The Boleyn Deceit: A Novel (Ann Boleyn Trilogy)

by Andersen, Laura

  When she moved into his arms at last, he had a flash of memory—Minuette jumping to him at Hampton Court more than two years ago. The sharp awareness he’d had then of a girl grown into a woman mixed now with the vivid sweetness of holding his wife for the first time. My wife. She smelled of clean earth and dusky roses, and Dominic felt as he had once before when holding Minuette—that he had come home.

  There was a moment when he drew back—the last moment that he could—and said breathlessly, “I don’t want to hurt you, love.”

  Her hazel eyes were enormous and trusting. “I’m not afraid,” she whispered. “I could never be afraid of you.”

  Hours later, in the still hush before dawn, Minuette lay in his arms and asked the question he had been both expecting and dreading since yesterday.

  “What has William done?”

  He told her as he’d always meant to, knowing they could not expect to have more than one night’s peace at a time. He told her of Scotland and of William’s lies and of an arrow in the back. When he had finished, he waited for her to defend William in her gentle, tolerant way.

  She did not defend him. She did not say anything. She moved against Dominic and kissed him until he forgot everything but the moment.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  13 November 1555

  Wynfield Mote

  I am married. And though I know it is unwise to set it down in writing, I don’t care. I want it marked somewhere outside my own head, or in the eyes of those who were present. Dominic and I are bound, and though some might undo the words of the priest, nothing can undo last night. I am Dominic’s wife in body and soul. No one can change that.

  Not even a king.

  15 November 1555

  Wynfield Mote

  The priest left us this morning. Before his departure, he came to say goodbye and, I think, to wish me well. He’s a most unusual man, this Father Michael. When I thanked him for his service, he said, “No warning from you? I suppose you trust that your husband has already warned me as thoroughly as possible not to speak.”

  “Why would you speak?” I asked. “There is no advantage to you in doing so.”

  He laughed then and said, “So you are the practical half of this marriage—trusting to my silence because it serves my own ends, and not merely because I have given my word. Trust a woman to be cynical.”

  I believe he meant it as a compliment.

  Harrington is riding back with him to Dominic’s mother in Surrey. I saw Carrie saying goodbye to Harrington and know that I was not wrong about her feelings. I am glad that she has found happiness again—being so marvelously happy myself, I wish it for all the world.

  Even Emma Hadley. I will go this afternoon and return at last the silver casket and Alyce’s letters. And I will tell her the truth of her sister’s death.

  21 November 1555

  Wynfield Mote

  News continues to find us here. Or find me, I should say. No one at court has yet realized that Dominic is with me, though there has been much gossip from some of my correspondents about the nature of his quarrel with William. One or two have been accurate enough to pass on the news that Dominic has been banished to his estates at Tiverton for now, but there are other rumours: that Dominic joined the French in Scotland, that he struck the king in the face, or even that Dominic has been confined to the Tower with Northumberland and his sons.

  When I read out such things to Dominic, I do not see surprise or even distaste in his expression. Mostly, he just looks weary. And not because he has spent nearly two months riding back and forth across England. No, this weariness goes to his heart.

  I do not know how to set it right.

  Between them, William and the Duke of Norfolk scorched the border counties, burning everything in their reach from crops to abbeys. Renaud LeClerc pulled back his French troops almost as if they had never been there, and the Scots were decimated. William relished the rout, for as long as he was fighting he knew that he had been right. It was only when the fighting was done and autumn turned toward an early winter in the North that he was forced to remember the look on Dominic’s face when he’d realized how he’d been used.

  William’s justification of I was right veered in the long hours of night to Tell me I was right. He wasn’t sure whom he was pleading with. Dominic—or himself? He had been sure when he’d ordered LeClerc’s assassination and the subsequent battles, but in the aftermath doubts crept in. Surely it had been too good an opportunity to miss—but what about the spring when battle season rolled back around? Was England ready to face the French in war once again? The restlessness of his mind kept him sleepless, and by the time he finally returned to London at the end of November he was achy and irritable. But kings don’t have time for illness, so he faced his privy council the morning after his return.

  In all his considerations he had come up with two positive items, points he was swift to hammer home when he met with Rochford and the council.

  First, economics. “With Northumberland’s attainder, his lands and wealth belong to the Crown,” he pointed out. “He wasn’t the richest duke,” that would be Rochford, “but nearly so. His wealth is a substantial addition to the royal coffers. Enough to strengthen the navy and prepare our forces if need be for retaliation by the French in the spring.”

  “So you will wait for retaliation?” William Cecil asked.

  And thus William’s second point. He inclined his head. “There is a reason my troops withdrew from Scotland. We were not the aggressors; we merely responded in kind. I will not be manipulated by Henri into breaking our treaty. If he wants out of it, then he can bloody well say so.”

  “What are the odds he will?” The Earl of Arundel looked grim.

  William turned to his uncle in unspoken query. Rochford shrugged and said, “Who can tell with the French? No doubt their own councils are meeting as we are to decide what they will risk in the spring. But the king is wise—we have the funds; let us use them to build up our forces and be as prepared as possible for a campaign next year. Until then, it waits only what Henri will do in response.”

  Cecil nodded thoughtfully. “As for the question of Northumberland?”

  William looked briefly at his uncle, then said bluntly, “There will be no trial for John Dudley. I am calling a session of Parliament to pass an Act of Attainder against him.”

  Thus avoiding a trial by the duke’s peers, and the messy complications that might ensue. Not only could Parliament convict Northumberland, they could also set the legal seal upon William’s confiscation of his lands. And giving his people a say in the fall of this unpopular noble would help satisfy some of the pent-up Catholic protests.

  No one protested, or looked more than vaguely uncomfortable. Northumberland had been too strong a personality, too successful and driven and openly ambitious, to be greatly mourned. But he had been a senior peer of the realm and his coming execution was a warning that, as William could raise a man, so could he end him.

  “And his sons?” Lord Burghley wanted to know.

  All four of Northumberland’s living sons were in the Tower, held separately from their father and from one another: John, Ambrose, Henry, and Robert. “Let them rot for now,” William answered sharply. “I will deal with them in my own time.” He might even send one or two of them to hell after their father. Robert, probably—he was the one who had distracted Minuette while his father’s lackey attempted murder. Robert claimed to not have known about the poison—and Minuette claimed to believe him—but William was not persuaded.

  “Your Majesty.” It was Cecil once again; Lord Burghley must be feeling blunt this morning, William thought wryly. “Might I raise the delicate matter of marriage? If the French do retaliate in the spring and we go to war, have you given thought to who will replace Elisabeth de France as your intended bride?”

  “I have given it a great deal of thought.” William avoided his uncle’s eyes. “As well as I have given thought to the matrimonial future of my dear sister,
the Princess Elizabeth. I have sent a private embassy to the Emperor, asking for the favour of his son, Prince Philip’s, company in our court next summer. I believe the request will be looked on favourably.”

  It was what the newly restored Spanish ambassador to his court had intimated just yesterday. Frankly, the timing was perfect. Elizabeth was so disillusioned and bitter after her experiences at Dudley Castle that she had never been more receptive to the idea of Prince Philip. She will make a wonderful Queen of Spain, he thought. And won’t that bother my sister Mary no end: a Protestant queen in the heart of Catholic Europe.

  His answer hadn’t entirely satisfied Burghley. “May we dare to hope, Your Majesty, that if Elisabeth de France is not in your future, that you will give serious consideration to an English bride?”

  He meant Jane Grey, and every man there knew it. William’s second cousin, granddaughter of Henry VIII’s beloved younger sister, impeccably bred and outstandingly educated. And Protestant in every bone and breath of her body and desire of her heart.

  William wondered how many of his council marked his careful choice of words in answer. “I assure you that an English bride is never far from my consideration.”

  Let them read that as they wished. Let Rochford glare all he wanted. William was tired of deception. He could almost bless Henri for sending Renaud LeClerc and his troops across the border, for they had made the first play to unravel the treaty, and now the next was in reach.

  He was glad, though, to dismiss the privy council for today. Unusually for him, he had a headache and he clearly hadn’t shaken off the effects of weeks of riding and campaigning. All he wanted to do was sleep.

  By nightfall William was burning with fever.

  Dominic stayed at Wynfield for three weeks. News filtered through to Minuette’s home readily enough, mostly from Elizabeth but also letters from diplomats and clerics and others who found her a useful contact or else simply liked her. Through them all, Dominic followed the course of the brief Scottish campaign. He was relieved both by Renaud’s diplomatic pulling back of the French troops and by William’s restraint in not pressing the matter to the full. The response was bloody enough to send a message, but calculated enough to make it possible for the treaty to be preserved. William was leaving it to the French to decide what the next move would be. Which made Dominic proud, somewhere beneath his overwhelming disillusion.

  After that first night, he and Minuette did not discuss William. He knew it was only a temporary reprieve, that the world would force itself upon them once more and they would have to decide together how to meet it, but for three weeks he could almost pretend that his life would always go on like this: a quiet country manor, a placid household, and an adored wife.

  The pretense came to a cruel end with word that Parliament would be meeting in mid-December specifically to pass an Act of Attainder against Northumberland. Minuette read aloud Elizabeth’s letter, announcing it in language so formal and stilted the princess might have been writing of someone she’d never met. Minuette sighed heavily as she laid the letter aside.

  “Will you go straight to court from here?” she asked Dominic. “Or make at least a short visit to Tiverton?”

  “I think I shall have to go to Tiverton, if only not to make myself an utter liar. It’s where William will send for me. When he does, then I will return to court. Not before.” He hesitated, then said, “I’m surprised he hasn’t sent for you yet.”

  “Like you, I will go when he sends for me. And then …” She left it for him to finish.

  “And then we will tell him.”

  She moved onto his lap and rested her head on his shoulder. “When will you leave for Tiverton?”

  If he didn’t go at once, he might never go. “Tomorrow,” he answered.

  “Then we shall make good memories tonight,” she whispered, before kissing him in a way that ensured she was all he could think of.

  That dizzying sense of pleasure lasted through the night. An hour after dawn he was just managing to struggle into his hose and doublet, Minuette watching him from the bed with a mischievous smile, when someone knocked loudly on the door.

  “Who is it?” Minuette called. Though no doubt the household knew all about where Dominic spent his nights, they were careful to preserve the fiction by not letting anyone see them together in Minuette’s chamber.

  “It’s Carrie,” came the reply, in a tight and worried voice. “An urgent letter for you has come from Her Highness.”

  Minuette shared a look with Dominic, then got out of bed and threw on a night robe. She opened the door. “Thank you, Carrie.”

  Dominic could see the letter was short, just a couple of lines, but they were enough to make the light drain from his wife’s face. “What is it?” he asked, crossing the room to her.

  She thrust Elizabeth’s letter at him, a simple and devastating message in untidy handwriting.

  William has smallpox. His condition is grave. Come at once.

  By the time Minuette and Dominic reached her at Hampton Court on December 11—more than a week since she’d sent her desperate note—Elizabeth felt as though she’d lived through months of despair and nightmares. There were moments when she could almost believe that none of this was happening, since she had not seen William for herself. After the debacle at Dudley Castle, she had returned to Hatfield and stayed there, raging over Robert’s betrayal, until her uncle sent for her. Rochford had written only that William was somewhat ill—it wasn’t until she’d arrived at Whitehall that she discovered how truly serious it was.

  Rochford hadn’t let her even enter the palace walls. When she’d remonstrated, he pulled her into a near-embrace that allowed him to whisper in her ear. “It’s smallpox. The rash appeared last night. You must be kept elsewhere.”

  Because smallpox was contagious, as deadly as it was swift. So she had traveled on to Hampton Court and sent a rider with a message to Minuette. When Dominic appeared at Hampton Court with Minuette, she was glad of it. Although she briefly wondered how the two of them had managed to arrive together when he’d been in the west, at Tiverton.

  But there were larger problems at hand. “How is he?” Minuette asked at once, even as Elizabeth greeted them.

  “The sores are widespread and have begun to form larger patches.”

  Minuette paled. Smallpox was bad enough, but in those cases where the pustules combined into large patches, mortality was especially high.

  “Is he awake?” Dominic asked roughly.

  “Not from what I hear. They won’t let me … I haven’t seen him. All I know is what my uncle writes to me twice daily. He will certainly be scarred. It could hardly be otherwise.”

  But it could be otherwise. He could be dead. That was why they wouldn’t let Elizabeth see him, why she hadn’t even been allowed inside Whitehall. William was king, and she was his heir.

  For days now Elizabeth had been haunted by a guilty memory: John Dee telling her last Christmas that her hand was not only a woman’s hand, but a ruler’s. He had held her palm in his and Elizabeth had been mesmerized by his hints of knowledge, had felt that there were promises in his eyes and a word just out of her reach—

  Queen.

  Dominic broke her introspective despair with practicality. “I’ll go straight on to Whitehall and write you myself.”

  “I want to go with you,” Minuette said.

  “Absolutely not,” Dominic said firmly. “Elizabeth needs you. And William would never forgive me for exposing you to smallpox.”

  “What about your exposure?”

  “I am the King’s Shadow. It’s my job to stand by him whatever peril he is in.”

  He shared one last look with Minuette, the two of them seemingly having an entirely wordless conversation that left Elizabeth feeling like an intruder.

  Dominic, surprisingly, hugged Elizabeth before he left. “I’ll stay with him,” he promised her. “Until he is better.”

  And if he is never better? Elizabeth thought desola
tely. Will you stand by me if William dies?

  13 December 1555

  Hampton Court

  It has been two days, and the news from Whitehall continues grim. Both Rochford and Dominic say as little as possible in their dispatches to minimize the danger of the country learning how very ill William is. But people know something is wrong. Anyone with eyes can see that Elizabeth is sleepless and desperately worried. Her headaches have been unrelenting since I arrived, and I am glad I can at least be useful to her. Between me and Kat Ashley and Francis Walsingham, we have kept up the pretense that she is overwrought from her temporary imprisonment by the Duke of Northumberland. Let people imagine her prostrate because of Robert’s treason—better that than panic.

  I do not know what we will do if William … I cannot even write it. It is unthinkable. Whenever I have a moment to myself, I imagine him frightened and alone and I cannot help thinking that this is my fault. It is not logical, I know, but what if Dominic and I have brought this upon him? What if, somehow, William’s body knows what his mind does not and the force of our betrayal has destroyed him?

  What have we done?

  Whitehall Palace had become a crypt. Dominic felt it on the rare occasions he left the sickroom, as though the very walls were anticipating the worst. The corridors were hushed and conversations were conducted in whispers and sidelong glances. Rochford might be putting out daily updates on the king’s health, but everyone in the palace knew they were fictions. William was not “somewhat indisposed” or “suffering from an injury in battle.”

  Plainly stated, Will was dying.

  Dominic had seen it immediately, shocked speechless by William’s appearance. The pustules were bad enough, crowded thick and foul across the king’s chest and his limbs and especially his face. He did not look like William at all—the sharp features of his handsome face submerged in oozing sores. But worse even than that had been the limp body and sunken eyes. It was as though William had already given up.