The guards grudgingly gave Carrie news of the royal army’s victory and Lord Norfolk’s flight, and Minuette braced herself for William’s return. Surely he meant to see her. Why else would he send her to Beaulieu rather than the Tower? But as the days, and then weeks, passed, she realized he might not intend to make her his mistress after all. Which was just as well, because her negotiation of willingness had been a onetime only offer, even if William had not violated the spirit of their agreement by burning her home.
To her dying day—which was surely not far off—she would never forget the weight of Dominic’s careful indifference as they had all ridden to Wynfield after … well, afterward. Her husband had neither looked at nor spoken to her, and every hour she was awake Minuette carried a prayer in her heart: Lord, let him understand and forgive me.
Let me forgive myself.
When she became ill after her arrival at Beaulieu, Minuette thought it nothing more than nerves and solitude. But the nausea did not pass and first one month and then a second slipped by without any sign of her female courses. Carrie did not comment on her lack of bleeding. She did not have to. Only once in her life had Minuette missed her monthly bleeding—during the too-short-lived pregnancy last summer.
By the time her twenty-first birthday arrived, fourteen weeks after her last night at Wynfield with Dominic—and her hours with William in his tent—Minuette knew that God had devised the cruelest punishment of all for her sins.
She was once more with child.
On the first day of July, the guards came for Dominic in Bell Tower and the interrogations began. He knew his inquisitors, naturally, the chief among them being the increasingly aged Archbishop Cranmer. The cleric coughed a great deal and looked as though he hadn’t eaten or slept in months. Though there was awkwardness on both sides, there seemed little of malice and the questions were so random as to be meaningless. It was only after the third or fourth of these sessions that Dominic realized William hadn’t told his inquisitors what exactly he wished them to prove. Catholic collaborator? Personal treason? Attempted murder? Until William decided which course to pursue, the interrogations were mild. They served more to tell Dominic what was happening in the outside world than to fill him with foreboding.
Just at dusk on the sixth of July, Dominic sat playing dice with Harrington and two squires who had come from Tiverton and requested to stay with him, determined to prove their loyalty to a Courtenay. He knew something unusual was happening when the door opened to admit the Constable of the Tower, a man who left most duties to his lieutenant.
“Come with me.” His voice was blank with authority.
Another interrogation, then. Perhaps they were ready to get serious in their questions. When the constable didn’t lead him to the usual chamber, however, Dominic felt a flicker of worry. Would it be torture this time?
But their path did not lead to the chamber Dominic had been in twice before and still recalled with a rolling stomach. Rather, they ended up outside a wooden door in Wakefield Tower and Dominic’s confusion increased. What the hell was he doing outside the records room? Did they expect the sight of hundreds of account books to induce him to confession?
The constable opened the door and there stood William, looking lean and hungry and with a banked fire in his eyes that set off all Dominic’s alarms.
Probably not torture. But perhaps swords at twenty paces, or daggers, or sheer, bloody hatred in hand-to-hand combat.
Dominic forced himself back to rationality. William hadn’t come here to kill him. If—when—William killed him, it would be at a safe remove, and with the widest possible audience. A nice, safe, judicial murder.
“Leave us.”
When the door was shut and they were alone, William came forward one slow step at a time, until only a dozen inches separated them. “You do not offer congratulations?”
“On what?”
“My wife.”
Dominic’s throat closed off. Wife? He couldn’t mean …
William smiled, a nasty, insinuating smile. “You don’t really think I’d take your cast-offs, do you? I have uses for Minuette, now that she’s broken in, but I could hardly make her queen. No, I’ve rewarded the Protestants for their support in recent uprisings.”
Dominic’s throat loosened enough for him to speak. “Jane Grey.”
“We’re closing ranks, Dom, isolating our enemies, striking wherever we find discontent. It’s astonishing the number of priests in this country, when one troubles to look. In even the quietest households. Such as your mother’s.”
He froze for only a moment, then with a bitter laugh, Dominic shook his head. “What did you do with him, William? Send him out of the country? Throw him in prison?”
“Burnt him,” William answered bluntly. “Made quite a spectacle in the middle of the village. I understand your mother was somewhat distressed.”
Dominic turned away. Killing the priest who had married them … he should have seen that coming. And now his mother was bereft of the only comfort she’d known in years. Courtenay men: between them, he and his father had done a decent job of destroying his mother’s life.
“What do you want? To gloat? Why don’t we just take it as read? You won, I lost.”
William sauntered to the quartet of narrow rectangular windows set in the rounded wall. “Nice view of Water Gate. I’m sorry I couldn’t be here to watch you brought in, but the fighting, you know. Still, there are other prisoner arrivals to observe.”
In spite of himself, Dominic crossed to the window and looked down, wondering who it was William wanted him to see. His mother, raving mad? Some other of his mother’s household, brought here for no reason than because they mattered to him? Asherton dragged back from the ruins of Wynfield Mote?
From this vantage, Dominic could see clearly the Water Gate used for transportation of the most important prisoners. He’d come in this way himself, three months ago. Tonight a regiment of guards lined Water Lane, with bracketed torches casting long shadows. The constable himself stood at the top of the wooden steps leading down to the river.
A barge appeared, skillfully brought alongside the stairs by a wizened boatman. There were two cloaked women in the barge and Dominic tried to discern which might be his mother. A guard stood up, extending his hand to one of the women.
The woman stood and Dominic’s body recognized her before his mind could work it out in words. He thought he might be sick, for as the woman balanced in the small boat, the hood of her cloak fell back and a spill of golden hair gleamed in the torchlight.
For one long moment Minuette stood in the slightly swaying barge and stared at the offered hand. Then she picked up her skirts with both hands and stepped quickly, if a little clumsily, onto the first step.
William’s voice was low and vicious in his triumph. “Proud girl. What was that phrase? All eyes and legs and spirit.”
Dominic did not allow the contemptuous words to distract him from Minuette. In spite of her icy demeanor, she was frightened. He could see it in the little things: the stiffness of her movements, the way her hands clenched on the fabric of her skirt, how her eyes darted away from the constable as if looking for a way to escape. One of the guards stepped forward to take her by the arm and Dominic saw her freeze like a hunted hart. For a blinding moment, he was afraid she was going to panic. God help him, if he had to watch her dragged away screaming, he would break William’s neck.
Minuette’s hands relaxed. She stared scornfully at the guard—Dominic couldn’t see her face, but he knew from the set of her head and shoulders that her eyes blazed with scorn—until the man stepped back. The constable led the way and she followed on her own, back straight and head held high.
She was almost out of sight, ready to pass beneath the arch that led to the green around which ranged most of the Tower buildings. And then, with a suddenness that caused a guard to bump into her, she stopped walking. Absently, she shook the guard off where he had touched her shoulder and raised her head. W
ith unerring instinct, she looked straight at Dominic.
He knew she couldn’t see him in the unlit room, or at least no more of him than his outline. But she didn’t need more than that, maybe not even that much. She knew he was there.
With a dazzling smile, she lowered her head and walked away.
“I hope you looked well.” Venom laced William’s voice. “You’ll never see her again.”
“I didn’t expect to see her today. And I don’t need to look to remember her.” He saw her every time he closed his eyes, he felt her beneath his hands, the length of her body pressed against him that last night, even hear the beat of her heart, swifter and lighter than his own.
William’s control was beginning to slip. “It’s not as if you had her pure on your wedding night. Virgin she may have been then, but only just.”
“It was her body alone that you touched. You’ll never have more of her than that.”
“Do you not remember Wynfield and our negotiations?” William’s smile was cold with fury. “I had her in ways you are too rigidly honourable to dream. And she didn’t protest. She came to my bed willingly. With you not fifty feet away.”
Stamping hard on the images William’s words called up, Dominic said, “I’ve never doubted she came to you without force. But it wasn’t for love, either, you’ve ensured that. She came to you for pity’s sake.”
He didn’t try to avoid William’s fist. Dominic’s head snapped to the side with the impact and he rocked back on his heels. Come on, he urged silently. Hit me again. Hit me until you’ve burned out all your anger and jealousy and fear.
But William had learned his lessons well, the lessons of control and restraint that Dominic had always been so eager to teach him. That might have been a mistake, he reflected, watching William’s eyes cool and his body relax. He’s learned too well to twist and calculate, he cannot just let go.
That will be his undoing—and mine.
William eaten alive with bitterness, Minuette held in the Tower … the situation could not possibly be worse.
And then, with a casual twist that was reminiscent of Lord Rochford at his most cruel, William announced, “And as for your pure wife, you should know one thing: she is with child. Pity she’s not quite so pure as to be certain of the father.”
6 July 1557
Beauchamp Tower
He is here. I saw him, as they brought me in.
No, not saw him, not really. Felt him.
10 July 1557
Beauchamp Tower
This is hardly a formal diary, being only a sheaf of paper without binding, and it is no doubt folly to continue to set down my thoughts. I hate the thought of William reading my diary—or worse, passing it to his council to condemn me. But as I have already established that I am not wise when it comes to words, it can hardly do me more damage now. And at least it is something to do!
I suppose I should not complain of boredom, as the alternatives could certainly be worse, but I find it difficult being once again confined to two rooms with only Carrie for company. I was assured that I might bring three or four women with me—it seems I am not to be treated without some consideration—but the only ones I could have borne to have near me now I also care about too much to drag into this. Carrie is only here because I knew it would require violence to keep her away. Besides, Harrington is in the Tower as well. I suppose she might see him, or at least hear of him. More chance, anyway, than of my seeing Dominic.
After three days, I have yet to be asked a single question. This is not aimed at me—it is aimed at Dominic. William intends to break him, and he thinks he can do it through me.
8 August 1557
Beauchamp Tower
I have finally been interrogated. It was something of a relief after four weeks of tedious waiting, though the interrogators were not especially polite. If ever a man had spoken to me in the nasty, insinuating manner these men did, I would once have haughtily ignored him.
Today, I could not afford haughtiness. I had to keep my head, and answer honestly what I was asked without volunteering anything that might damage us further. It was not as easy as it sounds, particularly when they probed for intimate information—was I a virgin when I wed? What about Jonathan Percy—had I not lain with him before he left for France? Had I not spent hours alone with the king, enticing him to the point that he agreed to marry me? There were significant glances at my shape, just starting to show beneath looser gowns, and it was all very sordid and depressing. By the end I nearly wanted to say, “Just kill me and be done with it.”
But Dominic would not approve of my giving in.
29 August 1557
Beauchamp Tower
I have been questioned at erratic intervals over the last three weeks, always more of the same. More unpleasant leering as they ask things that anyone who knows me couldn’t possibly believe to be true. Truth, it seems, is not the guiding principle of this investigation.
That was hammered home today. I faced a roomful of men, all of whom I have known for years, and most of whom have long disapproved of me. Or at least, of William’s attachment to me.
Today, the questions were different. Today, I was accused of trying to murder William.
I was so astonished by the accusation that even now I’m not entirely clear on the details. To be frank, I’m not sure my interrogators were clear on the details, either. It seemed to me that they were fishing, prepared to fashion the particulars in whatever convenient manner they could devise. Something about poison—monkshood, no less—and a garment of mine that I had sent to Will. One of my enticements, I can only presume. The timing of this attempt was also unclear; I heard dates ranging from last summer, just before we fled court, to as long ago as the winter of 1554. Perhaps they’re trying to prove a pattern of murder attempts.
The details don’t much matter—it is the accusation itself that is revealing. If William is prepared to charge me with this, then he is prepared to kill me.
31 August 1557
Beauchamp Tower
When I was summoned today, I went as usual, expecting to face all and sundry and defend myself against sheer imagination.
It was only Will.
He looks different—harder, more remote. He did not say much. I congratulated him on his queen, which was perhaps not the wisest choice. But when face-to-face with him, my temper flared. I know he holds my life in his hands. More important, he holds Dominic’s. But my tongue was quicker than my brain, and I wanted to provoke him. If I did, he hid it well. His face has become blank—only those blue eyes are alive. Those devouring eyes that studied the unmistakable swell of my body with an intensity that scorched me to my bones. As though he were already laying claim to the child I carry.
He made me an offer, of course. I’ve been expecting it for months, but still I was speechless when he actually said it aloud. It’s quite simple—I come to his bed, willingly and for as long as he wishes it, and Dominic lives. He threw in some additional inducements, such as my title and promises of titles and land for any children we might have (“including this one,” he said, with a pointed look at my growing figure), but he knows the only thing that matters is Dominic’s life.
I said no. That was all—just the one word. He retreated after that.
He will be back.
1 October 1557
Beauchamp Tower
He has been back, twice a week for the last month. Nine times he has asked me now, and nine times I have said no.
Today, my willful tongue being what it is, I finally asked him why bother with the pretense of consent? I am in his custody and at his mercy. He had me securely confined at Beaulieu—why not leave me there and force the issue after the child is born?
His face darkened and he raised his hand as if to strike me as he did once before. But he merely closed his hand into a fist and slammed it into the door on his way out of the room.
And then I knew. He wants what Dominic had, and that does not include taking me by force. Almost I
wish I did not know that, for I am still capable of hurting for Will. And this is a hurt that can never be mended.
5 October 1557
Beauchamp Tower
I have not seen the king since he stormed away from me. But it seems I have provoked him in a manner I did not intend.
Dominic stands trial tomorrow.
THE TRIAL OF DOMINIC COURTENAY, DUKE OF EXETER WESTMINSTER HALL
6 OCTOBER 1557
In the eleventh year of the reign of King Henry IX: for rebelliously conspiring against and endeavoring the subversion of the government by confederacy with various Popish traitors and accomplices.
Then the Lord High Constable of the Tower, the Lieutenant of the Tower, and the Gentleman Porter, who carried the ax before the prisoner came first in, and the prisoner followed and made his appearance at the bar.
Then were summoned the peers of Dominic, Duke of Exeter, to sit in judgment, having due regard to their own conscience.
The trial lasted less than two hours. Dominic supposed he should be grateful that it lasted even that long. The worst of it was not the sketchy evidence or the twisting of events or the flat-out lies. It was not even anxious anticipation of the verdict, for he was never in doubt of that.
The worst of it was watching men he had commanded in battle and counseled with in peace pretending that this was anything but a sham. At least they seemed more or less ashamed of themselves, enough that most of them would not look at him directly. Only Lord Burghley met his eyes boldly, and Dominic was certain of the sympathy he read there. But sympathy could not help him now.
Dominic barely concerned himself with the details of the day. It was enough to be lumped in with Norfolk’s rebels, to have his relationship with Renaud examined in light of a French-Catholic conspiracy aimed at deposing William and putting either Mary Tudor or Mary Stuart on the throne. They even managed to claim that, as a great-grandson of Edward IV, Dominic had intended to wed one of the Marys himself and rule with her. How he was supposed to manage that when he was already married—legitimately, as far as the Catholics were concerned—was glossed over. The suspicion was enough.
The Boleyn Reckoning: A Novel (The Boleyn Trilogy) Page 28