The Boleyn Reckoning: A Novel (The Boleyn Trilogy)

by Laura Andersen

  3 September 1556

  Whitehall Palace

  I had hoped to remain at Hatfield until the end of August, but with the failure of King Philip’s visit and the devastating loss of Calais, William begged me to return “as soon as your health will permit.” My physical health presented no obstacles, for I have healed quickly and both Kat and Carrie assured me that I should have no trouble in future. So I came when William called. For the last time.

  He has been distracted and irritable and worried over the possible French-Spanish alliance and Lady Rochford’s conviction, but in the midst of all that he has been heartbreakingly solicitous of my welfare after my false fall from a horse. I have been lying to him for months, nearly two years now, so why do these last lies weigh so heavily?

  Lord Rochford has sent me a note from Charterhouse, where he has been staying since his wife’s trial. He asked me to call upon him soon: “For,” he wrote, “mid-September should bring our joint concern to fruition.”

  So long we have waited, and now so little time remaining.

  10 September 1556

  Whitehall Palace

  In the midst of all the rumours and opinions of Lady Rochford’s state of mind and health and what that might mean to her sentence, the privy council has issued an edict allowing for the execution of the insane. If I were not so tired and downhearted, I might try to speak to William about the wisdom of this, but I have nothing left to give.

  If Jane Grey wishes to intervene, she can speak to William herself.

  13 September 1556

  Whitehall Palace

  Jane Boleyn, Lady Rochford, was beheaded on a private scaffold on Tower Green this morning.

  Tomorrow, Dominic will go to Charterhouse and receive whatever instructions Lord Rochford has for us.

  My life at court is down to days, if not hours.

  “Minuette?” Elizabeth spoke softly, but even so Minuette startled badly. Elizabeth waited while her friend closed her diary and turned in her seat. Dressed for bed, with her dark honey curls bound in a single plait, she looked about fifteen years old.

  Elizabeth had rehearsed what she might say to Minuette, how to delicately broach the subject of Dominic and their evident affair, and had not yet found the nerve. Minuette always seemed so fragile, should she not wait until her friend was well?

  Smoothing a tiny crease on her gold damask overskirt, the only outward sign of her uncertainty, Elizabeth said, “You were missed at dinner. William and Dominic are both highly worried. I told them you needed only rest, and time. Prove me right, Minuette, and heal quickly.”

  She hesitated, knowing that time was slipping away, that a world of hurt was waiting for her brother, that something had to be said sooner rather than later … and in that hesitation, Minuette spoke.

  “Elizabeth.” Her voice, so soft it hardly touched the air of the chamber, made Elizabeth blink.

  She crossed to the bed and sat down, taking Minuette’s hands in her own, and waited in silence.

  “Elizabeth … I’m in trouble.”

  Those first words were like the breaking of a dam. She poured out everything to Elizabeth, in a jumble of words and chronology that threatened to be unintelligible. But having had weeks to consider Dominic as Minuette’s lover, Elizabeth was quick to grasp the fact of their marriage. If anything, it was the detail of the Catholic priest that surprised her most. Who would have thought Dominic would do something so heretical?

  But if the use of a priest surprised Elizabeth, the revelation of Minuette negotiating with Rochford positively astonished her. “How very devious of you,” she said with admiration. “And wise. You say that my uncle’s preparations are complete?”

  “Dominic is to meet with him tomorrow. For instructions and papers, I suppose.”

  “Carrie and Dominic’s man—Harrington, is it?—have been informed?”

  Colour had returned to Minuette’s face the more she’d unburdened herself. “Yes. They will travel with us.”

  “You were really going to leave me without saying goodbye?” Elizabeth tried not to sound critical, but the hurt was real.

  Minuette’s breath caught, a prelude to tears. “Not for lack of love, Elizabeth. It seemed safer.”

  “Because you did not trust me to help?”

  “Safer for you as well. William—” Minuette broke off, perhaps swallowing the urge to cry. “William will need you. I would not take that last relationship away from him.”

  For all her belief that she was not sentimental, Elizabeth had to force her voice to evenness. “Will there ever be a day when you are not looking out for us, Minuette?” She hugged her friend, hoping that Minuette would feel the same comfort that she had so often given to Elizabeth. “You are right, leaving England is the safest course for now. Let my uncle aid you, go to the Netherlands, and I shall do all in my power to soften William’s anger and bring him to forgiveness. However long the breach takes to mend, I trust you and Dominic will be part of England’s court for many years to come.”

  When Dominic arrived at Charterhouse on September 14, he noted new lines on George Boleyn’s previously ageless face, sharply engraved around his mouth and eyes. These months of royal displeasure—as well, perhaps, as his wife’s violent end—had marred the elegance of the king’s uncle. But the power was still in full evidence, checked though it might be. Indeed, Rochford behaved precisely as though he were still sitting at the center of power in Whitehall rather than at his own private residence at Charterhouse.

  Rochford raised a smooth and ironic eyebrow. “Am I to take it that, rather chivalrously, you are here in place of the Marquess of Somerset?”

  The contemptuous reference to his wife made Dominic’s temper rise. He’d spent half an hour with Minuette this morning, in which she’d told him of her confession to Elizabeth and, for what it was worth, the princess’s blessing on their planned flight. Because they needed Rochford to ensure their safety, Dominic checked his tongue. A little. “You have the necessary papers?”

  “So anxious to leave England?” Rochford shook his head. “I confess, I cannot grasp the hold the lady has over both you and William. All this trouble and torment for love of a mere woman.”

  “You sit where you do because of a man’s love for a woman,” Dominic retorted.

  “Oh, I understand when such a love brings reward. But you are throwing away titles and lands and future.”

  Dominic did not expect George Boleyn to understand. Here was a man happy to spend his passion with his nephew’s former mistress, so how could he grasp what Dominic felt? “Where are the promised papers?” he demanded.

  “They will be in my possession tonight. Tomorrow afternoon, the king will join me here to dine privately. While we are thus engaged, I’ll send a man of mine to meet you at the Greenwich docks with the necessary documents and information on your passage. Attempt to blend in by dressing plainly and travel with all you need. I take it you do not expect to return to England anytime soon?”

  “You know your nephew as well as I do.”

  “Yes, I would not expect quick forgiveness.” Rochford shrugged. “But I will do what I can to mitigate his anger. Your young lady did me a favor and, as she once noted, I am a man who pays his debts.”

  Rochford rose from behind the desk and offered his hand. Somewhat surprised, Dominic shook it.

  “Farewell, Courtenay,” Rochford said. “You are a man of honour, which is not always an easy thing in this world. I respect that. I should like to think we will meet again.”

  Dominic returned to Whitehall, painfully conscious of every sight and sound and person he passed. Tomorrow night he would set sail and might never again see England, and that knowledge was like a dagger placed, not to kill, but to wound. His entire adult life had been spent trying to reclaim his father’s honour, wrapped in the very heart of English royal life. He had dreamed what it would be to walk away from all the bad things—the vicious politics and the personal jealousies, the lies and the betrayals, but now he c
ounted the good things that would be lost as well. Men like Lord Burghley, who sought honestly to bring balance and peace to England; the joy of riding out under the banner of his family and king; being at the center of a world that attracted the talented and learned. Not to mention Elizabeth, who had been like a sister to him through all these years. He could not help but wonder what Elizabeth thought of him now that she knew the whole of his actions.

  And, always and ever, William.

  When Dominic reached Whitehall, he turned by instinct to William’s presence chamber, where this afternoon the king was enthusing over some exotic gifts brought by an explorer, including a lively monkey that was wreaking havoc in the polished chamber.

  The light and joy in William’s eyes was an extra twist of the dagger. Keenly aware that he had less than a day remaining, Dominic looked past the man whom he had lately seen only as a rival and found anew the boy who had made of him a brother.

  It was that boy Dominic was loath to leave, for William’s enthusiasm today would not last. It would fade away, as it so often did these days, into brooding. Ever since the smallpox, William had been unstable in his moods and liable to overreact. Not that he hadn’t been before, but the illness had stripped away the protections he’d once had. Now William was likely to take everything personally. And when Dominic very personally took the woman he loved out of his grasp, what would William have left?

  When the other attendants and courtiers were dismissed, Dominic and William remained alone as they had so many times. The king paced the length of the chamber and Dominic leaned against the wall with a throat that was almost too tight to swallow as, for the last time, William asked his opinion.

  “How long can I continue to keep Mary in the Tower before the Catholics mount more than a vocal protest?” William asked.

  “The answer to that depends on whether you would prefer the Catholics to protest physically.”

  William shot him a keen glance. “If I can draw them into a confrontation I expect, all the better for us.”

  “True.” Dominic shrugged. “How little do you trust Mary?”

  “Little enough to suspect her of almost anything, but not so much that I will manufacture evidence. Mary will have to damn herself. I will not do it for her.”

  “Wise enough.”

  William grinned. “Why, Dom, was that a compliment? I don’t believe you’ve ever paid me a compliment before.”

  “And that is a flaw, Your Majesty. I know I have been hard on you. I hardly know why myself. Except that I see your talents and gifts and know what you may accomplish for England. My lack of praise has only ever been about my own reticence and not a comment on your worth.”

  With creased brows that conveyed equal puzzlement and pleasure, William asked, “Why so generous now?”

  Because soon enough I will never be able to say these things to you, and I am sorry for it, Dominic thought. He cleared his throat and said, “You have ever been a clever and learned prince and have shown Europe that you are a monarch to be reckoned with. I am proud that you are my king, and my friend.”

  William’s unscarred cheek twitched once and Dominic knew he was moved. “If I am a good king,” he replied, “it is due to my father and my mother and my uncle … and to you. There are very few living whose good opinion I care for. To know that you think well of me is an honour.”

  “I do think well of you.”

  “Even when I fall short of your ideals?” Behind William’s light words was the memory of Yorkshire and Dominic’s anger over the attempt on Renaud’s life.

  “We all fall short, Will. I have long forgiven you for any injury I may have—fairly or unfairly—laid to your charge. You owe me nothing.”

  “I’m glad of it,” William said curtly. “For with France and Spain allied against us, I have need of men who trust me.”

  Dominic could not have continued speaking if his life depended on it. He nodded once in acknowledgment, then excused himself. “I know you have private plans tonight.”

  “Yes. But I’ll see you tomorrow in the tiltyard. You haven’t forgotten that we are set to spar?”

  “I have not forgotten.”

  He would not sleep between now and then. One last night at court, one more sparring bout with Will … then he and Minuette would take to flight.

  By the time Minuette appeared in his privy chamber for dinner, William’s restless mood had swung from his earlier enjoyment to a more usual melancholy. Dominic had been so very solemn earlier—not that he was ever a beacon of cheer—and though William had been moved by Dominic’s words of confidence and trust, he was also perversely struck by self-doubt. A condition only Dominic had ever been able to induce.

  Every time he’d closed his eyes this last week, he had seen his aunt’s face in the darkness. Jane Boleyn had never been a favorite of his—the duchess was not a woman to endear herself to children—but nevertheless she had been part of that inner circle of family that was now so perilously small. When Minuette entered the softly lit chamber, romantic with candles and flowers, William asked abruptly, “Do you remember the incident in the gardens at Blickling Hall?”

  For one moment she seemed startled. Then remembered laughter lit her eyes. “Oh dear, we were far too mischievous for our own good. I remember distinctly how very angry Lady Rochford was at the beheading of her tulips.”

  “And I remember you saying most solemnly to my aunt, ‘But when one is fighting a dragon, there are likely to be innocent casualties.’ Right before my aunt repossessed our wooden swords.”

  “This has been a most difficult week for you. I wish I could make it easier.” Beneath the laughter, understanding lurked in Minuette’s voice. She sat next to him at the circular table filled with delicacies that held no appeal for William. All he wanted was the wine, and he’d had more than one cup already.

  He took Minuette’s hand, caressing her fingers as he studied her face. She’d looked so drawn since Hatfield, her brightness dimmed and uncertain. But her beauty was all the greater for it, especially the gold-green eyes that shone luminous in the candlelight.

  “You make everything better, sweetling.” But better didn’t necessarily mean easy, just easier to live with. There was no avoiding the fact that Jane Boleyn had died at the hands of William’s executioner. Though he did not regret the punishment, he did regret its necessity. If only his aunt had stayed out of his marital plans, then he would not be plagued by memories of her sculptured face and sharp tongue while imagining how she’d changed as prison broke her in body and spirit.

  “I am told she made a good end,” William said. “Left her blessing on me and England. Apologized for her offenses.”

  Minuette sat silent for long minutes while William brooded and caressed her hand with his fingertips. When she spoke, it was soft and far away, almost as though she were talking to herself. “I know what it is to be haunted by one’s actions. I never told you …”

  And now she faced him fully, her eyes alive but wary. “I’ve never told anyone this. Only Dominic knows, and that is because he was there. When Giles Howard died at Framlingham, it was not Dominic who killed him. It was me.”

  The words seemed to echo from every corner of the room, whispering from the swish of the curtains stirred by drafts and the pops and crackles of the fire. Finally, William asked, “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

  “I did not want to talk about it, and I did not want you to think less of me. A woman who could kill a man, even for her own protection?” Minuette shrugged. “It is not likely to make anyone think better of her.”

  “Sweetling—”

  “Don’t tell me it’s all right,” she said firmly. “I’m not asking for your comfort. I simply wanted you to know that I understand what it is to have taken what seems the only possible course of action and yet to regret it. For months after Framlingham, I would wake certain that my hands were still covered in blood. The dreams come infrequently now, but I do not think they will ever entirely pass. I have his de
ath on my conscience, justified or not.”

  William did not know what to say, or even to feel. It was true, the thought of Minuette’s hands covered in blood disturbed him. Mostly because he wished he could have been the one to kill Giles Howard himself. At least he no longer need feel jealous that Dominic had avenged her rather than him. It seemed Minuette was capable of avenging herself.

  But it was the phrase about her conscience that struck him most forcibly. Was that what troubled him so much? He had far more blood on his hands than Minuette ever could: from the tutor turned traitor of his childhood, Edward Aylmer, through Northumberland and now his own aunt. And what of the men who’d died in France or Scotland fighting his battles? William didn’t believe he’d done wrong—but there was something in what Minuette said about waking from dreams.

  He had a flash of memory, back to the day Aylmer had been executed. He and Minuette had retreated to the gardens at Hampton Court. Looking at her now, for the first time in months, he saw beneath the beautiful face of the woman he loved to the familiar face of his friend. Minuette alone had been able to speak to him about Aylmer, the only one who knew how to address the pain without letting it consume him. He had forgotten what it was like to let her be his friend, thinking of her only as a woman to bed at night and a queen by his side in the day.

  But Minuette had ever been so much more than that.

  A little hoarsely, he said, “I believe I did right, signing my aunt’s execution order. She committed treason, after all. But sometimes, in the night—” He broke off, not sure how to say what he wanted.

  “In the night, our fears loom large,” Minuette finished softly.

  “It wasn’t always like this,” William said. “Before last winter, before the …” He touched his scarred cheek, still superstitiously afraid of naming the illness that had almost killed him. “When I was so ill, I seemed to wander in a fever of black omens. England burning, my people destroying one another, my crown trampled into the mud. At times I could see a hand plucking it away from me, like my grandfather pulling Richard’s crown out of the bushes at Bosworth. I have always had enemies. But those terrible nights when I did not know if I would emerge from my nightmares, I seemed to feel it more than ever before. Men hate me, Minuette. Men I know—have known my whole life—would kill me if they could. How am I to live each day feeling that hatred?”