“And?” William prompted his uncle, who seemed reluctant to continue.
“She saw this man the day of Mistress Wyatt’s illness. In the corridor outside her bedchamber. He was coming out of another woman’s room and she was jealous for a little, until he told her he was merely delivering a message to the young lady from his patron.”
“And do we know who that patron might be?”
“He is a minor functionary in the Duke of Northumberland’s London household.”
A message—not in writing, but in poison. Here was proof to satisfy even Dominic: the attempt on Minuette’s life had indeed been masterminded by Northumberland.
William drew a deep breath and let it out. “If the clerk’s tongue is loose enough to hint to his mistress, he should have any number of things to tell us once he’s in the Tower.”
Rochford nodded in agreement. “Shall I have him arrested?”
“Discreetly. Absolutely no one must know that he has any connection, however tenuous, to Mistress Wyatt. Do I make myself clear?”
“Eminently, Your Majesty. I will see to it.” He paused. “Is there anything else you would like me to see to before Guildford Dudley’s trial tomorrow?”
“I have it in hand, thank you.”
“As you say.”
He’s getting better at this, William thought, offering counsel without telling me what to do. It pleased him that his uncle was beginning to respect his authority.
Now pray God Dominic found something damning to wrap it up neatly before word leaked to any of Northumberland’s supporters.
Dominic returned to Whitehall well after midnight, only to be informed by Harrington that the king had left orders for him to report no matter what hour he returned. He took a few minutes to change his shirt, dusty and creased from hours of prying through wardrobes and checking loose floorboards, then gathered up what he had found.
He was shown to William’s private oratory, a small space somewhat plainer than of old but still beautiful with its gilded and carved screens and the lectern upon which rested the pride of William’s reign, the Tyndale Bible in English. It was open to the book of Luke and, as William beckoned him in, he said, “Chapter twenty-one—‘for these be the days of vengeance.’ Even you will agree with that when I tell you what I learned from my uncle this afternoon.”
“Which was?”
William glanced at the sheaf of papers Dominic held, but continued with his own news. “I have a man in the Tower being questioned. He was seen in Minuette’s rooms the day she was poisoned. He claimed to be delivering a message from his employer, the Duke of Northumberland.”
Dominic was seized by an urge to question the man himself—or perhaps not so much question as inflict pain upon.
“Tell me you found something,” William added.
“You’re not going to like it.”
William visibly restrained himself from reaching for the papers Dominic held. “I won’t like what?”
For a moment, Dominic hesitated. He knew what would follow from this and he almost did not want to go on. Let the nobility tear itself to pieces, what did he care?
But he cared very much when Minuette was a target. “You know Northumberland hasn’t been at his London house for months, not since you sent him away from court. There was little to raise any suspicions, but he left so hastily I suppose he overlooked a few things. I would call them suggestive, rather than conclusive.”
William swiped his hand impatiently. “Such as?”
“A partial accounting of monies paid out to individuals indicated only by their initials. Some foreign coins, including French and Dutch. And a vial—an empty vial.”
“A vial that could have held monkshood? Where is it?”
“With Harrington. I’ll take it to an apothecary tomorrow and see what they can tell me.”
“Is that all?”
Dominic sighed. “And a partial letter, begun but never sent.”
He handed over the pages and William studied the first one. “This is your handwriting,” the king pointed out.
“The original is beneath. A letter in Northumberland’s hand, in cipher.”
He watched William read, guessing at the emotions his friend was experiencing, the disappointment and fury that Dominic had passed through in the last hours. He had thought himself prepared for whatever his search of Ely Place turned up. He had not been prepared for this: incontrovertible evidence of state treason. Unlike the suspicions against Norfolk last year, this could not be mistaken for anything else.
The letter, as Dominic had said, was only partially complete. It had been addressed to one of the principal ministers in the strongly Protestant Low Countries and it was clearly not the first letter Northumberland had sent.
The duke referenced previous communications throughout the letter, and addressed specific issues that the minister must have raised. Some of it was innocent enough and might occasion no more than a raised eyebrow and a reminder that some phrases could be interpreted in more than one way. But when discussion had turned to Minuette, Northumberland’s language became seditious.
The girl is a nuisance, nothing more. The king is young, and young men often intend impulsive things. She seeks to take advantage of his infatuation, but I assure you, she has not the late queen’s abilities. William need only be persuaded that he can fulfill both his duty and his desire—let him take her to his bed, give her children if he must, but I swear to you, she will never be queen.
If all else fails, I will not see England drawn into war over a mistress with pretensions. Better a queen who will be ruled by wisdom than a king who seeks only his own desires.
William read the last sentence aloud, dropping the words like coals heaped on Northumberland’s head. Then he looked at Dominic and said, “He would never countenance Mary on the throne. He may seek to use the Catholics, but he would not turn England back to Rome. Not even to gain a pliable ruler.”
“He didn’t mean Mary,” Dominic countered, staring at his friend’s outraged face. “He meant Elizabeth.”
“He cannot imagine Elizabeth would usurp my place under any circumstances!”
“If you were dead, and it was between your sisters … of course Elizabeth would take the throne.”
William let out his breath in a furious hiss. “Doubtless with his own son, Robert, beside her.”
“Quite possibly that is his thought.”
“Which means Robert is as guilty as his father.”
“Possibly.” Dominic was always cautious, and he knew that Robert was less prone to wild overreactions than his father. But he held in his mind the image of Robert distracting Minuette during the very hour someone smeared a lethal solution of monkshood on her star pendant.
William flung the damning pages to the floor of his oratory. His face was implacable. “Tomorrow Guildford will be tried and sentenced. He will be executed the day after. As soon as you have seen him die, take a contingent of soldiers. March to Dudley Castle to arrest the Duke of Northumberland and Lord Robert Dudley. I’ll have my uncle see to Eleanor’s arrest as well. This time, she’s not coming out of the Tower until I’m satisfied that she will never again be a threat to Minuette.”
Better and better, Dominic thought with satisfaction. And hated himself for relishing Eleanor’s downfall.
“I’m just glad the women are well out of it at Hatfield,” William mused. “I can only imagine the fireworks that will erupt when Elizabeth learns of Robert’s perfidy.”
Elizabeth did not sleep at all for fury. She counted it to her credit that she had managed to eke out a few meaningless words to Amy Dudley last night before Robert had escorted his wife out of the hall, more or less commanding her that “you must be weary after your journey—you should not have troubled yourself.”
Oh, it was no trouble, Elizabeth knew, watching the way Amy slipped her hand through Robert’s stiff arm. Amy had been awaiting her opportunity for a good many years.
Elizabeth had excused herself
almost immediately afterward and spoken to no one, not even Minuette. Her friend was wise enough not to murmur more than, “Well, that was awkward,” in a manifestly dry-toned understatement.
It wasn’t as though Amy came as any surprise. Elizabeth was well aware of Robert’s marriage. In fact, William had attended it five years ago as a fourteen-year-old regented king. Elizabeth herself had been invited, but had been staying with her mother at Blickling Hall at the time. Robert had been only eighteen at his marriage, Amy not even quite that. Elizabeth, no matter how hard she’d tried since, had never been able to forget Lord Burghley’s cynical statement that theirs was “a carnal marriage.” True, Amy was the only child of a wealthy gentleman. True, she would inherit a fortune and lands when both her parents died. But considering how ambitious Northumberland was for all of his multitude of children, Robert must have pressed hard to marry Amy for nothing more than love alone. Or at least lust. Elizabeth didn’t know which of the two motives she preferred.
Not that Robert seemed particularly attached to Amy any longer. In the last three years he had hardly been away from court, and Elizabeth had heard that Amy often resided with her parents rather than at the rented manor she had once shared with her husband. And in five years of marriage, there had not been even a hint of a pregnancy. Whether because Amy was barren or because Robert could not be bothered to try (Elizabeth rather hoped it was that) or, most likely, because he had learned greater ambitions and knew that annulling or divorcing a wife who had given him children would complicate matters.
None of that matters, Elizabeth told herself. Not any longer. It was one thing to know about Amy Dudley in abstract—it was quite another to meet her in the flesh. She was not as elegant as Elizabeth, not as clever or learned, not as wealthy, not as privileged, nowhere near as desirable as herself in any way … but she was real from the top of her blond head to the tips of her squared-off fingers and little feet. And in the eyes of God, this very real woman was Robert’s wife.
If Elizabeth could have stormed out of Dudley Castle, she would have. But she would not be driven from any house by a mere gentlewoman married to a fifth son. She was the royal guest here. It was for Amy Dudley to leave.
Which point she made clear when she found Robert leaning against the wall across from her chamber door. He looked as though he’d been there for some time.
“Don’t,” Elizabeth snapped. “I have a meeting with your father. You are not welcome.”
“I didn’t tell her you would be here. I swear it.”
“Clearly she has learned the Dudley gift for scavenging information.”
“Elizabeth—”
“If she’s here to meet me, she has done so. I will not see her again. If that is her aim, she may as well be on her way at once.”
“I’ve told her to be ready to depart at noon.”
“You go with her.”
She turned to walk away but Robert gripped her arm and swung her around.
“How dare you?” She slapped his hand away.
“Don’t do this, Elizabeth.” More gently, he let his fingers rest on her cheek. “Please.”
“How can you think to touch me with your wife in the same house?”
“Because I have no wife in any sense that matters. I was a fool to marry Amy—I was young and hot-blooded and a damned idiot, and every hour since then I have regretted it. I touch you because you are the only woman in the world who matters to me. You know that.”
“How long since you’ve been in her bed?” How she hated herself for needing to know.
“More than two years. And I will not go back, not ever. Not while I live and love you, Elizabeth.”
“If you love me, you will do as I ask. Take your wife away from here. When I want to see you again, I will send for you. Until then, you would be wise not to press me.” She hated herself for softening, but damn Robert! He could always do that to her.
Robert knew when he had won. He dropped his hand and kissed hers. “I am, as ever, yours to command.”
She hoped his father would be as accommodating, but she doubted it. If Robert resembled a stream, slipping swiftly and noiselessly around any obstacle in its path, then Northumberland was a mountain, looming and unmovable.
At least Amy Dudley’s unexpected appearance had given her the upper hand. Northumberland began apologizing the moment the two of them were alone in his study. The paneled space was cozily hung with tapestries, and rich rugs covered the plank floor. Elizabeth was surprised at the number of books in view—though she knew Northumberland had gone to great lengths to educate his children in humanist principles, she had always thought of the duke as less interested. A reminder that one cannot always judge by the exterior.
“My daughter-in-law should have known better,” Northumberland said gruffly. “But like most women, Amy has more temper than sense.”
“Most women?” Elizabeth asked, thinking it was an apt description of Northumberland himself.
“Your Highness, of course, is a model of all that is wise and measured.”
“I am not here to discuss your son’s wife—at least, not this particular wife. I am rather more interested in Guildford and my cousin, Margaret. Did you introduce them intending an assault on royal privilege?”
He shook his head. “It wasn’t like that, Your Highness. I did ensure they met, and yes, I had it in mind that perhaps Guildford would make the girl a good husband. But she was only fourteen! I thought I had plenty of time to speak to the king.”
“Youthful passion,” Elizabeth remarked drily.
“My sons are not always temperate in their loves.”
She would not let him turn this back on her, nor discomfit her with sly allusions to Robert. “When one threatens royal prerogative, one must pay the price. If you expect me to plead for him to my brother, I am not particularly inclined to do so. Guildford was entirely in the wrong.”
Northumberland flushed; he was not adept at hiding his feelings. “What harm could it do? Guildford is no threat to the king or the succession. He’s had the marriage annulled and the baby declared a bastard.”
“If that were an unshakable answer, then the Catholics would not be constantly threatening us with my half sister, Mary.”
“This isn’t about religion!” Moderating his voice, the duke said, “Your Highness, you love your brother. What would you do to protect him from the consequences of his own follies?”
“Are you implying that your king is foolish?”
“No man is perfect—certainly not a man in love.”
Elizabeth stood up in a swirl of silken outrage. “You would be wise to keep your opinions of my brother to yourself. As to other matters—I did not come here to discuss Guildford. I am interested in larger concerns. We will meet again when you have had a chance to grow calm and consider your future. I would ponder deeply on any actions from your past that you might wish to confess. Actions having to do with the Howard family, perhaps.”
“Norfolk?” Northumberland regarded her suspiciously. “You can’t imagine I was part of that Catholic plot, Your Highness!”
“No. But I can imagine very easily that you could manufacture a Catholic plot in order to destroy your enemies.”
She could not tell if his blank expression was surprise or calculation. Perhaps he had learned something from Robert. With a false and flattering smile, Elizabeth added, “I plan to remain at Dudley Castle for a week at least. We will speak again when you are prepared to be honest.”
If she managed to bring Northumberland to confession, perhaps the sting of Amy Dudley would ease. And perhaps William would not be so furious with her when he found out where she had gone.
It had been a long time since anything had taken Minuette’s mind off her own knot of troubles, but the eruption of Robert’s wife on the scene had done just that. For a woman of middling height and no outstanding beauty, Amy Dudley had commanded the eye and the attention of every person in the hall last night—none more so than Elizabeth. Minuette
had never seen her friend so miserably fixed on a single human being in her life. It was as though a demon had walked into the room.
She had known better than to make Elizabeth talk about it, though she did desperately wish that Carrie was here so she could talk it over with someone. When Minuette rose the next morning, she let herself gossip a little with the Dudley maid who came to help her dress.
“Is it usual for Lord Robert’s wife to accompany him to Dudley Castle?”
“No, miss,” the girl said as she laced one of Minuette’s periwinkle sleeves to her overdress. “She’s more likely to be here when he isn’t. ’Course, Lord Robert is hardly ever here hisself.”
Because he’s at court, making certain Elizabeth doesn’t have occasion to forget him, Minuette thought cynically. She’d always been a bit cynical where Robert was concerned. Not because she doubted his regard for Elizabeth, but because she doubted its purity. Would he have been anywhere near as enamoured if Elizabeth were not a princess royal of England? For certain he would not be as patiently loyal. He liked women too well, in all the shaded meanings of that term.
“What is she like, Lord Robert’s wife?” Minuette asked curiously. It wasn’t as though she expected to ever be in Northumberland’s household again—it wouldn’t harm her to get a reputation for nosiness.
The maid was happy to reply. “She don’t put on airs, but it’s her as has the money, and she don’t let Lord Robert forget it. To be sure, I remember when she first came here, after the wedding—very sweet, they were, he liked quoting foreign poetry to her. Italian, I think. I daresay she’s had no poetry from him for ages now.”
The maid stepped back and adjusted a creased seam on Minuette’s blue velvet stomacher. “Certainly no poetry last night,” the maid sniffed. “I weren’t serving in that wing, but they do say you could hear them yelling a long ways off.”
“Where is their wing?”
“The family’s in the first section of Sharrington range. But if it’s her you want to see, best hurry. Lord Robert’s taking her home straightaway.”
The Boleyn Deceit: A Novel (Ann Boleyn Trilogy) Page 26