The Boleyn Reckoning: A Novel (The Boleyn Trilogy)

by Laura Andersen

  “The only lasting injuries have been to yourself. Now you must pay.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  William circled her, and she could feel his eyes burning into her bowed head. He stopped in front of her—his boots near enough that she could have kissed them if she’d bent farther—and suddenly she was being jerked to her feet, William’s hands like a vise around her upper arms. Don’t react, she silently begged Dominic. Don’t make it worse.

  She felt the combined intake of breath from the men watching as William bored his eyes into hers, the normal clear blue grown opaque with contempt. “I’ve had a lot of time to consider how to make you pay,” he said, pitching his voice so that Dominic could not miss a word. “Perhaps I’ll begin with Wynfield. Your home may be relatively inconsequential, but I well remember how devoted your people are to you. It would not do to leave a pocket of resistance behind me.”

  “Wynfield is no threat at all,” she said, struggling to keep her voice even. She was walking such a narrow path; she could not afford the slightest stumble or William would pounce and others would pay the price for her mistakes. “They have had nothing to do with any of this.”

  “They harbored fugitives,” William said. “That is a crime. And fugitives from the king, at that, which might make it treason.”

  She dared say nothing else, simply met his eyes and hoped something in her gaze would calm him.

  Releasing her, William turned abruptly on his heel. “Sussex,” he called, “get the men ready to march north. Leave fifty with me. Dudley, return the prisoner to your tent and stay with him.” He gestured to two men-at-arms. “Take the maid and manservant into custody as well.”

  “And the woman?”

  William shot her a smile over his shoulder, an expression that made her blood run cold. “Put her in my tent. We have negotiations to conclude.”

  The tone of his voice left no doubt what he intended to extract in those negotiations. Minuette had hoped for the best, but now braced herself for the worst. As long as Dominic kept control, so could she.

  She did not dare look at her husband as Robert Dudley led him away and she gave a heartfelt prayer of thanks for Dominic’s silence. Because he behaved, so did Harrington and Carrie. A guard took Minuette’s arm and escorted her to William’s tent. It was plain by court standards, though lavish by camp ones. The walls and roof might be cloth, but the interior was high-ceilinged and the ground thickly covered in rugs. There was a long oak table and chairs for councils of war, two chests no doubt filled with clothing and armor, and a bed. A large bed, with a real mattress and fine linens. Minuette looked away, shivering from her imagination as much as from the cold.

  She waited a quarter hour before William entered. He had a linen bag in his hand, which he tossed on the table. It was hers, the one containing her diary and jewels. “Should make interesting reading,” he mused. “And a rosary as well … you have been dabbling with rebellion all along, haven’t you?”

  He moved behind her, and she tried not to stiffen as he rested a possessive hand on the curve of her neck. It was a familiar gesture, and so she was prepared for the kiss that followed.

  “So,” he said, and his voice was soft and all the more dangerous for it, “you wish to keep Wynfield and your people safe. What will you give me in return?”

  “I do not believe you would offer the innocent harm.”

  “Do you not? Perhaps you do not know me as well as you should.”

  “I know you perfectly.”

  He turned her to face him and tipped her chin up with the hand that was not still resting on her neck. Something in the pose was suggestive of how easily a neck could be snapped and she repressed a shudder. “Then you know that your people, as well as Dominic, are in my hands. He has admitted his treason. There is no need for him to ever reach London or face trial. I am within my rights to execute him this very hour. Will you negotiate for that?”

  It was why she had come. “Will you give me your word that my people at Wynfield will not be harmed? Your word that Dominic will face an open trial by jury in London?” Not that it would matter in the end—the jury would give the verdict William wanted. But Minuette knew it was beyond her power to stand in this camp and watch her husband die today.

  “My word …” William’s hand shifted along her throat until it rested at the neckline of her gown, “for your willingness?”

  She met his eyes without wavering. “For my willingness.”

  William kissed her.

  Even with her eyes closed, there was no hope of pretense. As William slid experienced hands across laces and fabric, removing her gown with caresses and kisses, Minuette felt her soul being stripped just as bare. She had bargained for the use of her body—she had not expected that her heart, so long twined with William in friendship, would demand its share of this hour.

  William spoke only once. “Sweetling,” he whispered when he laid her down, as though he had forgotten all the betrayal and fury of this year.

  Minuette began to cry.

  Is this punishment or is this penance? Am I whore, or am I savior? I feel him trembling against me and I do not know if I am his tormentor or his comforter … Forgive me, Lord … Forgive me, Dominic … Forgive me, Will …

  Forgive me.

  Robert Dudley was impressed with the extent of Dominic’s control. They sat in a tent for two hours, waiting, and Dominic did not move from where he perched on the edge of the camp bed. He mostly kept his elbows braced on his knees, resting his forehead above the chains around his wrists. It was Robert who could not keep still. What the devil was taking the king so long?

  Wrong question. He knew—everyone knew—what the king was doing.

  Only once did Dominic speak. “Why just you? Isn’t the king afraid I’ll overwhelm a single guard?”

  “There are armed men outside, you wouldn’t get far. And if you did kill me, you might be doing the king a favour.”

  “Well,” Dominic said distantly, “we wouldn’t want that.”

  At long last a guard entered the tent. “We’re moving. The king wants the prisoner mounted, but he remains chained.”

  “Where are we going?” Robert asked. Surely William didn’t mean to drag Dominic along for the battles like a pet. Though on second thought …

  But the guard answered, “We’re going to Wynfield Mote.”

  Dominic’s head came up at that, but he managed not to say anything. He submitted with perfect courtesy to Robert’s necessary ministrations in getting him out of the tent and to his horse. Only when both men were mounted, along with twenty guards, did William escort Minuette from his tent.

  Something in the way she moved reminded Robert of Elizabeth at her most imperious, as though she had locked away the core of herself and all that remained was the outward image. Robert wanted to curse at the uselessness of all this. He had warned Minuette more than once that she should walk away from William; how little he had realized that the real danger began the moment she did just that.

  She accepted William’s aid in mounting her white jennet, and William took a moment to lay a possessive hand on the mare. “You’ve ridden her well,” he said, double meaning plain to be heard. Robert felt, rather than saw, a shudder run through Dominic, but when the king led them out, Dominic seemed indifferent.

  It was the worst ride of Robert’s life. He hadn’t wanted to be with the army in the first place, serving a king who still half hated him and would never trust him. But Elizabeth had asked him to go. Robert hoped she wasn’t counting on him to keep William in line. His only plan was to keep his head down and do as he was told.

  William led the way, with Minuette’s aristocratic jennet nearly even with his. They made a beautiful pairing, Robert thought: one dark and one gold and both able to look on the world with indifference. They did not speak to each other, nor even look at each other. After them rode six guards, followed by Robert and Dominic, and the remainder of the men behind with Harrington and Carrie in their midst.
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  Wynfield Mote was a square, old-fashioned stone manor house surrounded by low-bordered gardens and timber outbuildings, with cultivated fields and a handful of cottages in the distance. The company pulled up in good view, and after a few minutes in which the household might have been discussing what to do, the front door opened. A broad-shouldered man with silver hair and a countryman’s unflappable gaze stepped outside.

  “Asherton, isn’t it?” William asked. He swung off his horse and helped Minuette down, then gestured to the others to follow.

  The steward, for that he must be, waited patiently until all movement had settled, then tipped his head in Minuette’s direction. “Are you well, mistress?”

  “You don’t call her ‘lady’?” William asked in a deceptively mild voice. “But then, you must have known she only got that title through her deceit.”

  “I’m perfectly well,” Minuette assured Asherton, and made a motion with her hand for him to be calm.

  “How may we be of service, Your Majesty?” Asherton asked.

  “How many are resident on this estate?”

  “Eight household servants. Sixty or so on the farms.”

  William paced back and forth in a line between Asherton and Minuette, hands clasped behind his back in an attitude of deep thought. “Crops ready to go into the ground, I suppose?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  William paused in front of Minuette and faced her. “You still believe me incapable of harming the innocent?”

  She didn’t answer, perhaps sensing that there was no safe answer to be found. There was a flush to the king’s face Robert didn’t like, and he thought: This is all wrong.

  Abruptly, William stepped away from Minuette and faced Asherton. “You have one hour to clear the house and the cottages. One hour’s grace for the people, thanks to your mistress’s negotiating skills.”

  It was Minuette who asked, “And then?”

  William met her eyes coldly, then away. “Guards! When the hour is passed …”

  He returned his gaze to Minuette. “Burn it. Burn it all.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  LETTERS FROM ROBERT DUDLEY TO PRINCESS ELIZABETH

  23 March 1557

  The most gracious Royal Highness Elizabeth,

  After a two-night delay near Stratford-upon-Avon, His Majesty once again moved north today. We should catch the main body of the royal army tomorrow and continue on to our destined fight with Norfolk’s rebels.

  No doubt you have heard of Dominic and Minuette’s surrender. Courtenay is being returned to London in chains, to await His Majesty’s justice in the Tower. The lady, under separate guard, is headed for Beaulieu. A more gracious confinement, but a confinement nonetheless.

  The king has ensured her people’s submission by burning her estate to the ground. The main house, being outwardly stone, retains at least walls and substance. But the cottages of her small holdings are gone and her people scattered to seek what mercy they can find. I thought Your Highness would wish to know.

  Take care in all things, from your most devoted servant and eyes in the North,

  Robert Dudley

  31 March 1557

  Your Highness,

  We have reached Nottingham, encountering only wisps of Norfolk’s army, mostly in the form of scouts who vanish as quick as they come. It appears Norfolk has kept his army on the move as well, perhaps trying to slip past the king to London. I trust Lord Burghley knows his business, but it will ease my mind to know you are also aware of the possibilities. No one knows the twists of a devious mind better than you do, Your Highness, and you will be aware of the threat of a rebel army moving close enough to the coast to be reachable by a foreign fleet.

  The king’s army will begin moving south and east tomorrow, to intercept.

  All care,

  Robert Dudley

  7 April 1557

  Your Highness,

  I scribble this by candlelight a few miles outside Bishop’s Lynn (the locals still reference its ancient name, rather than King’s Lynn as your father decreed it when he gained the bishop’s holdings). The port here is the true danger, but there have been no sightings of French or Spanish ships that we can tell. Norfolk’s army holds the city, but as long as he does not receive foreign reinforcements, our forces are sufficient for the clash. It will come within the next day or two, for the king is anxious to finish the matter and not draw it out in sieges and feints.

  With all care for your gracious and royal self, I remain forever your servant,

  Robert Dudley

  “Well,” Elizabeth said drily, “I’ll wager that the name of King’s Lynn will adhere to the town after the rebels’ defeat.”

  It was April 15, and the fickle spring manifested itself today in gusts of cold rain followed by brief periods of watery sunlight. She was closeted in her study at Hatfield with Francis Walsingham and Lord Burghley. As chancellor, Burghley had himself brought Elizabeth the news of William’s victory at King’s Lynn. It had been as much rout as simple victory, for Norfolk had learned the painful lesson that French promises were not to be trusted. France had not set a single foot across the Scots border, and without Dominic’s western forces, Norfolk had never stood a chance.

  She appreciated Burghley’s consideration in coming to Hatfield, especially as she knew his position was as delicate as her own. William had not forbidden Elizabeth to correspond with those at court, but no doubt he did not anticipate his own chancellor being quite so friendly with the sister he had sent away.

  Elizabeth didn’t especially care. Someone had to keep an eye on William, and Burghley was wise enough to know that and clever enough to manage things out of the king’s sight. And of course there was Walsingham, who had proven his usefulness and discretion a hundred times over this last year. Elizabeth never asked for specifics of how he gained information, although she knew it often involved large sums of money. She had given him a relatively free hand since Minuette’s flight from court and was not disappointed in the quality of his intelligence.

  “Now what?” she asked Burghley. He was a different creature entirely from Rochford—more self-made man and less figure of elegance and languid grace—but he had a similar subtlety to his mind and much of the practicality that had marked her uncle. Without the arrogance or the ambition, and without the blood ties that had always given Rochford a wedge to use against his niece and nephew. “The rebel army is defeated and disbanded, but Norfolk has managed to slip through our fingers.” She had no trouble using a royal “we” in this case—she considered herself as much England as William was.

  Burghley said, “Norfolk fled by ship, almost certainly headed for France or Spain. It’s a guess which country will want to deal with him: Spain is the most righteously angry because of Mary’s execution. But France holds Mary Stuart and proclaims her England’s rightful Catholic queen now. Either way, Norfolk can continue to stir up trouble abroad.”

  “Your men are watching?” Elizabeth asked Walsingham.

  “Yes, Your Highness. Including John Dee, who is not a man of mine, per se, but a loyal servant to your cause.”

  “To England’s cause,” Elizabeth corrected sharply. No matter how angry she grew with William, she would allow no one to forget her brother’s position in her presence.

  “Of course, Your Highness.”

  “Lord Burghley, upon my brother’s return to London, I trust you will endeavor to persuade him to recall me to court. I am uneasy at being long separated from one I love so dearly.” And one I trust so little when he is angry and injured.

  “Your Highness, it is my great aim to restore you to the heart and soul of England’s court, for none graces it so well as you do.”

  Another difference between Burghley and Rochford—her uncle had never troubled much with praise, and when he did it had always been tinged with irony. But though he might speak flattering words, Burghley’s eyes on her were thoughtful and appraising. She trusted his judgment and thus extended her hand an
d allowed him to kiss it. “I am indebted to you, Lord Burghley,” she said. “You serve England well and I will not forget it.”

  “Thank you, Your Highness.”

  When Burghley had bowed himself out, Elizabeth said to Walsingham, “Your men will keep an eye on William’s movements? I should like to have advance notice if he does not return straight to London.”

  If he went on to Beaulieu instead, she meant. She came close to shivering at the memory of her sister, Mary, who had spent much of her adult life in that manor. A restricted, circumscribed life, with little but the illusion of freedom. What did William intend sending Minuette there? Did he mean to keep her under lock and key like a slave, a mistress always at his disposal? Or had he locked her away from himself, a protection against memories of the past that were too painful to be looked on?

  But unpleasant though Beaulieu might be, at least it was not the Tower. Elizabeth spared a moment’s thought for Dominic and his no doubt certain end, then shoved it away. She could not help anyone unless she was in a position to help herself first. All her energies must bend to returning to court.

  After the humiliation of being brought to the Tower in chains by men who would once have accepted his authority without question, Dominic had prepared himself for an onerous imprisonment, or even a speedy trial and execution. He was housed in Bell Tower in the corner of the inner ward and he passed the first weeks in an excess of mind-numbing boredom—no books, no paper, no visitors.

  At least boredom was better than the waves of rage and jealousy that had swept through him at regular intervals during the long escorted ride back to London. Being jealous of William was not new; Dominic had hated every minute the king spent alone with Minuette over the last few years, had flinched with every royal caress bestowed on his wife.