The king did not look at Dominic as he spoke, turning a short dagger restlessly over and over in his hands. “We’ve quite an assembly to watch us today. What do you say to giving them a show? Forget wood—let’s use steel.”
“Rebated?” Dominic asked without really paying attention, for he was trying to decipher Minuette’s vague warning.
There was a heartbeat’s pause before William laughed. “Naturally. I wouldn’t want to harm you.” The king’s eyes turned to him then like a hawk’s, fixed and unblinking. “And I can only presume you would not wish to run me through. At least not in front of witnesses.”
He knows.
Dominic couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. What had William done with Minuette?
William strode away, calling back as he went. “I’ll send the arms master with a sword.”
Dominic turned on Harrington. “Where is she?”
“In her chambers, with a guard posted outside. Carrie brought me the message.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know.”
“Find out.”
Harrington vanished as Dominic watched William swinging a heavy, broad-bladed sword in the middle of the yard. Even blunt-edged for training, it looked deadly. It kept catching the sun, deflecting the light into Dominic’s eyes.
Within a minute Dominic held a similar sword and he tested it, weighing the balance and fitting his hand to the best position. He slowed his breathing and tried to focus on the coming bout. William looked in no mood to be gentle.
The thought of Minuette under guard didn’t make Dominic feel especially gentle himself.
Both securely laced into training gear, the two men met in the middle of the tiltyard and saluted each other. Dominic was taken aback by the ferocity of William’s initial lunge and for a moment he thought the king had overreached in his anger. The shock of that first blow rang through Dominic’s sword and up his arms, but he knew what he was about. He instantly gauged the strength of William’s thrust and met the force with corresponding weakness. He allowed William’s sword to trap his and push it down, but Dominic was already moving by then, charging through so that he could bring his sword up and at William’s side from an unexpected direction. Only a quick sidestep on the king’s part saved him from a hit, and the crowd roared in appreciation.
After that first emotional attack, William got control of himself and set about moving with skill and precision. He used his anger well, as Dominic had taught him, letting it fuel him without the loss of control that would lead to mistakes. Dominic found himself evaluating William as he had in the training exercises of their youth. Economical in his grace, nothing showy or flowery, just sharp, neat movements and disciplined footwork. And always those blue eyes, gauging and judging and storing up offenses to avenge. But Dominic was confident in his own skills and greater experience, hampered only by the fact that he didn’t particularly want to injure his opponent.
William had no such scruples. He landed several hits on Dominic’s chest and side, including a long slashing cut below his rib cage that would have finished him if the sword had been sharp. As it was, Dominic knew he’d have a wicked bruise in the morning.
Think, he commanded himself. He’d taught William everything he knew—what would the king try to win this? Even as he thought, Dominic saw William plant his feet, preparatory to kicking upward in a move borrowed from Dominic’s service in Wales. Dominic dropped his sword hand behind him in an instant, out of reach. But William hadn’t been aiming for his sword. The kick landed hard in the center of Dominic’s stomach and he ended on his knees, doubled over and gasping for breath.
Where he realized his immediate problem was not lack of air.
The silver blade at his throat was perfectly steady, the edge of the dagger close enough that Dominic could feel it as he breathed out. He raised his eyes to William’s, no longer opaque but blazing in fury, and thought, He might do it.
Several women in the crowd cried out, but all settled swiftly into a smothering silence. And still Dominic stared at William. At last, very softly, so only the two of them could hear, Dominic said, “That’s cheating.”
“That’s winning.” William moved the dagger until it rested flat and cold against Dominic’s cheek. “Do the unexpected. Your advice, was it not? Was that before or after you made her a whore?”
Like flint to tinder, fury surged through Dominic. He forgot the crowds, forgot his own doubt and guilt, forgot that William had some right to feel betrayed. To hell with fairness.
Dominic allowed his eyes to drop, until he was staring at William’s boots. The dagger against his cheek moved slightly, not to draw blood, but in a slight relaxation of tension. When the dagger moved, so did Dominic, propelling himself off his heels, his head meeting William’s stomach with satisfying force.
William was still wheezing for breath by the time Dominic was on his feet. The dagger was on the ground, but William held tight to his sword. The look blazing from the king’s eyes was murderous. Dominic could have moved then and dealt him serious harm before he’d recovered, but he wanted the satisfaction of beating his rival fairly.
This time William unloosed his ferocity entirely—and this time Dominic met it in kind. The force of each blow vibrated clear to his shoulders, but Dominic kept moving, matching cut for cut and thrust for thrust. Without the distractions of conscience, Dominic’s experience and strength came to the fore. William could not match his battlefield instincts. Dominic simply moved, reading a dozen different signals at once so that he always knew from the balance of William’s feet or the shift of a shoulder from where the next blow was coming. Dominic was a master of countercutting: his defensive moves were also offensive, turning every thrust to his own advantage. William could not hope to match him.
The swell and roar of the watching crowd could have been the clamour of a battlefield. Dominic knew there must be shock and doubt among some of those watching, but more of them simply reveled in this sudden eruption of violence between the king and his closest friend.
There came a moment when William stepped out of reach and Dominic had a brief hope that it was over. But before he could even finish the thought, he saw that the king had given himself just enough room to lunge. Dominic moved at the same instant. This time it wasn’t swords that met but flesh, Dominic’s left hand holding off William’s sword while his own right hand was caught in the king’s vicious grasp. Dominic felt the pulse of hate and anger and pain flowing through William and knew that this was what his friend wanted, that nothing else would do but that he tear at Dominic with his bare hands.
Locked hand-to-hand and eye-to-eye, time slowed and Dominic saw a friendship’s memories between one painful breath and the next: his early days of training with William, and his first flash of respect for an eight-year-old prince who refused to be coddled; a ten-year-old’s solemn face as he gripped the orb and scepter and took upon himself the weight of a realm; a changeable sixteen-year-old, quick to take offense and quicker to apologize.
A friend who had, above all else, valued Dominic for his uncomfortable honesty.
Dominic dropped his arms so abruptly that William stumbled forward. They released their desperate hold on each other, William’s breath rasping harshly and Dominic beginning to be aware of numerous aches and pains that the heat of the fight had masked.
He wasn’t certain what he expected. The possibilities flew through his mind: arrested or killed where he stood. He had time for one wild moment of regret when a sudden force and sound rocked the air. Dominic stumbled, ears ringing, at the unmistakable release of black powder.
In seconds William was surrounded by guards. There was another explosion and another and a breathless guard came running into the tiltyard.
“What’s happening?” the king shouted at the newcomer.
The stricken guard seemed unsure of delivering his message so publicly.
“What?” William demanded, in a voice that brooked no delay.
�
�Explosions between here and the Tower. Perhaps an attempt to free the Lady Mary—”
“Get my horse and half-armor,” William shouted, and several of his guards broke into protest. “Now!”
“Your Majesty, this could be an attempt on your life—”
“Then get me a damned unrebated sword and arm yourselves. We’re riding to the Tower!”
This was fear as much as fury, Dominic knew. Always William preferred to spring into action when uncertainty arose. That didn’t make it the wrong move.
Even now, with all in ashes around him, Dominic’s first instinct was to stand with William. He’d be needed for this. He took one step before he remembered that, needed or not, he wouldn’t be at William’s side. Not today. Perhaps not ever again.
Across the length of the tiltyard William shot him an unreadable glance. Dominic waited for the king to summon guards, to place him under arrest as surely he’d already placed Minuette.
William opened his mouth, then shut it and strode away.
The spectators broke into a swirl of noise, women’s panicked voices rising and men rushing to arm themselves and join the king while Dominic stood frozen in the middle of the yard. He didn’t even blink until Harrington’s urgent voice sounded once more in his ear. “I’d get out of here if I were you.”
“Where is she?” Dominic demanded, following Harrington into a secluded spot beneath the stands, unlacing the bulky leather training jerkin as they went.
“Still in her chambers. No one’s saying much. All Carrie knows is that she was escorted back under guard. I don’t think she’s been arrested, but I’d say it’s a safe bet your secret is known.”
“Did Carrie say … Is Minuette all right?”
“She’s fine. Except …”
“What?”
“According to Carrie, she had the mark of a man’s hand across her face.”
Everything around him went red. “He hit her.”
The voice that replied was cool, composed—and feminine. “He slapped her,” Elizabeth corrected, stepping forward from the gallery.
Dominic clenched his hands and tried to match her tone. “What happened?”
“Eleanor Percy happened. We should have guessed that if anyone could unearth your darkest secrets, it would be her, though clearly she did not know the whole of what she’d uncovered. And rather than lie her way out of the matter, Minuette told William the truth—all of it. The marriage, the child … how could she have been so stupid?”
“Stay out of this, Elizabeth.”
She went on as if he hadn’t spoken at all. “William just rode out with a dozen lords and a regiment of guards. Almost, I might think you responsible for staging this attack on the Tower. It’s certainly convenient, for it seems William has neglected to leave any orders as to your person. I should take care to be gone before he returns.”
“I won’t run.”
“You were set to run in just a few hours. Go to my uncle and get the papers you need now.” Elizabeth’s composure was not as complete as he’d thought. Her voice thinned around the edges as she snapped, “This isn’t a game or test of honour. You have devastated him. I do not wish to see my brother injure you. Better to remove yourself and leave him to calm down in his own time.”
“I’m not leaving Minuette.”
“He will not harm her.” She raised her hand as he opened his mouth to protest. “Yes, he struck her this morning, but that was in the heat of anger. It won’t happen again.”
Dominic gave each word equal weight. “I’m not going anywhere without my wife.”
Even in the midst of his desperation, Dominic felt a moment’s thrill at that. My wife. It was the first time he’d ever called her that aloud.
Elizabeth’s lips tightened. “Let me be plain, Dominic. You are in the wrong. As far as I’m concerned, this catastrophe rests on your head. It’s only because I know you so well—both of you—that I can believe it was not ill-intended. It was folly, but not malice.” She sighed, and her face crumpled slightly. “What do you need?”
He didn’t dare answer for a moment, afraid that he’d misunderstood. But she continued to regard him gravely. Dominic drew a deep breath. “Can you get Minuette away from the guards and out of the palace?”
It was an eternity before she answered. “Yes.”
“Do it.” He calculated quickly. “An hour and a half, bring her to the outer walls near Westminster Abbey. It would be best that she dress for riding, just in case. I’ll go to Rochford and hope we can move things up a little.”
Dominic didn’t even risk going back to his room, sending Harrington to retrieve the few personal items already packed and then to fetch horses, including Dominic’s own favored gray stallion, Daybreak, and the white jennet William had given Minuette on her seventeenth birthday. Then he headed northeast on foot to George Boleyn’s elaborate home at Charterhouse. Only when he’d cleared the last of Whitehall’s warren of entrances and gates did he begin to breathe easy. He’d kept expecting a guard to come from behind and detain him.
He presented himself at Charterhouse’s outer entrance to the first of Rochford’s men, all with the distinctive serpent badges and something of the same air of detached intelligence as their master. For the first time in his life Dominic was grateful for his position, for it enabled him to pass quickly through the several layers of protection around the former Lord Chancellor. Only when he came face-to-face with Rochford’s secretary did he stutter to a halt.
“I’m sorry, Lord Exeter, but Lord Rochford is closeted with representatives of the Spanish guilds. They are trying to salvage economic ties in the wake of Spain’s upcoming talks with France.”
“As he’s speaking to the Spanish, then he’ll definitely want to know that the Tower is currently under attack and the king has ridden out to engage. Did you not hear the explosions?”
“I was instructed not to disturb the gentlemen. You know how little His Grace likes being disregarded.”
“I am sure he would be even less pleased to discover that his nephew may be under personal threat and you made no move to inform him.” Dominic pushed his way past the man, using his size and leashed panic to intimidate. “Let his wrath be on my head.” For tomorrow I’ll be out of reach, he thought. And anyway, Rochford would have to line up behind Will at this point if he wants my head.
The secretary let him pass, but stayed prudently out of sight of the door to Rochford’s study. Dominic flung it open, prepared to apologize brusquely and get the Spanish representatives out of the room as quickly and rudely as possible.
But the study was empty. Dominic stopped short, instinct taking over as his eyes roamed about the chamber. There were two chairs in front of Rochford’s desk, shoved casually aside as though they had just been vacated. Rochford’s high-backed, heavily carved seat was pushed roughly parallel to the desk. Where had everyone gone?
Even as the question went through his head, Dominic had his answer—or, more precisely, two answers. The first was provided by the French windows that gave onto a balcony fronting a garden with a low wall. It would be a simple matter to depart this chamber without alerting the secretary or guards and climb over the wall into the city streets. There would usually be men in that garden, but clearly Rochford had required absolute privacy for this meeting.
The second answer was more blunt, and awful—not everyone in this chamber had gone. Perhaps he could smell the blood or perhaps the last moment of violence lingered in the air, pressing against his skin, but Dominic knew what he would find even before he crossed the room in long strides and shoved Rochford’s chair out of the way.
George Boleyn lay on his side, the dagger handle protruding from beneath his ribs where a very careful and skilled assassin had plunged it into his heart. Dominic squatted on his haunches and touched his finger to the blood. Still warm. He shut his eyes and swore long and vividly, though well under his breath so as not to alert the secretary hovering out of sight beyond the door. He could not afford to ge
t caught up in this. There wasn’t time.
Swiftly, he checked each document case stacked on Rochford’s desk, hoping against hope to find the papers prepared for him and Minuette. He found nothing in his first sweep and knew he couldn’t risk searching any longer. Probably the papers were already gone: given into the hands of some nameless, faceless man who was meant to meet them in Greenwich later. They would never make it—Greenwich was east of the Tower of London where the king and his soldiers were now swarming against whatever threat had presented. The east was closed to them now.
Even as Dominic’s thoughts focused on their immediately precarious situation, considering and discarding options, another part of his mind assessed the larger issue. An explosion—just the first one—had been set off close to Whitehall. More had been set nearer the Tower along with, apparently, enough armed men to make it seem a rescue attempt was under way. But what if the true target had been Rochford? Could the explosions have been merely a feint, to distract attention away from George Boleyn’s murder while his killers escaped?
If it were a week earlier, or even just a day, Dominic would have called Rochford’s secretary in and grilled him about the men. He would have sent guards to scour the streets at once, tracking down the assassins.
But it was now, this hour, and if he didn’t move fast he and Minuette both would join Mary Tudor in the Tower. They needed to take flight—without Rochford’s preparations to aid them.
Although much thought had passed since he’d entered Rochford’s study, no more than four minutes had elapsed. Dominic took to the French windows as the last visitors had and spared one glance back for his former guardian.
“What’s William going to do without you?” he asked softly into the air, then scaled the wall as the assassins had done before him and lost himself in the London streets.
Harrington met him outside Whitehall’s precincts with the horses that would now be their salvation. It couldn’t be a good idea for Minuette to ride so soon and for so long after losing the baby, but there was no choice. The women appeared within minutes. His eyes went straight to Minuette, who looked ashen, but she smiled briefly. He took in the welt on her cheek where William had struck her and the guilt that kept threatening to swamp him vanished in icy rage.
The Boleyn Reckoning: A Novel (The Boleyn Trilogy) Page 20