette and William and King Philip slip away.
CHAPTER NINE
28 June 1556
Hampton Court
It feels strange to be once again at Hampton Court on my birthday, as though one year’s disruption of tradition has made all our history and memories fragile and insubstantial. Last year I was in France with Elizabeth and Dominic, while William was in Wales on royal progress … it was the first birthday since we were eight that William and I have not spent together.
I am not sure that today will restore equilibrium and nostalgia. I am unnerved by William’s hints at my gift. I received another gown to wear this morning—crimson velvet, so at least the colour is not as inflammatory as the purple Easter gown. But it is the most elaborate gown I have seen outside of Elizabeth’s ceremonial wardrobe, and my heart misgives me. I am to be dressed as a queen today, and I wish I could claim illness and not leave my chambers. Or that I could close my eyes an
d open them to the last birthday I spent at Hampton Court two years ago, the day William and I both turned eighteen and all he could think of was that he had reached the age of majority.
And all I could think of was Dominic, leaning over me in the rain and holding me fast with an expression I had never before seen on any man’s face.
But one cannot go back. So I will have Carrie dress me in the crimson surcoat trimmed with ermine and she will leave my hair loose and flowing as William asked. I will take part in whatever William wishes and turn to the court a face of serene indifference.
With my eyes and my heart only for Dominic.
When William told him of the ceremony planned for Minuette’s birthday gift, Dominic was struck well and truly speechless. I should have seen this coming, he thought frantically. But he hadn’t, and now he had to cope with only an hour’s warning.
“With Rochford temporarily banished from court, you and Norfolk are the only dukes at my disposal,” William said. “I need you both standing by me to lend weight and seriousness. No one must be in doubt as to my purpose in making Minuette a marquess.”
Genevieve Antoinette Wyatt, Marquess of Somerset—how could anyone be in doubt of William’s purpose? Only one woman in England’s history had been granted that title in her own right: Anne Boleyn, just months before her secret marriage to Henry. Anne’s title of Marquess of Pembroke had been granted her because of the king’s upcoming visit with the French king, for which he had wanted Anne with him. Without a royal divorce, Anne’s position had been a fragile one to take part in such a formidable state visit, so Henry had granted her a title and lands that made her the equal of many English nobles.
“I would have liked to give Minuette my mother’s same title,” William went on blithely, unaware of Dominic’s clenched-tight jaw and furious nerves. “But we made William Herbert the Earl of Pembroke five years ago. And the Somerset title will tie in neatly with yours, Dom, for the bulk of Minuette’s lands will stretch north of the Exeter estates.”
Very neat indeed, Dominic wanted to say, granting a husband and wife adjoining lands. He ignored the tiny, cynical voice that whispered those combined lands in the traditionally volatile west country would make a good power base from which to resist the Crown.
It would never come to that. He wouldn’t let it.
“It’s only fitting,” William continued. “With King Philip’s visit, I want Minuette to have the position she deserves. I will not have Europe say that she is not worthy of riches and power.”
“How did she take the news?” Dominic managed to ask. He was finding it harder to speak Minuette’s name in William’s presence.
The king’s grin was a painful reminder of years of uncomplicated friendship. “It’s a surprise. I told her what to wear and to be ready for an escort just before noon. I can’t wait to see the look on her face.”
Neither could Dominic. He was not one of those sent to escort her—that duty fell to several women of the nobility, including the Countess of Pembroke and, with obvious reluctance and distaste, the Duchess of Suffolk—but Dominic stood to the side of William’s throne when she entered the Great Hall of Hampton Court and had a perfect view of his wife’s pale, composed face. She looked neither surprised nor delighted. Numb, rather.
Obviously Minuette had known what was coming, if only for the few minutes it had taken to walk from her chambers to the Great Hall, for the Countess of Pembroke carried a red robe of estate in her arms and a page in William’s own royal livery bore a pillow on which rested a marquess’s coronet. There were rustles and the hint of whispers as those in attendance bowed and curtsied as Minuette walked past them to the dais upon which William waited on his throne. The king, Dominic, and the Duke of Norfolk all wore heavy velvet robes of estate capped with creamy ermine fur and their own coronets—William his favorite crown set with diamonds and rubies, the two dukes with the eight stylized strawberry leaves circling the ever-present red velvet.
Minuette looked at no one as she took the last few steps to the dais and then sank into the most graceful of kneeling positions. Dominic’s heart wanted to break at the beauty and poignancy of her figure, all alone with the skirt of her vivid gown pooled around her. Like blood, his mind whispered—for in memory he could see the red of Alyce de Clare’s gown around her broken body three years ago.
Archbishop Cranmer, beginning to look old in the last few months, unrolled the patent he held and read aloud. “To all and singular, as well nobles and gentles as others to whom these shall come: it is the king’s pleasure by this patent to confer on the lady Genevieve Antoinette Wyatt, in her own right and on her offspring, the noble title Marquess of Somerset. And also by this patent to grant her lands worth one thousand five hundred pounds per year for the maintaining of her dignity.”
There was silence, more profound than any gasps, at the amount of property William had granted her. There could be only a handful of men in the kingdom as wealthy as Minuette now was—and of women, only Elizabeth could equal her.
William knew all the practiced moves of royalty and effected them with unusual grace today. He flung back his robe to stand and stepped off the dais to take both Minuette’s hands in his. She looked at the king then—how could she not?—and allowed him to raise her up. Dominic could hardly breathe for tension, as William took the coronet of a marquess—similar to the dukes, but decorated with four strawberry leaves and four silver balls—and placed it on Minuette’s gloriously golden hair. The king stepped behind her then in order to relieve the Countess of Pembroke of the robe of estate, and with great care placed it around Minuette’s shoulders himself. Dominic thought he was not the only one holding his breath as William’s hands lingered on her shoulders and then, so everyone could be sure to mark the gesture, he kissed her on the nape of her neck.
Dominic had to close his eyes then. He forced himself to breathe deeply and waited until he heard William’s voice. “Your patent of nobility, my lady.”
He opened his eyes to see William hand her the patent, and Minuette said tremulously, “Thank you, Your Majesty.”
Anyone else would have thought her tremulous because of the great honour and her awareness of what it meant to her future. Perhaps those watching thought her overcome by triumph or awed by what a king’s love had set in motion.
But Dominic knew better. Minuette shot one look at him from over William’s shoulder and in that instant he saw the tears held deep and the terror that things were so much worse than they had counted on, and how were they ever to extricate themselves from the ties of property and nobility and gratitude?
The Duke of Norfolk laid a cautionary hand on Dominic’s arm. “Not happy about this, either?” Norfolk hissed under his breath as the herald announced, “His Majesty, the king, and the Lady Genevieve Wyatt, Marquess of Somerset.”
As the king and Minuette processed out of the Great Hall, Dominic set his jaw and looked at Norfolk. “What?”
“He’s moving into deep waters,” Norfolk continued, obviously guessing he had an ally, although he couldn’t possibly guess Dominic’s true motive. “I’m not sure marrying his sister to Spain will undo the damage the king has done today.”
Dominic stepped abruptly away. He was sick of politics and everyone at court who saw Minuette solely as a pawn in their games or an obstacle to their plans. Could they not see how troubled she was?
His sudden movement took him into Elizabeth’s path, in deep conversation with Lord Burghley, the new Lord Chancellor. The Princess of Wales looked troubled herself, and that impression deepened when she met Dominic’s eyes. There was a depth and intensity to the way she searched his face that made Dominic afraid of what he might be showing.
As he escaped the Great Hall, his firm stride and forbidding expression keeping everyone well away, Dominic thought how pathetic it was that once again he was jealous at how William had trumped him in giving Minuette a birthday gift. But William would always trump him, wouldn’t he? Dominic had said as much to Minuette o
nce: You will be queen, Minuette … William is everything you could ever want.
He isn’t you, she’d answered. But that had been ages ago, when they had both believed all they need do was want something to make it happen.
If the price for their happiness was the destruction of William himself … was that a price Minuette was still willing to pay?
Robert Dudley met with Walsingham in the latter’s small chamber at Hampton Court. It was square and plain and devoid of personality, as though the man who rested there took care not to leave any imprint of himself behind. It was the impression Walsingham always seemed to give off—a man of power, but so carefully veiled and manipulated that he could almost be forgotten when not present.
At least he was easier to deal with than Lord Rochford. Robert leaned back in his chair and said, “How much longer do I need to distract the French ambassador with wine and women? It’s not as though he isn’t aware of our plans with the Spanish. For that matter, what is he still doing in England? Does he want to be taken into custody when the French launch against us at last?”
“You tell me, Lord Robert,” Walsingham said without looking up from the papers he was studying. Though Robert’s father was dead and the Northumberland title gone, he’d been allowed to retain his courtesy “lord,” if only because it was how everyone was accustomed to addressing him. His oldest brother, John, was still nominally Earl of Warwick, but Robert knew how precarious their positions remained. It was why he didn’t push Walsingham too far, despite the man’s familiar tone.
“All right,” Robert responded. “Why is the French ambassador still in England? Perhaps he merely likes our women and wine … though that would be more believable in any man not French. In practical terms, he is still here because the possibility of learning something useful continues to outweigh the awkwardness of the situation. King Henri no doubt has his spies in England, but none so near the heart of the court as his own ambassador. Anger with William does not trump the need for information.”
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