“Fair enough.”
“The thing is,” William went on, “as I’ve said before, it’s a balancing act. With Surrey made Duke of Norfolk, that brings us back to three dukes in the kingdom. But when I propose this to my uncle, I actually mean to propose bringing the council to four dukes.”
“You mean to create a title?”
“No, I thought I’d resurrect one. There hasn’t been a Duke of Exeter in almost a hundred years—what do you think?”
Dominic must have been truly relaxed, because William could see the play of thoughts across his usually impassive face: openly surprised, then shocked, then staggered. He opened his mouth, and shut it without speaking.
“Wouldn’t you like to be my lord Duke of Exeter? Come on, Dom. Say something.”
“You have lost your mind.”
“Say something less insulting.”
“Your Majesty—”
“Don’t call me that.”
“People will say it’s favoritism.”
“And so it is.”
“Damn it, Will!” Dominic ran his hands through his black hair, an unusual sign of aggravation. “Be reasonable!”
“Finished yelling at me?”
They glared at one another.
Then William nodded. “Good. Now give me credit for not being stupid. I know what some will say if I make you a duke. Just as I know what some will say about restoring Norfolk’s title to his grandson. People always talk, Dom. I don’t care about that. I care about having a council that represents England and a nobility that is balanced.”
“Northumberland and Norfolk,” Dominic said thoughtfully. “Protestant and more-or-less Catholic.”
“Yes. With my plan, I will have one duke loyal to the Catholics and one duke loyal to the Protestants. Then there’s my uncle. Protestant as well, but loyal primarily to himself. What I need to round it all out, Dom, is you.”
“Why?”
“So that I have one duke in England who is loyal only to me.”
Dominic must have been far more shattered than he’d suspected, for he broke royal protocol and sat down in the nearest chair while William still stood. He dropped his head into his hands for a long minute in which William wisely held his tongue. He knew how to bring his friend round. One only had to appeal to his sense of duty.
Dominic groaned. “I don’t suppose I actually have a choice, do I?”
William grinned. “That’s why I like you—always stating the obvious.”
CHAPTER FIVE
ELIZABETH, WHO HAD not been to Syon House before, had to admit it was impressive. Approached through a park that was in detail, if not size, nearly the equal of royal grounds, the house itself had been built by Northumberland in the Italian style in the years since King Henry’s death. Once Sion Abbey, dedicated to the Bridgettine nuns, Northumberland had laid out his house over the foundations of the abbey church.
Despite its grandeur, Elizabeth felt a faint apprehension as she studied the rectangular, flat-fronted house. The nuns of twenty years ago had not taken lightly to their dispossession: indeed, their confessor protested so vigorously that he had been executed and his body hung on the abbey gates as a warning to other recalcitrant Catholics.
Had William had those memories in mind when he sent Mary here? Elizabeth would not put it past her brother to layer message upon message. A royal abbey, dissolved by royal command and given into the hands of a committed Protestant, now housing the most devoted Catholic in England.
John Dudley, Earl of Warwick, waited for them in the echoing hall, the floor laid with glazed tiles of green and blue, patterned in swirls like moving water. Six years older than Robert, he looked more like their sturdy and rough-edged father than did his younger brother. But there was a certain similarity in his expressions and turn of speech that reminded Elizabeth of Robert.
John greeted Elizabeth and Minuette courteously and briefly, managing to convey his regrets that they would not be guests at Syon House without touching on Guildford’s crimes or his father’s current precarious position. Then he escorted them directly to Mary in the wing of Syon House set aside for her use.
Elizabeth thought that her sister could hardly complain at being ill-used in her house arrest, considering the lavish appointments of her chambers. As Syon House was considerably newer than most royal palaces, the rooms were bright and airy, high windows giving on to views of the lavish gardens just beginning to show spangled hints of colour from early blooming crocus and daffodils.
The fact remained that, however opulently gilded, Syon House was a prison, with the Earl of Warwick on guard to ensure Mary did not slip away into rebellious hands or receive any visitors who might be looking to stir up trouble. But how was that significantly different from anywhere Mary lived? She was always at William’s mercy. This was just a particularly stark reminder of that fact.
As the elder sister, Mary did not deign to rise when Elizabeth and Minuette entered. Seated in an intricately carved chair before a blazing fire, Mary Tudor did not look like a figurehead for rebellion. Though elegantly dressed and impeccable in her manner and bearing, Mary was aging rapidly. Thirty-eight this year, Elizabeth mused, and wearing that somber dark brown overdress and starched hood, looking even older. Her dark red hair was still thick, but her high, broad forehead showed new lines. The once-sharp jawline that narrowed to a pointed chin was growing soft and blurred.
One thing that never changed was the surety of Mary’s birth and position. She still held a grudge against the younger sister who had usurped her title as Princess of Wales so many years ago. Never mind that William had come along soon after and supplanted them both—it was Elizabeth whom Mary had always disliked.
Not that she would betray it in words. “Welcome, sister,” Mary said. “I am grateful to be remembered by my family.”
“Have you been comfortable?” Elizabeth asked politely. Of course she had; William would never allow less.
Mary sniffed. “I would prefer to be allowed to go home. I do not see why I cannot stay at Beaulieu.”
“Do you not? I would have thought events at Framlingham were self-evident. The Crown cannot risk a foreign power interfering in your life.”
Mary’s hands moved restlessly on the arms of her chair, her jeweled rings sending flashes of blue and red and green into the shadows. “I have answered the king’s questions—if they were truly his. More likely it is my enemies who conspire to blacken me to the king. If the Duke of Norfolk was involved in a plot against the king, I had no knowledge of it and so I have stated. Is my word not good enough?”
Talking to Mary was always an exercise in patience. She was intelligent and educated, but she had little sense of irony and none at all of humour. And always she would be blinded by her obsession with what she saw as England’s heresy.
Which meant Elizabeth could run rings around her when she chose. But today she wasn’t here for entertainment; she was here for information. She damped down her normal impulse to dazzle Mary with her youth and beauty, and aimed for honesty rather than cleverness.
“Tell me, dear sister: if the Duke of Norfolk had said, ‘There are Spanish ships waiting to take you to the emperor, you need only ride out a few miles …’ would you not have gone? You came so close five years ago.”
In 1550, Mary had indeed come close to escaping England in that very way—a ride to the east coast and Spanish ships waiting for her. In the end it had been her own indecision that cost her the chance. She had simply waited too long trying to divine what God meant her to do.
“And that is why I am punished now,” Mary said flatly. “Kept in this house of that heretic, Northumberland. It is insulting, and now you are come to mock.”
Minuette intervened. “No, my lady, never to mock. The king’s affections will always be inclined to leniency, but you cannot allow yourself to be used by those of evil intent.”
Elizabeth sat back and watched her sister and her friend regard each other. Mary had no cause to love Minuette
after what had happened at Framlingham, but there was something gentle about Minuette that could disarm the most suspicious. Today she looked like an angel in her pale blue gown and white underskirt, a bright counterpoint of hope to Mary’s dark and fading appearance.
“I might give the same advice to my brother,” Mary challenged Minuette. “He should take care to whom he listens, for heretics will never counsel honestly.”
“We are not here to debate religion.”
“And clearly you are not here for affection’s sake, so why are you here?” Mary flung this question at her sister.
Elizabeth grudgingly admired Mary’s bluntness and replied in kind. “Do you believe that Norfolk intended open rebellion against the king?”
This time Mary didn’t respond immediately. After a considered pause, she said, “If he did, I had no knowledge, and that, I think, makes it unlikely. The duke would have needed me for such a move, and it is unlikely he could have kept it secret from me for so long. I had heard nothing of rebellion.”
“What had you heard?”
“That there might exist a document of interest to the Catholic cause.”
The Penitent’s Confession. Elizabeth would have to speak cautiously here. “And had you heard that such a document was in Norfolk’s hands?”
“No.” Mary spoke definitely. “He did not have whatever he thought this document was. He was searching for it, tracking rumours and gossip that always turned to nothing in the end.”
Until Minuette had found it in the very heart of Framlingham, hidden in the altar of the lady chapel. Elizabeth searched Mary’s face, and could not find deception there. Was this one of those things that had Rochford so worried—that he could not believe Mary would not have known if Norfolk had the inflammatory Penitent’s Confession in his hands? And if she had not known, did that mean Norfolk himself had no idea that the forged document was concealed in his house? If that were true, it indeed meant someone else had planted it to bring down the Howard family.
And that someone remained undiscovered. Elizabeth sighed.
Mary was no fool. “Was that the wrong answer?” she asked.
“Not if it is true.”
“I do not lie, sister. Say whatever else you like about me, but you know that I do not lie.”
Not even to make her own life easier. No, Mary was inflexible and fanatic and damned irritating, but she was not a liar.
Mary went on, cannily enough. “You will not be staying here at Syon House, now that Northumberland has overreached with his son’s marriage. Does that mean the king will release me from this pretense of confinement?”
“That is for the king to say,” Elizabeth said bluntly.
“I hear he will join you at Richmond shortly. Do you think …” Mary hesitated. Elizabeth knew how it pained her to plead. “Will you ask William to see me when he arrives? And if he will not see me, at least ask him if I may return to Beaulieu.”
Elizabeth said nothing for a long moment, then she nodded curtly. “I will ask.”
What else could she do? Mary, however reluctantly and acrimoniously, was her sister. Though Henry’s three children might have wildly different temperaments, they shared a certain turn of mind that was instantly recognizable—the call of blood, perhaps.
When they had bade Mary goodbye, they found John Dudley waiting for them a courteous distance down the corridor—close enough to keep an eye on the doorway, but not close enough to eavesdrop. That was a courtesy afforded because of Elizabeth’s status. If Mary were to have less exalted visitors, John Dudley would ensure he knew every word that was spoken. As he walked them out of Syon House, they were joined by another of Northumberland’s sons, Ambrose. Though Elizabeth did not usually deal privately with Robert’s family—only when their interests impinged on wider affairs—she knew that Ambrose was Robert’s favorite amongst his brothers.
It was Ambrose who spoke first. “I understand you have met my father’s newest scholar, Dr. Dee.”
“Yes, we met him at Christmas at court. He is quite … knowledgeable.” And disconcerting, Elizabeth thought.
“John and I have just had word that Dr. Dee will be coming to Syon House with Robert the day after tomorrow. It would be an honour if the two of you would join us for dinner while they are in residence.” He nodded politely to Minuette, including her.
How much of that was planned solely to tempt her? Elizabeth wondered. She had expected Robert would find his way to her before the rest of the court caught up, but she hadn’t thought it would be quite this quick.
Still, though Northumberland was out of favour, and Elizabeth slightly out of temper with Robert because of Guildford’s stupidity, she had no wish to decline. “It would be our pleasure.”
17 March 1555
Richmond Palace
I was quite right that we would not be spending much time with Mary. I don’t blame Elizabeth, for her sister is not the easiest of company. And I find myself uncomfortably reminded of Framlingham whenever I am with the Lady Mary. I feel as though I should apologize to her for the violence that ended in her confinement, although Giles’s death had nothing to do with Mary and, apparently, nothing to do with the Penitent’s Confession, either. I was so certain last fall that I had solved that puzzle! So certain that I could lay Alyce’s pregnancy—and her death—at the feet of Giles Howard. I wish I still could, for the belief that I was avenging my friend kept my guilt at bay. Now I have only the memory of his violence and my own, and it is vastly less comfortable.
But I cannot lie to myself simply for comfort. The evidence against Giles—and perhaps all of the Howards—has vanished like smoke and I am left with only Alyce herself to guide me. I have been tracking down the women we both served within Queen Anne’s household, but I had guessed before I began that it would be pointless. Alyce kept to herself, and if she didn’t let secrets slip with me, it’s not likely they slipped at all. Not at court, at least.
And as I have heard nothing from my stepfather about his investigations, I have been quite at a loss. Until yesterday’s visit to Syon House, when I found out that Dr. Dee is arriving with Robert. Now I have an idea: an unorthodox one, to say the least. We shall see if Elizabeth will give me permission.
At first Elizabeth resisted Minuette’s plan. As she said pointedly, “Alyce de Clare is dead and buried and you cannot change that. And we already know the why of it—she was a spy who got herself with child and tumbled down a staircase.”
But Minuette refused to give up, and she had learned stubbornness from Elizabeth’s own mother. “She didn’t get herself with child alone! And I’m not convinced she simply fell down that staircase. Either way, her spying on Queen Anne was done at someone else’s command. If it wasn’t on behalf of the Howard family, then whoever wanted to plaster those broadsides about your mother’s past around court has never been exposed. Wouldn’t you like to discover the man who defamed your brother’s birth?”
And so at last Elizabeth agreed to summon Dr. Dee to see them at Richmond after his arrival with Robert at Syon House. Their dinner with the Dudley sons had been somewhat stilted, to say the least. With Mary present as well, and the Dudley sons’ father still banished from court—not to mention Guildford’s continuing absence and Margaret Clifford’s confinement to the Tower—there were topics aplenty to be avoided.
Elizabeth’s permission to Minuette was conditional on her own presence at the meeting. So when Dr. Dee arrived at Richmond, Minuette stood back and waited while Elizabeth greeted their guest.
“Dr. Dee,” Elizabeth said, “thank you for coming to see us.”
“Of course, Your Highness. It is I who am flattered by your invitation.”
Minuette was impressed with his confidence; if Dee was at all concerned about why he’d been summoned to a private audience with royalty, he didn’t show it. He just stood there looking from Elizabeth to Minuette with an inscrutable expression on that somewhat ageless face. As though he knew plenty of things that he did not care to express
.
Elizabeth waved him to a chair. “Please,” she said, then indicated that Minuette should begin.
“Dr. Dee,” Minuette said, “we’re wondering what you might be able to tell us about a political plot.”
“Is that not a matter for an intelligencer?”
“The trouble with intelligencers is that they all interpret information according to who is paying them. We are looking rather for the truth.”
“The truth …” Dee smiled and looked all at once every bit the young man he was. “That is a rare commodity. What particular truth are you seeking?”
“A young woman who served the late Queen Anne died quite suddenly two years ago at court. She was with child at the time, and embroiled in a plot to discredit the king. We want to know the truth of her death. I was wondering if you could chart her stars. Perhaps the heavens might point the way to those who used her.”
Dee looked intrigued. “To chart the stars of the dead is not a usual practice. But if you can tell me what I need to know of her birth, then yes, I can give you a chart. Whether it will be useful …” He shrugged.
“More to the point,” Elizabeth intervened sharply, “I am interested in knowing who used this woman and plotted against my brother.”
“Was that not the late Duke of Norfolk, Your Highness? He was being held in the Tower at the time of his death.”
“The evidence against the duke is, shall we say, less than compelling. Clearly Norfolk had motive, Catholic devotee that he was, but I would not condemn a man or his family based solely on motive.”
“That is wise, Your Highness. We all have motives that are less than pure. But we do not all act on them.”
Why did Minuette feel that he was speaking straight to her? What exactly had he seen in her stars at Christmas? she wondered anew. Did John Dee know she was in love with Dominic? Did he know the lies she was telling to William and Elizabeth? She had told herself the secrecy was for William’s own good … We all have motives that are less than pure.
The Boleyn Deceit: A Novel (Ann Boleyn Trilogy) Page 8