The Boleyn Deceit: A Novel (Ann Boleyn Trilogy)

by Andersen, Laura

  At the banquet they were separated, all of the English scattered amongst the bright plumage of the French royals and nobles: Lady Rochford next to the dauphin (she didn’t look pleased at being paired with a boy, no matter his title); Elizabeth with King Henri; and Minuette with the Cardinal de Guise. Dominic himself was seated between Elisabeth de France and William’s cousin, Mary Stuart. The need to be gracious to two royal ladies, however young, kept his attention diverted when all he wanted was to catch Minuette’s eye.

  When the banquet was finished and the dancing began in the Salle des Fêtes, Dominic drew a breath of relief at being finally free. He would dance with Minuette—perhaps a seductive volta—and begin to let his armour slip. Just enough for her to glimpse the passion he kept well-buried.

  But he could not get near enough to Minuette to even ask her to dance. She passed from Frenchman to Frenchman without so much as a glance his way. The only time she stopped flirting or dancing was to drink from the abundant wine offerings. Did she not know how she was tormenting him?

  He was unconscious of staring until Renaud murmured in his ear, “What has the young lady done to make you scowl so?”

  Dominic shook his head and immediately regretted it as the pain flashed sharp. “Am I scowling? I thought that was how I always look.”

  “Near enough, mon ami. So come and dance with my Nicole. She will make you cheerful.”

  She very nearly did, for Renaud’s wife was one of the most peaceful women Dominic had ever met. Short, slightly plump, dressed neatly but unexceptionally in dove gray silk, Nicole seemed wrapped in contentment whether here at the heart of court or in her Loire Valley home. As they danced a pavane, she smiled up at him and said, “I wish to thank you, monsieur le duc, for your care of my husband last summer. Although defeat is never easy for a soldier, I know you treated him with great kindness. I am grateful that you sent him home to me so quickly and unharmed.”

  “It was my honour, madame,” Dominic replied truthfully. “And how is your new daughter?”

  Her smile widened, lighting her face with beauty. “Six months old and already Renaud claims that he will have to kill many men in future to protect her virtue. He dotes upon her.”

  “And your sons?” They had two, sturdy boys.

  “Both are well and growing so fast! I am glad that there is now peace between our countries, monsieur, for this is the first summer in many that my husband has not been at war somewhere. He will return home with me soon and that is all I ever want.”

  Studying Nicole LeClerc’s glowing face—a woman serenely in love with her husband and children and home, so glad to be at peace that her husband might be safe—Dominic realized just how many people William had it in his power to injure. When the king broke the French marriage contract, it wasn’t just Elisabeth de France who would be affected, nor even her royal father. Their pride would suffer, but if it came to war again many men and women stood to lose much more.

  He has to marry Elisabeth, Dominic realized, and not just because I want Minuette. It is wise, and it has always been my job to tell him what is wise. Had not William often said he relied on Dominic to be honest when no one else would be?

  Sustained by the righteousness of that thought, Dominic bid Nicole a heartfelt farewell and determined to pin down Minuette tonight if it was the last thing he did. He felt the need to apologize to her—though he wasn’t stupid enough to tell her about Aimée, he still felt guilty—and to discover why she was so unreachable tonight.

  Dominic wound his way through the Salle des Fêtes, slowed by the increasingly volatile Frenchmen whose tongues and tempers were loosened by drink (not to mention the Frenchwomen whose boldness increased as the evening wore on) and by the necessity to behave courteously. He had to change directions once to avoid Aimée, and finally caught sight of Minuette, burning bright in her crimson gown. She stood against one of the frescoed walls speaking to Renaud.

  Or rather, Renaud was speaking to her, leaning in close, and when he straightened, Minuette looked directly at Dominic as though she had known precisely where he was. Renaud stepped away. Dominic could almost see Minuette’s indecision and the moment when she steadied herself before coming to him.

  He allowed himself to watch her, exquisite in her crimson gown and lit up like a torch so that no man could ignore her. His desire roused as it always was in her presence; it wasn’t until she asked, “Will you dance, Dominic?” that he smelled the wine on her breath. He had seen her drink more than usual at dinner and afterward, but he had not realized that she was drunk.

  Minuette’s expression was all seduction as she took his hand and put it on her waist. “Don’t you want to dance with me?” She stepped into him, and instinctively he led her into the opening of an allemande.

  But the second time she fumbled a step, he couldn’t pretend any longer that all was well. Grasping her by the upper arm, he towed her off the dance floor into a window embrasure that gave the illusion of privacy.

  “You’re drunk,” he said flatly. “Care to tell me why?”

  She opened her mouth, then a shadow of obstinacy crossed her face and he knew they were going to argue. “No.”

  “I’m taking you back to your room.”

  Her laugh was tipsy, and wrong. “And will you stay?”

  “Long enough to find Carrie. You need to sleep this off.”

  “I don’t want to sleep.”

  “Too bad.”

  She jerked her arm out of his grasp and hissed, “Don’t tell me what to do. If I want to dance, I’ll stay and dance. If I want to drink, then I will.”

  “What is wrong with you?”

  “And if I want to kiss you …” She tipped her face up to him and her lips parted.

  He stepped back hastily. “Not here, Minuette. People will talk.”

  Fury darkened her face, for a moment making her look disconcertingly like William in a temper. “And heaven forbid anyone should talk about you.” The scathing words spilled out of her, almost tumbling over each other. “It’s your job to be perfect and remote and never give rise to a single rumour.”

  “I don’t know why you’re upset, but can we please talk about it elsewhere?” Already, those nearest to their alcove were turning curious heads at the commotion.

  Minuette didn’t move. “In your chambers perhaps? Except no, it would not be wise to take me to your bed. You reserve that for a French whore!”

  Even while his sickened mind took in the fact that, somehow, Minuette knew about Aimée last night, Dominic knew he had to get her out of this far too public place—and fast. He reached for her hand, desperate to get somewhere private, muttering, “Minuette, please—”

  She struck as rapidly as a snake, her palm connecting with his left cheek so hard that it rattled clear through his already aching skull. His vision clouded for a handful of breaths, and when it cleared he could see that she was nearly as shocked as he was, as though her moment of violence had released all her pent-up emotions. When he said, “Please, let me take you to Carrie,” she dipped her head and let him escort her out without a word. A trail of glances followed in their wake—including Aimée herself, who looked so satisfied that Dominic wanted to follow Minuette’s example and slap her.

  Minuette did not speak another word, and Dominic could not choose where to begin. How to explain what had happened last night? How to assure her she had no reason for jealousy? (But doesn’t she? his conscience whispered. That last kiss in the corridor was as much you as Aimée.) Words were never his strong suit, and besides, Minuette was wilting fast from the unaccustomed effects of too much wine.

  When they reached her chambers, Dominic said shortly, “Have Carrie bring you some water. You’re going to be sick, and we have a long journey home.”

  And this, he thought blackly, is a perfect end to another stay in France. He hoped devoutly he would never lay eyes on this wretched country again.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  GETTING THE WOMEN out of France was even worse
than getting them there in the first place. They were fewer than half in number: only Lady Rochford, Elizabeth, Minuette, and their attendants. The young girls remained at the French court to serve in Elisabeth de France’s household. But the women who departed were all of them difficult. Lady Rochford was restless and discontented at leaving the French court (or perhaps at having to return to her husband), and Elizabeth was at her most exacting and capricious.

  Minuette refused to speak to him at all, which he did not find surprising, for when they left Fontainebleau she was wretched from the aftereffects of immoderate drinking. Good, Dominic thought. She will not make that mistake again. So he had let her alone, and letting her alone became easier the farther they traveled and the quieter she remained. She rode in a carriage with Lady Rochford until they reached the Seine, not once joining Elizabeth on horseback, and on the river she always contrived to be in a different barge than he was.

  They spent one night in Harfleur, Dominic rounding the garrison and making notes on their readiness against possible French incursions in future. Harfleur, Le Havre, and Calais were all that remained of England’s once vast holdings in France, and Dominic did not mean to lose them through any oversight of his. They took ship at Le Havre and Minuette went below before they’d even lost sight of the coast. He stared after her bleakly, wondering if she ever meant to speak to him again, wondering how he was supposed to apologize for a most private matter when they were always in public.

  Elizabeth came noiselessly beside him and, with her characteristic insight, observed, “You’ll have to settle this before we return to court. William will want to know why you two are quarreling. I know you don’t want to tell him she got drunk and slapped you.”

  “You don’t think someone else will report it?” Dominic said savagely. “Lady Rochford is no friend of Minuette, and surely your uncle has informants in France.”

  She shrugged, steady on her feet despite the rolling of the ship’s deck. “My brother can ignore everyone but you. Fix it, Dominic. Otherwise, he will be displeased.”

  At the moment, he didn’t particularly care if William were displeased. In fact, he was tired of everything being about William all the time. But for his own sake he desperately wanted this fixed, so he went below and knocked on Minuette’s door.

  Carrie opened it. “May I speak with her?” he asked.

  “I’m sorry, my lord, she is resting and does not wish to be disturbed.”

  She smiled helplessly, as though in sympathy with him but bound to follow her mistress’s orders. Dominic swore under his breath as she closed the door in his face.

  Elizabeth must have appreciated his attempt—or at least recognized he was out of his depth—because she took the matter out of his hands once they landed at Dover. There were royal men and horses at Dover Castle prepared to ride on with them the next morning, but Elizabeth took Dominic aside. “My aunt and I will be quite all right now. I thought you might like to visit your mother, since we are somewhat near Maidstone. Take Minuette with you.”

  He would have protested, but in a move remarkably like William, she simply walked away. Knowing the folly of arguing with a Tudor, Dominic set his jaw and had Harrington arrange horses for a separate small party.

  Minuette, however, was prepared to argue with the princess. The next morning, when Dominic approached them in the courtyard of Dover Castle, he heard her say sharply, “I do not need to be sent off like a child because you think I’m in a temper.”

  “Then prove you’re not a child and do what I ask.” Elizabeth’s reply had the ring of royal steel in it. “I will make it an order if I must.”

  Minuette whirled so suddenly that she stumbled into Dominic. He put a hand out to steady her. It was the closest they’d been since that last night at Fontainebleau, and her eyes held more than anger and disdain—though those were present. But there were also tears, like a deep well that has been troubled by a stone and not yet come to rest.

  “Minuette,” he said beseechingly, and his tone must have warned her of his wish to take her in his arms right here, princess and royal guards be damned.

  “Not here, Dominic.” She lifted her chin and her eyes blazed with fury. “People will talk.”

  And so they rode together to his mother’s home, Dominic not sure which fears to focus on: his mad mother, his need to set things straight with Minuette, his duty to return to William and persuade him of the importance of the French marriage …

  He’d once worried about his mother burning the house down around him. Tonight he would almost welcome it. At least it would be a distraction.

  In preparation for dinner, Carrie brought Minuette a simple gown of moss green with embroidered cream flowers. Minuette shook her head. “I need something more … elaborate.” As armour, she meant.

  “I’m sorry, mistress, it’s what there is. Most of your things went on to court with the princess.”

  She searched Carrie’s guileless face and knew that her maid wanted her vulnerable tonight. Fine, she would prove that she could hold her own without finery and jewels. And since when do I need to hold my own against Dominic? she thought, a little forlornly.

  Of course Carrie was right, for more reasons than one. When Minuette joined the table, she knew that she would have been wildly inappropriate dressed as a court lady. Dominic’s mother, Philippa, wore a simple dress of midnight blue and no jewelry except a rosary that her son tactfully ignored. It had a familiar look to it, and Minuette wondered if, like her mother’s, it had been a gift from the late Queen Anne. Philippa Boleyn Courtenay had been Anne’s cousin, and as young girls they had been very close. Before Philippa’s unhappy marriage and Anne’s turn to Henry and Protestantism.

  There was also a clerk at dinner, a man named Michael, dressed with equal soberness. A skillful conversationalist, he had traveled extensively in Europe and entertained them with stories of scholars and sailors. Dominic, as usual, spoke little and seemed absorbed in watching his mother. Philippa appeared a little distracted and unworldly but not dangerous.

  Until she brought up a dangerous subject. “I see you took care to be out of the country when your king burned a saint,” she said to her son.

  Bonner was dead? Minuette opened her mouth in surprise, but Dominic cut her off. “Bonner was no saint, Mother. He preached treason, and would gladly have practiced it at any opportunity.”

  “Men aren’t burned for treason, but for heresy. How could God not strike down your king for this? William is the heretic! Denying the presence of Christ, daring to take on himself the power of God. Your king—”

  “He is your king as well, Mother. He’s the one who allows you this home, the clothes you wear, the food you eat. You would do well to remember that.”

  “I would be damned if I acknowledge him as my king. Mary should have the throne. And she will when the world is set right.”

  “Do you have anything to say to this?” Dominic demanded of Michael, who had listened with a closed-off expression.

  He looked at Dominic mildly enough, but something in his eyes shook Minuette, and suddenly she realized what she should have seen before—Michael was no clerk. “The wicked take the truth to be hard,” the priest—for that he surely was—murmured.

  “You will watch your words, and ensure my mother watches hers, or I will see to it that you are put out of England for good.”

  Michael almost smiled. “You are not hard enough for the quarrels of religion, Lord Exeter. You have not studied your king so well to learn that.”

  Philippa rose abruptly. Leaning down to take Minuette’s face in her hands, she rasped urgently, “My son is hard, though, child. Don’t you mistake it. The Courtenay men are all of them hard. His love will crush the life right out of you.” Her eyes glittered unnervingly.

  “Mother!”

  The priest intervened. “I’ll take her to her chambers. Come along, Philippa.”

  He led her away and suddenly it was just Minuette and Dominic, and she knew the moment had come f
or confrontation. Trembling, she braced herself for his recriminations about her drinking and her appalling behavior that last night at the French court. She also braced herself to be angry about Aimée coming from his bed, but she was unprepared for what Dominic said first, or how he said it.

  “My mother is right, you know. You have ample cause to regret that I fell in love with you.”

  At once, her anger dissolved into bewilderment and hurt. “Do you mean that you are regretting having fallen in love with me?”

  “Unlike you, Minuette, I mean exactly what I say.”

  Oh, here came anger again. With a vengeance. “What are you implying?”

  “I have watched you with William, and I have heard him speak of you, and I know that he has not the slightest doubt you love him. And I honestly don’t know if that is a result of his own delusions, or a measure of your ability to dissemble, or the simple fact that you are truly in love with him.”

  “So this is my fault,” she said, feeling a stab of pain behind her right eye. “You think I’m a liar—to William or to you or perhaps both. That would be convenient for you because, if I am false, then what does it matter whom you take to bed?”

  He flinched and she was savagely glad of it. “I did not take Aimée to bed.”

  “Really? So it is only in public corridors that you kiss a woman while completely naked?”

  “I did not sleep with her,” he said stubbornly. “She caught me unawares while I was asleep and I put her out at once.”

  “It didn’t look like you were putting her out. It looked like you were enjoying yourself quite thoroughly.” She was almost frightened by the savagery in her voice.

  Dominic’s cheeks darkened. “I swear to you by all that is holy, I did not sleep with her that night. We had a brief … liaison when I was last at the French court two years ago. She wished to take advantage of that. And think of me what you like, Minuette, but I have the desires and weaknesses of all men. I should not have kissed her as I did. But that was the whole of it, I swear. And you are avoiding my question.”