Dominic took her chin in his hand and raised her head until he could search her face. “Are you certain this is what you wish?”
It had been ages since he’d been able to read her thoughts in her eyes, but tonight they shone clear and nearly broke his own heart. “I am so tired, Dominic. I want a life with you, with children—” She choked and took a ragged breath. “We cannot go back. We can only go on. William will never let me go. What else can we do but run? Unless you no longer find me worth it.”
He cupped her face in his hands, not entirely gentle. “How can you say that?”
If she’d had any tears left, she might have wept, but instead her words caught on dry sobs. “How can I not? I have cost you your king, your wealth, your honour … and now your child. What could you want with a broken wife?”
Blindly trying to feel his way to what she needed to hear, Dominic said, “You are not broken, Minuette, and even if you were, I would not care except for your sake. It is you yourself I cannot do without.”
She did, after all, have a few tears left, for they spilled soundlessly onto his fingers. Roughly, desperate to make her believe him, Dominic whispered, “I count the world itself well lost to have you as my wife.”
More than anything he wanted to kiss her, to use her body to blot out his own sorrow, and he hated himself for it. Was that not what had brought them to this pass? If he had not pressed himself upon her in a mix of desire and jealousy that night at court, she would not be ill and grieving.
It was Minuette herself who kissed him, pulling him to her with a ferocity that instantly overwhelmed his scruples. Her mouth was hungry for him, and if she still wept, Dominic told himself they were cleansing tears. It could not go on, they were in the middle of Elizabeth’s own garden and might be interrupted at any moment and surely Minuette was not in any condition to finish things, but for a few wild, thoughtless minutes the past and the future retreated and all was entirely well.
8 August 1556
Hatfield
Dominic and Elizabeth left this morning for Dover Castle. When I told Elizabeth I was sorry not to be going with her, that I wished I could be with her in the uncertain days ahead, she kissed me on the forehead as she might a young girl.
“I shall do well enough on my own,” she said. “It is you I am worried about. You must rest as Kat and Carrie tell you so that you can meet us all at court when Philip’s visit is ended.”
And then she hugged me fiercely and whispered in my ear, “You can trust me, Minuette, for anything. If you were in trouble …”
She cannot imagine the depth of my trouble.
10 August 1556
Hatfield
I forced myself to write to William today, although the couriers will have to follow him to Dover. But his letters have been like coals heaped on my heart—so solicitous and worried, so careful not to hint of any hurt at my silence. I don’t know how I will face him again. I don’t know how to do this anymore! But I don’t know what else to do.
11 August 1556
Hatfield
That is a lie. I know precisely what to do. It is a measure of my cowardice that I am still afraid to do it.
Elizabeth rode into Dover beneath a bright coastal sun on August 11, to cheering crowds and rippling banners. William met her to ride the last mile to the castle together and the siblings no doubt made an impressive spectacle—both upright and slender, William’s dark curls encircled with a golden crown, Elizabeth’s bright hair a shining memory of the last king. Mother would have liked this, Elizabeth thought as they passed through the outer curtain wall by way of Fitzwilliam’s Gate. Her royal children in triumph.
But the moment, like all moments, passed swiftly away, and inside Dover Castle even the walls themselves seemed tense and anxious. The Spanish ships had been sighted and were even now heading into Dover with an English escort. They would arrive by nightfall, and tomorrow morning King Philip would set foot on English soil.
Whether he came with a proposal or a condemnation was uncertain. An informal council convened in William’s privy chamber: William and Dominic, Elizabeth and Lord Burghley, and Walsingham and Robert Dudley.
Philip would be polite, was the consensus. He would hardly have bothered to make the journey if he did not intend to at least meet the king and princess. But whether that meeting would end in a betrothal was anyone’s guess.
Burghley, as always, was pragmatic. “We cannot know anything until we have met with King Philip. By tomorrow evening we will have a much clearer idea of what he intends.”
“And so we simply parade the Princess of Wales as a lure before him?” Robert asked. “That’s rather cold-blooded.”
William’s face darkened. “The princess is not your concern.”
“The princess,” Elizabeth intervened, before either man could lose his temper, “is quite capable of doing what is best for England. I do not object to being a pretext for a personal meeting if the results are greater security for all.”
She went to bed in a temper of her own, for the first time since Hatfield thinking of something other than Minuette and Dominic’s love affair. Although she still did not know how she was going to extricate the two of them from their folly, for now she could only gird herself for Philip of Spain. Husband—or enemy?
Or possibly both.
Dressed in his most elaborate ceremonial wardrobe, draped with velvet and silk and heavy chains of gold, a crown set with rubies and opals circling his head, William waited for Philip of Spain. Elizabeth sat in a throne next to his, looking effortlessly royal and icily beautiful in cloth-of-gold and a pearl-encrusted headdress. Around her neck she wore a simple circlet of enameled Tudor roses. Before them, the King’s Hall of the Great Tower—built by that energetic and farseeing king, Henry II—was filled with most of the nobles of England, as well as William’s privy council.
As Lord Burghley ceremoniously opened the doors, all eyes turned to the small Spanish party and the man at their heart. William noted Dominic walking behind the group, but he had eyes only for Philip. He’d had reports of the monarch’s appearance, even seen portraits, but so much of a king’s presence depended on how he carried himself. King Philip of Spain was clearly a master of royal presence: he was shorter than William by several inches and somewhat slight of figure, but one forgot that quickly when faced with Philip’s elegant carriage and grave expression. His eyes were wide and pale blue, his hair and beard a dark shade between brown and red, and he was dressed impeccably in black and gold.
William rose and stepped off the low dais to greet his fellow king on equal ground. In serviceable Spanish, William said, “You are most welcome to England, our dear friend of Spain.”
They clasped hands and Philip replied in less serviceable and strongly accented English, “To meet our dear England is ever an honour.” Then, in rapid Latin, “Shall we converse in a more mutual language?”
William didn’t answer that his Spanish was perfectly good enough for conversation, for it would have highlighted the fact that Philip’s language facility was more limited. In Latin, William turned to the dais and summoned Elizabeth forward. “The greater honour is to meet my sister, Elizabeth.”
“And so it is,” Philip agreed, his expression giving nothing away of his ultimate intentions toward William’s sister. Nor did Elizabeth’s face betray any emotion other than polite welcome.
“Your Majesty.” Elizabeth had a store of curtsies; this particular one offered genuine respect mingled with a sense of her own worth.
Philip replied in kind, a deep bow followed by a kiss of her hand. “Portraits do not do you justice, Your Highness.”
Bestowing a smile upon the flattery, Elizabeth answered, “Yours did you justice very well, for you are quite as handsome as in your pictures.”
Did she mean it? William wondered. Impossible to tell with his sister. She had been assigned a part, and she would play it well—so well that none would ever know what she really felt unless she chose to share it. Willi
am found himself looking for Robert Dudley, curious about his reaction. Robert’s expression was not as unreadable as the royals’: he was unhappy.
I hope I make you much more unhappy before the Spanish depart, William thought fervently. They needed Spain. Pray Heaven Philip had come to offer for Elizabeth. If he hadn’t, then England could be in serious trouble.
Within an hour, Elizabeth knew that Philip did not intend to barter for her hand in marriage. Not yet. He might be considering her, or he might equally be playing with them all, but either way the Spanish would depart England without a royal betrothal.
Perversely, that certainty made it easier to appreciate Philip and enjoy his company. Elizabeth was accustomed to learned and wealthy men, had spent weeks at the French court last summer in company with well-born, self-assured men who had flattered and flirted with her. Philip was a different matter. He did not bother to flirt, and scarcely to flatter, for each word gave the impression of having been carefully weighed out beforehand. Rather than give his conversation the appearance of calculation, it instead bestowed an impression of a man who spoke only what he truly believed.
He was nothing at all like Robert Dudley.
As they dined in private company—the two kings, Elizabeth, the Spanish ambassador Simon Renard, Lord Burghley, and Dominic—Elizabeth assessed her own impressions of the Spanish king and was a little surprised to discover that she found him personally attractive. She liked his rare smile and the cool gravity of the way he looked at her. Here is a man I could match, she thought, and fancied she saw mild regret in Philip’s eyes that a betrothal was not on offer today.
After the meal, Elizabeth was politely dismissed so that the men might have a private word about kingdoms and politics—and a half-Spanish princess locked up in the Tower. Philip escorted her, their steps matching perfectly across the chamber. He took the opportunity to speak a few soft words for her ears alone. In Spanish, a generous acknowledgment of Elizabeth’s fluency.
“Your Highness, I confess I shall leave England with greater regret than I had anticipated. It is a pity our two kingdoms cannot be friends as I’ve long wished.”
A less than honest wish, as Philip knew it was in his power to make them friends. Rather more than friends. For the first time in a lifetime of arranged possibilities for her future, Elizabeth thought that this was a man who would be a worthy partner—and perhaps opponent. The one did not preclude the other.
“Your Majesty,” she replied. “Whatever political tensions arise, I personally shall be most interested in further … friendship.”
If it had been Robert, he would have kissed her at that flirtatiously offered challenge. Philip, however, simply regarded her, his smile the only sign that he appreciated her words. “Your Highness,” he murmured, and lifted her hand to his lips. “I find myself hoping you and I shall have many years of friendship before us.”
Elizabeth retired that night looking forward to the next day: riding out with her brother and Philip and, after an afternoon of the two monarchs consulting privately, dancing at the farewell banquet. Surely Philip was an excellent dancer; he moved with such controlled grace.
But when she woke, it was to news that the Spanish had set sail at dawn. They had taken their ambassador, Simon Renard, with them and left behind a message that scarcely bothered to be polite about unexpected weather and the need not to be delayed in an English port if a storm blew up.
It was Robert who brought her the news. He at least had the grace not to openly gloat. But when Elizabeth snapped, “Well, I imagine you are the only one in Dover who is wholeheartedly relieved to see the back of Philip,” Robert answered readily, “For my own sake, yes. If his ungracious flight displeases you, then I am sorry for your pain.”
She sighed and shook her head. It was not fair that Robert moved her heart so easily. She knew she treated him casually, sometimes cruelly, but only because she hated being vulnerable to any man.
Extending her hand in invitation, she waited until Robert held it firmly before speaking. “Robert, if I had to do with only one man for the rest of my life, it would be you. Kings are all well and good, but none can be my eyes as you are.”
Even as he kissed her and Elizabeth let herself be pulled into him by her own desire as much as Robert’s, she knew she had not spoken the whole truth.
CHAPTER TWELVE
FROM THE MOMENT he’d left Hatfield, Dominic had felt it was a mistake to leave Minuette behind. What did he care about France or Philip or Elizabeth’s betrothal when his wife needed him? He should simply have scooped her up and left. He should have taken her when he could, snatched her free of the court and its trappings and—if they could not get across the sea—headed west, to the combined strongholds of Tiverton and Minuette’s Somerset lands.
But Dominic was long accustomed to subduing his desires to the demands of duty, and so he’d gone to Dover and played his part at William’s side and hardly listened to a word that passed between the Spanish and the English. When the visit was cut so unceremoniously short, Dominic knew without caring that Elizabeth would not be marrying Philip of Spain. At least not this year. He sent a note to Minuette at Hatfield, telling her that they would be going to London from here and hoping she would meet them. When they reached London, he would go to Rochford himself and bully the man into finishing his arrangements to spirit them to the Netherlands.
He was up at dawn to deal with reports from along the coastlines. Fears of a French invasion had, if not entirely vanished, largely receded. But Dominic would not leave any command of his half done. If he had not been up and about the castle, the news might have been delivered to Burghley first, but Dominic intercepted the message from the captain of one of the small English ships that regularly patrolled the Channel. They had seen Spanish ships in force, the message ran, and not those of the royal party just departed. More was not committed to paper, so Dominic followed the messenger to the ship itself and questioned her captain.
“Moving fast.” The man spat on the deck of his ship. “And out of their own waters. Toward France.”
“Take me out,” Dominic decided. If William decided to leave Dover today, he could catch up with them later. “I want to see these ships for myself.”
He took Harrington with him, leaving word for the king that there was an anomaly at sea he wished to see for himself.
They set sail from Dover in the brigantine that had brought word, the low, swift ship easy to maneuver and much used in piracy and espionage. Dominic’s nerves were unsettled and his body tensed up the longer they were at sea. He was accustomed to the bigger, more comfortable ships that carried ladies of the court between England and France and he was not a natural sailor. But it was his imagination that fueled his unease, for he could think of multiple reasons for Spain to be sailing toward France, and not one of them was good.
They headed south where the brigantine had last sighted the Spanish, sailing well into the night and picking up again at dawn. Before the sun had been up for long, there was a smudge of ships on the horizon. The captain passed the sea glass to Dominic and assured him that the vessels were Spanish. They were not the elegant royal ships that had brought King Philip and his party to England, but warships. Sitting well off the French coast and motionless. A warning. Or a blockade.
“You know what’s behind them,” the captain said.
“Le Havre.”
The captain nodded. “They’re not deployed to fight, more to keep away any English ships that might care to fight.”
“To keep us from reaching our newest French cities?” Dominic didn’t need to ask, and the captain didn’t bother to answer.
Dominic took a last look through the sea glass, foreboding strung tightly through his body. If Spain was attempting to keep the English out of Le Havre, it argued either an attack of its own against English interests or an agreement with the French.
And if Spain and France were working together …
“Get me back to Dover,” he ordered.
>
Dominic’s messenger brought word of the Spanish fleet’s appearance off the French coast just half a day before the French ambassador himself, Antoine de Noailles, delivered a formal announcement to William and the privy council. The day after reaching Whitehall, William sat in the circular council chamber surrounded by men as grim faced as he was. Dominic was still on the road from Dover, no doubt riding hard for London, but everyone else was there: canny Lord Burghley, bitter and seasoned veterans like Sussex and Oxford, and the young men. Of the latter, William kept a careful watch on the Duke of Norfolk.
De Noailles bore himself gravely, as befit a man nearing the end of his career. He’d served his first diplomatic mission years before Anne Boleyn’s marriage to Henry VIII and gave the impression of having seen it all and not being impressed by much of anything. He did not openly flaunt France’s success (for no doubt he did not wish to see the inside of an English prison) but managed to assert it as a natural consequence of William’s actions without overtly blaming the English king.
“We regret the loss of friendship between us, Your Majesty. But as England seems determined to break with us, we have had no choice but to look to our own security,” the ambassador said.
William did not trust himself to speak, though he felt the ripples of discontent and dismay among the councilors attending him. Lord Burghley, ever calm in the face of disaster, spoke for the English. “Unlike France, we have offered no violence beyond our own borders.”
“We would like to ensure it remains that way.”
“A strange way to seek peace, by provoking retaliation.”
De Noailles spoke straight to William, his direct gaze an arrogant contrast to his measured language. “Your options for retaliation are somewhat sparse just now, for we have not only retaken Le Havre and Harfleur.”
William hated being forced to speak, but de Noailles knew how to wait. Rather like Dominic—or Rochford. William would have given much to have either of them at his side just now. Since he did not, he asked the question he’d been diplomatically maneuvered into asking. “What else have you taken from us?”
The Boleyn Reckoning: A Novel (The Boleyn Trilogy) Page 16