“Just an entrance, milord,” Harrington said.
How did Harrington always know what he was thinking? He had inherited the large and quiet man from his time working for Lord Rochford. Dominic never quite knew how to describe what Harrington did—Man-at-arms? Steward? Personal secretary?—but he had quickly grown to depend on him with a trust and reliance he didn’t offer most men. It was a pleasure to work with someone who seemed to respect him personally and not simply for his title and position.
And Harrington was right—the river gate was merely a convenient entrance when arriving by water. The Lieutenant of the Tower greeted them at the top of the steps and, at Dominic’s request, led them first to the torture chambers. Dominic had been in them only once before—last year, while being trained by Lord Rochford. The Lord Chancellor had required Dominic to see things for himself, but that was one sight he wished he could forget: the man strapped by wrists and ankles to the rack, his joints torn from their sockets from being rolled in opposite directions. Dominic didn’t even remember what the man had been accused of.
Today, mercifully, the rack was empty and the only one in the chamber was the man who usually operated it, a heavyset, powerful man named Sutton. He didn’t seem to recall Dominic from last year, but his interest sharpened when he heard his title.
“Exeter, is it? You one of the Holland family?”
“No, I’m a Courtenay.”
“Titles change with the wind these days. The last Duke of Exeter was a Holland, he was constable of the Tower in 1447.” Sutton said it fondly, as though recalling someone he’d known personally. “He it was who brought this to England.” He laid a hand on the rack and added, “The Duke of Exeter’s daughter, she’s called. Did you know that?”
Dominic had not, and wished he didn’t know it now. “I’m not a duke,” he said brusquely. “Do you remember the Earl of Surrey’s interrogation?”
“ ’Course I remember him. First time I’ve had a titled gentleman down here.”
“What answers did he give?” Dominic had already spoken to the interrogators themselves, but he wanted the word of a man who had no political interest in the proceedings. Only a physical one.
“I don’t pay much mind to what they say,” the man replied. “But him … they weren’t as anxious to get answers as I’d have thought. Usually they press a man to the edge, and well over it, to get him to say what they need. He was a gentleman right enough, held up better than some who collapse the moment they see the rack. He just kept saying no to whatever they asked.”
And that tallied with what the interrogators had reported: the Earl of Surrey had steadfastly and continuously asserted his innocence in whatever plots his grandfather might have had in hand.
Sutton continued, not unkindly, “If it eases your conscience, milord, I was gentle with him. Only turned the rollers three times, not enough to damage anything permanently. He’ll heal right up.”
Dominic could not bring himself to more than nod before gladly, gratefully, escaping. Though it was bitingly cold and wet outdoors, the air was vastly cleaner than whatever guilt and pain and despair had been trapped in that ghastly chamber.
“Right,” he told the lieutenant. “I’ll see the Earl of Surrey now.”
He and Harrington followed the lieutenant to the Bloody Tower and up several flights of ice-cold stairs to where Surrey was being held. The earl had two rooms and three gentlemen to serve him, as befitted his status. But it was still a prison cell, with bare stone walls and deep-set narrow windows that let in precious little light and the plainest of furnishings, and Dominic came close to shuddering at the thought of being locked away. His father had died in such a cell—perhaps this very one—accused and alone, and he wondered for the first time if it was dread as much as illness that had killed him.
Surrey rose to meet him. “Courtenay,” he said, understandably wary. “Sorry, it’s Exeter now, isn’t it? I haven’t been at court enough to remember.”
Thomas Howard was younger than Dominic; at not quite nineteen, he was of an age with William. His light brown hair had a hint of red to it and he was clean shaven, which argued a greater than usual care for his appearance while imprisoned. He had a straight nose and his eyes were wide and slightly slanted, giving him an inquisitive, intelligent expression. He’d been the Earl of Surrey since the age of ten, when his own father was executed for treason. There was enough of familiarity and pity about his circumstances that Dominic felt sorry for him.
Which, he reminded himself, should no more affect his judgment than his distaste for punishing a man before fault had been found. “May we speak privately?” he asked, and Surrey led him into the smaller interior chamber, which contained only a bed and a single chair, while Harrington leaned against the wall of the outer chamber and prepared to learn what he could from Surrey’s men. They had a round table and a deck of cards; men often spoke plainer while their hands were occupied.
Dominic took the chair and waited for Surrey to perch on the edge of the bed before saying, “I’m here on the king’s behalf.”
“I believe the men who racked me said the same.”
“When I say it, you know my commission came face-to-face.”
“Right. The King’s Shadow, you’re called.”
Dominic knew it could be worse. Male companions of kings might be called all sorts of things if the king in question were unpopular. Considering how little time he spent flirting with women—exactly none—it was a good thing for his reputation that William was loved.
Surrey eased slightly, though the underlying tension remained. “What is your commission?”
“To determine the truth of what happened at Framlingham.”
“You’ll know better than I do, seeing as you were there and I was not. I’m not the one who stuck a knife in my uncle Giles’s throat.”
Clearly this wasn’t a man afraid of plain speaking, whatever the circumstances. Dominic met his gaze steadily, though his mind whispered, It wasn’t a knife, it was a shard of glass. And it wasn’t me …
“He earned his death,” Dominic countered harshly. “What about you?”
“I don’t want to die, no more than any man, but how am I to prove a negative? I knew nothing of this Penitent’s Confession I’ve been tortured over, nothing of any Spanish troops or grand Howard design to put Mary on the throne. If I could open my very head to you, you would see that I am innocent of these charges. Since I cannot, all I can give is my word and my past and future actions as bond. If I am to be allowed future action.”
Dominic stood up and let his silence settle over Surrey while he circled what he could of the tiny room. Before he’d ever come here, he had believed in Surrey’s innocence. But now he was even more certain. At last, he stood still and stared at Surrey, who rose slowly from the bed and tried not to look either hopeful or desperate. It could be hard to distinguish between the two emotions.
It would not do to make promises, but Dominic did say, “The king is inclined to be merciful. He desires to unite his kingdom, not divide it further.”
“I would hope … to live and to serve is my only aim, Lord Exeter.” Surrey stumbled over the words and Dominic realized again just how young he was. How young they all were, and yet trying to do their best for England.
He and Harrington bid goodbye to the earl and his men (with whom Harrington had indeed been playing cards) and exited into the open, outside the Bloody Tower, where Dominic breathed deeply of the frosty air, glad to be out of the confining walls and eager to return to court. But when he gave thanks to the Lieutenant of the Tower, the man said, “Another prisoner has asked to speak with you. She was most insistent, though who can say how she heard of your presence.”
She—it could only be Eleanor Howard. He traded glances with Harrington, who shrugged slightly as if to say Up to you. Dominic had no desire to speak with William’s former mistress, but she was the only female of the Howard family to be confined to the Tower. Guilt decided him. Or perhaps it was mere
ly prudence. Eleanor made an unpredictable enemy.
She was being held in Beauchamp Tower, closer to the Lieutenant’s Lodging. Her outer chamber was smaller than Surrey’s, but it was warmer and richer, with tapestries on the walls that she would have had to pay extra for. She had two maids with her, both older and plainer women than herself who had the knack of blending into the furniture. From the moment Dominic entered, Eleanor ignored her maids completely and focused all her attention on him.
She was undoubtedly an attractive woman—with her flaxen blond hair and surprisingly dark eyes—and she had the trick of looking at every man she met with more than a hint of promised pleasure. There were no concessions to prison in her clothing; she wore an extravagant gown of moss green velvet edged with ermine. Though she had claimed to be pregnant at the time of her arrest, there was no sign of it now beneath her tightly cinched stomacher.
Dominic had not seen her since November, and she said almost the same thing she had that last night at Framlingham. “I must see the king.”
He opened his mouth to reply and she snapped, “And don’t say he doesn’t consort with traitors. I am not a traitor. You know that.”
He did—reluctantly—know that. She was grasping and ambitious and amoral and had never evinced the slightest grief over her husband’s violent death … but she was loyal to William. He was probably the only thing she had ever been loyal to.
He promised what he could. “I will speak to him.” Surely if William were going to release Surrey and allow him to become Duke of Norfolk, he would set Eleanor free as well, if only for the sake of the child she had borne him. Not to return to court, of course … which was best for all concerned.
Eleanor narrowed her eyes, as though she knew what he was thinking, but said only, “You do that.”
If Eleanor discovered even a hint of William’s passion for Minuette, she would make a relentless enemy.
William was shooting with an arquebus when Dominic returned from the Tower. He heard Rochford’s queries and, content to let his uncle have the first say, lifted the twenty-pound matchlock gun onto the forked stick and sighted carefully. He squeezed the lever, igniting the flash, and the ball shot out to strike the targeted breastplate. William liked shooting at plate armour; he was close enough to this breastplate to tear through it completely. As the onlookers applauded, he handed the arquebus to his arms master and looked over to Rochford and Dominic, in close conversation.
In the months since turning eighteen, William had found satisfaction in standing his ground and forcing others to come to him. When he beckoned them, he thought Rochford moved a little slowly.
“Walk with me,” he commanded. This time his uncle definitely hesitated when William made clear that it was Dominic he wanted at his side.
“You spoke to Surrey,” William remarked, leaving Rochford to pace slightly behind them.
“I did.”
“And?”
“I am convinced he had nothing to do with his grandfather’s treason. The investigation has not turned up any evidence, he went nowhere near Framlingham or the rest of his family for months, and his character—”
“You think there is a specific character type for treason?” Rochford cut in. “That you can know by past action how a man will jump in future?”
“If a man will jump, perhaps not. But how he will—if the Earl of Surrey committed treason, I do not believe he would lie about it. He would have his reasons, and he would not be ashamed of them.”
“Men change when their lives are at stake.”
“Then they are not men,” Dominic said sharply.
“Enough,” William interposed. “I agree with Dominic. Surrey is to be released. He will return to Kenninghall and stay there until further ordered. Which I believe you counseled?” he said pointedly to Rochford.
“So I did.”
“See to it.”
He watched until his uncle had disappeared inside the ashlar-stone walls of Whitehall. Then he turned back to Dominic on the riverbank path. “What else?” he asked. He knew when his friend was brooding.
“I spoke to Eleanor.”
He didn’t look at Dominic, appearing to consider the bare landscape of midwinter. He knew he would not have to respond; Dominic was incapable of ignoring anything he felt was his responsibility. It was why William had sent him.
“Is she also to be released?” Dominic eventually asked.
William had made his plans long before today. “Eleanor can go to Kenninghall with Surrey. I believe her daughter is being cared for there.” Actually, William knew it for a fact. He had taken care to know. The child, Anne, was undoubtedly his; he had briefly considered acknowledging the baby girl before Eleanor’s arrest, but knowing how much Minuette disliked Eleanor had stayed his hand. Still, he would ensure the child did not lack for proper care.
“Eleanor wants to see you.”
Of course she does. “No.”
“Are you sure that’s wise?”
William looked sidelong at Dominic, amused. “Surely you are not counseling me to meet with Eleanor Howard?”
“I am counseling you to take care. She is dangerous, Will. Far more so than the Earl of Surrey, if you ask me.”
“Eleanor cannot touch me.”
“What of Minuette? Eleanor hated her thoroughly when she was nothing more than your friend. If—when—she finds out that Minuette is much more to you …”
“Don’t worry about Minuette,” William said. “There is no person more important to me. I will keep her safe, Dom. You can trust me for that.”
There was a long pause, as though Dominic couldn’t decide which condescending and unnecessary warning to issue first. At last he said simply, “Just be careful.”
3 February 1555
Whitehall Palace
There are stretches of time in which I (nearly) forget about Framlingham and the lady chapel and the rivers of blood and tears I shed there … but today is not one of those times.
William has pardoned the Earl of Surrey. I take no issue with that, for Surrey was not at Framlingham at the end and I do not believe he had any personal involvement in his family’s schemes. I do not even mind too terribly that Eleanor has been released and sent to Kenninghall. She is vindictive, but not stupid. She would never have countenanced a scheme to harm William when he is the source of every favour she has ever had. And she did lose her husband at Framlingham. My guilt is enough to soften my dislike. A little.
My troubled mind arises from a message I received this morning from Stephen Howard, youngest brother of the late Duke of Norfolk and my stepfather. He has also been pardoned and asks that I pay him a visit in his London house before he returns to the country.
I shall have to slip away quietly, for both Dominic and William would protest. It is annoying to have both of them watching me so closely.
Minuette knew that she could not, of course, go completely alone to see Stephen Howard. She might be able to deceive the men, but never Carrie. Her maid was a fierce friend and even fiercer guard, and there was no slipping away from her. Minuette took Fidelis with her as well; the enormous hound reminded her of Dominic, padding quietly along next to her and turning a forbidding gaze on all around him. Fortunately, her stepfather’s town house was on the same side of the river as Whitehall. She couldn’t imagine the boat that could have carried Fidelis across the Thames.
The streets, as always, were awash in humanity and its trappings. Street vendors and darting pickpockets and the shrill cries of argument mingled with the odors of food and, from some of the smaller streets, abundant refuse. At least in winter the odors were not quite so overwhelmingly bad. Minuette had dressed in one of her plainest gowns and a simple wool cloak with no trim—but there was no disguising the quality of the fabrics or the shine of her hair or even the way she moved. Eyes followed her and Carrie as they walked the mere half mile from Whitehall to the edge of the City—that square mile of London that answered to its own Lord Mayor and deigned to pay homage t
o the king—but Minuette did not feel in any danger, particularly as Fidelis ensured that she and Carrie were given a wide berth.
She knocked on the door of a discreetly wealthy town house and Stephen Howard himself threw it open. He looked much the same as before his imprisonment, perhaps the lines around his mouth and eyes slightly deeper. Though he was in his mid-fifties, he had the lean build of a younger man and his light brown hair had grayed attractively. There were times when Minuette had to admit that her mother might have actually loved her second husband for his person as much as for his position.
Those moments were usually ruined when he opened his mouth. Today he raised his eyebrows at Fidelis and asked, “What the hell is that?”
“My protection,” she said.
“Do you need protection from me?”
He always made her ruder than she meant to be. “Are you going to invite me in? I am here at your bidding, not the other way round.” He regarded Fidelis dubiously, and she added, “He can wait with Carrie. Surely you have somewhere for my maid to sit comfortably?”
It was pleasant to have disconcerted him, and she thanked Dominic silently for it as Howard led Carrie and the wolfhound—which nearly reached her maid’s shoulder—to the kitchen.
When he returned, he took Minuette into an airy solar at the back of the house. The room overlooked a narrow garden that was sunk in the grayness of winter slumber. In addition to the fire in the maroon-tiled fireplace, several coal-filled braziers made the chamber pleasantly warm.
After she seated herself, he studied her and remarked, “My disgrace suits you, stepdaughter. You are glowing.”
Uncomfortable with his penetrating stare, as though he might be able to divine the secrets that made her glow, Minuette countered sharply. “What disgrace? You never even saw the inside of the Tower. You ensured leniency when you warned the king of your brother’s search for the Penitent’s Confession. House arrest can’t have been too difficult in these surroundings.” She indicated the warm fire, the thick carpet, the silver candlesticks.
The Boleyn Deceit: A Novel (Ann Boleyn Trilogy) Page 5