William left for Windsor yesterday.
I have written to Dominic. I wish he were here. It would be better for all of us if he were.
But would it be better? Minuette wondered as she closed her diary. Or would it merely increase her feeling of unreality, the sense that she had become detached from her own life? And how could she possibly face Dominic with the memory of what had passed—not just between the two of them, but between her and William?
Tell me—do they take you in turn, or is it both at once?
As Giles’s voice sounded in her head, Minuette uttered a most unladylike word, then jumped guiltily when Lord Rochford said, “Am I interrupting?”
“Not at all. Shall I fetch the princess for you?”
Hooking a chair with one hand, he sat facing her. “I was looking for you, actually.”
That could not possibly be good.
Instantly dread skittered across her mind. He knew about Hever, and had come to scold her—or worse. What were the limits of his power, anyway? Could he send her out of Elizabeth’s household? Banish her from court? Surely not if William protested. But what if William had sent his uncle to do it for him?
“Mistress Wyatt, I believe you are somewhat familiar with the Duke of Norfolk’s household.”
Caught off guard, she stammered, “F-Familiar? I don’t … why?”
Rochford had a way of speaking to her as though she were an idiot child. “Your mother was married to the duke’s brother; you spent time there when you were younger.”
“Only three times, and only for a few weeks. My mother died when I was eight.”
“That alone makes you very useful to the king at present. I’m sure you recall that the Lady Mary has been allowed to stay at Framlingham while we gather evidence. As you are one of the few with at least some information on the matter, I would like you to join the Howards for the next little while.”
“I thought you had informants with the Lady Mary.”
“And no doubt she sees them as such. You, however, have a legitimate reason to visit your family, of a sort. Besides, she likes you. And she knows you are a great friend to her siblings. She will not be able to resist thinking of you as her ally.”
She likes me? Minuette was oddly flattered, but also distressed. “If Elizabeth does not wish to release me? It is such a difficult time.…”
“Mistress Wyatt, do I need to impress upon you the importance of the Penitent’s Confession? Elizabeth knows the path of duty. If you wish to help her, you can do no greater service than to find this document before it falls into the wrong hands. I would rather not entrust this to you,” he added dubiously, “but I dare not let word of the Penitent’s Confession spread further than the four of you who already know. William will return to France as soon after the funeral as possible, where Lord Exeter remains, and Elizabeth would never be overlooked at Framlingham the way you will be. There is no one else.”
“And if I do not wish it?”
And there was the Boleyn temper—different from the Tudors’, and in some ways more frightening. “Your position here rests on the fragile base of personal regard. I can tell you, from experience, that regard can twist ever so easily to dislike and distrust. And where would you be without my nephew and niece to aid you?”
If she had to give in, at least she would do so gracefully. “I will go, as soon as Elizabeth tells me that I might.”
But I’m not doing this for you, she thought defiantly as Rochford left. I’m doing it for England—and William’s security.
And to prove that I also know the path of duty.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
DOMINIC FINGERED THE letters in his hand—one each from William, Elizabeth, and Minuette. After three weeks of nothing but official communiqués from England, he had been feeling more isolated than ever before. Because he could not be with his friends in their hour of mourning, he had thrown himself into his command as the only means of offering help. With Sussex as his second, the English army had been partially disbanded and those remaining in Rouen kept under tight control. The last thing Dominic wanted was a resentful populace.
With a word to Harrington, Dominic took himself to the quietest corner of the castle, high atop the crenellated defense wall. The view swept the horizon from east to west, the rooftops of the medieval city crowding beneath him, spilling outside the city walls in ever-lessening clumps until they gave way to the harvest-gold fields.
William’s letter was short and to the point, dealing mostly with diplomatic matters. It was a letter that could have been written to almost any of his advisors, and it left Dominic depressed. Only the final lines contained anything personal, but they were so oblique as to be almost meaningless: I am most anxious to speak with you. I need the opinion of a man who is honest when he should not be.
Unable to puzzle out William’s meaning, he turned to Elizabeth’s letter. She wrote as she spoke—with elegant economy and the occasional turn of phrase that was so vivid as to make Dominic think he could almost hear her.
She wrote only of public people and events—the funeral, her uncle’s rigid control in the face of his sister’s death, the crowds (“vultures who cover their triumph in ostentatious displays of sorrow,” she called them) who had descended to see the end of the controversial queen. Though there have been many prayers offered for the repose of my mother’s soul, I am quite sure that many in England wish that she may know nothing but torment in the next world. There was not a word in her letter of her own feelings.
With some misgiving, he opened the letter addressed to him in Minuette’s distinctive hand.
Dominic, I have so wished for your company these past weeks. Grief is supposed to be lessened when shared, but sharing mourning with the masses is not at all comforting. One must not give way in public, so I have gone about with raised chin and dry eyes and I have felt every second a hypocrite. The woman who has been memorialized and eulogized in the last month bears little resemblance to the queen I knew. Indeed, the two have nothing in common, save their name. Why do we make of our dead a figure of either worship or contempt? It cheapens the complexities of human beings and makes of us all either saints or sinners. And yet one rarely meets either one or the other, but a mixture of the two.
Oh, dear, I’ve become both maudlin and philosophical. You cannot wish to read that. I shall say only that I hope matters in France are resolved speedily.
Yours, Minuette
She wished for his company. But only as she would wish for any friend in a time of crisis—or dare he hope something more personal? She was masking her own grief. He could easily read into her words the struggle to keep herself composed for both William and Elizabeth. Minuette would always do what she must to ease the burden of those she cared for.
Most telling was the rushed quality to her words. She was not naturally deceptive—her speech always gave her away. How many times had he seen her, eyes wide and guileless, the only clue to her discomfort the rapid flow of her words? Dominic read each word of the letter again, but confirming suspected evasion was not as simple with the sea between them.
And what of that ending? The word yours had a crowded, out-of-place look to it and Dominic allowed his imagination to conjure an image—Minuette signing her name to the letter, and then sitting quite still in silent debate, her tongue protruding slightly as she wrestled with that final word. Yours.
The sound of footsteps pulled Dominic out of that pleasant picture. He just had time to fold up Minuette’s letter before Renaud appeared, looking at him quizzically.
“Were we not to ride today?” he asked.
Dominic had quite forgotten. “We can go now.”
“Letters from home?” Renaud asked, falling into step beside him.
Dominic merely grunted acknowledgment, though he knew Renaud was quick enough to read a great deal into that unsatisfactory answer.
Renaud had healed quickly and had been allowed the run of the castle. A gentleman who had given his word not to attempt e
scape would never break his parole, and it was customary to allow them a measure of freedom even while held hostage. Indeed, Renaud was allowed to ride outside the city walls as long as Dominic and several guards were with him.
Their ride this morning took them, for the first time, west—though Dominic was distracted enough not to realize where they were headed. Renaud set the course, subtly urging Dominic on until the two horses were engaged in a flat-out run that swept personal matters from his mind.
They reined up—Dominic a close second—at the eastern edge of the battlefield, where Northumberland, Dudley, and William had led the way. The ground was still churned up, with dried mud formed into long grooves and tracks, but already grass was working its way valiantly upward. By spring this would once again be a pleasant spot, and the only evidence of the Battle of Rouen would be that fixed in treaty.
His eyes on the horizon, as if seeing the ghost movements of his own troops, Renaud said, “Dressing another man in your colours—one more Welsh trick?”
Dominic answered the unspoken question. “Your men are not always discreet, not when they’ve been drinking.”
Renaud grunted. “A lesson they will learn from now.”
“They gave me hints. I did the rest on my own.”
With a wry smile, Renaud said, “I do not grudge your victory, neither to you nor to your king. It was well earned.” With a spark in his eye that belied his matter-of-fact tone, he added, “Next time, the victory will not be yours.”
With a laugh, Dominic turned his horse away from the field and started back to Rouen at a comfortable walk. They rode in companionable silence for a few minutes.
Renaud spoke first. “And the matter of ransom? It proceeds quickly?”
“You are anxious to leave my hospitality?” Dominic teased.
“If it were myself alone, I could keep you company for some time. But Nicole …”
“She knows she need not worry for your safety. She can trust me for that, I hope.”
“It is not trust. Or fear. And it is not even Nicole who frets. Myself, rather.” Not looking at Dominic, Renaud said, “I, too, have had a letter from my home. Nicole is with child once more.”
“Congratulations.”
A smile of pride, tenderness, and intimacy warmed Renaud’s face. “I should like to be there and not here.” And then his smiled turned outward. “Even you can understand that, cold-hearted English though you are.”
“Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to send you home to your wife.”
“And you? Will your king leave you here to command, or keep you near him to advise?”
Dominic shrugged. He didn’t know what William would do. Dominic had his own preference. Though talent and experience made him a good commander of men, he wanted nothing so much as to return to England and never leave again.
30 September 1554
Hatfield
Hatfield is such a serene house—I think that is why Elizabeth loves it. Arriving here the evening after the queen’s funeral was like burrowing beneath warm covers on a cold morning—a respite from the outside world.
But the world will not stay outside. Elizabeth leaves tomorrow for London. The king is returning to France and she will be regent once more. And I will go straight from here to Framlingham and Lady Mary. It will be good to be busy.
The only drawback to the seclusion of Hatfield is that one has too much time in which to think.
Minuette closed her diary, not daring to confide to paper the nature of her thoughts over the last month. She had always been impulsive by nature, quick to act and quicker to forget, but these last weeks had taught her a degree of introspection she had never thought possible.
During her month of pondering, she had reached two conclusions. First, that what had passed between her and William had been nothing more than grief taking comfort in a convenient manner. He would have reached for any woman that night. That it had been her was a complication, but one that would mend with time and perhaps a hint of humour.
Her second conclusion was that she wanted Dominic in every way she could imagine. In her mind, she could recall perfectly the look in his eyes when he’d pressed his lips to her wrist. If those few minutes with William had done nothing else, they had left Minuette certain of what it was she had seen in Dominic’s eyes. She wanted very much to see it again.
Restless, she rose from her desk and wandered to the window overlooking the gardens. The warmth had lingered through September, but the gardens were beginning to show signs of autumn, with leaves curling in on themselves and the last blooms of summer drooping tiredly to the ground. The sky itself had changed in the last day or so, the blue faded and the clouds a dull pewter.
Matters still needed mending with William, no doubt of that, but with his return to France for negotiations she had another month or so to think of what to say and how to say it to smooth over uncomfortable memories. Another month to remember how to be his friend and to make it easy for him to treat her as such.
Another month until Dominic returned.
As she looked south, a cloud of dust caught her attention. Riders, three or four of them. Elizabeth had not spoken of visitors. Through the haze, Minuette saw the standard carried by one of the riders, and her heart stopped beating at the sight of crimson and blue, lions and lilies.
William.
William was inside Hatfield, halfway through the great hall, before Elizabeth came hastening to meet him. Her face showed her utter surprise.
“Has something gone wrong? Are you not going to France?”
“I am on my way to Dover.”
“By way of Hatfield?”
“I have instructions for you.”
“Instructions you could not commit to paper?” she asked with pardonable skepticism.
“And to see Minuette.”
There was a long, neutral silence. William did not look away from his sister’s probing expression. She was the one who had urged him to deal with Minuette sooner rather than later. She could hardly criticize his wish to do so now.
Her reply, when it came, was amused. “Do you truly have instructions for me, or shall I consider my role as your pretext duly fulfilled by saying hello?”
His lips twitched in spite of himself. “I truly do have instructions.”
She gave orders for fresh horses to be readied for his continued journey and provided refreshments for his men in the kitchen. Then the two of them retreated to her study overlooking the knot garden with its meticulously groomed curves and smooth paths.
Elizabeth had been right—everything William told her now either already had been covered or could have been dealt with by letter. But she did not remind him of it again, merely asked an intelligent question or two about the state of the exchequer and the handling of a land dispute between a local baron and the crown in Suffolk. They were finished in just over a quarter of an hour.
Tidying her desk and papers, Elizabeth rose. “Shall I send for Minuette? She might prefer it if I was with her.”
William knew he should accept Elizabeth’s presence. No doubt Minuette would prefer it. But he wanted to see her alone, if only to prove that he still could. “No, I’ll … I shall be in the gardens. Alone.”
Her face hardened. “Will you tell her about your plans for Mary Stuart?”
“Do you imagine she does not already know?” William shot back.
With a sigh, Elizabeth said, “I’ll send her to the garden. And I will remain here.” Where I can see you, she did not have to add.
He paced the raked gravel paths from one end of the knot garden to the other, trying to keep his head clear and his mind on what he had to say. But when he heard Minuette’s light footsteps behind him, his carefully rehearsed words vanished.
He had seen her only twice in the last month—distant and formal at his mother’s funeral events. She had seemed almost a stranger to him then. Today she looked herself, though with a stillness about her like a bird threatened by capture.
That stillness unnerved him. He had prepared himself to face down her anger or scorn—but not silence. He could not begin to guess what it meant.
He said what had to be said first. “I apologize, Minuette, for my behaviour at Hever. I was distraught, or I would never have insulted you in such a fashion.”
Her reply was so quiet he had to strain to hear it. “I know.”
He waited for her to say something more—to look at him, even, for she kept her eyes firmly on the path at her feet. Fumbling for words, and hating himself for it, William said, “I fear I have offended you. I pray you might forgive me.”
At last she lifted her eyes, and William felt the tightness in his chest ease as she said tremulously, “I feared that the offense was mine. I thought you might not wish to remember how shameless I was.”
William nearly laughed aloud from relief. That was her fear—that he had been offended because she had proven that she could render passion for passion? Her response while in his arms had not been an offense. It had been a revelation.
But he could hardly say that to her, not when he was on his way to France with every expectation of a formal betrothal. He must forget what had happened and focus on Mary Stuart. He could not afford to be distracted by sentiment.
You cannot afford to fall in love with her, William.
He had not intended to see Minuette at all until after he returned from France, safely betrothed. He had thought to leave her a letter, perhaps, an easy method of smoothing things over without the awkwardness of referring to it in person. But yesterday, on impulse, he had opened a coffer taken from his mother’s chambers at Hever: a small, carved chest containing, not jewels but his father’s love letters.
There were three dozen in all, most written before their marriage. They were beautiful, a mingling of passion and tenderness that William had not yet felt for any woman. He had never doubted that his father had wanted his mother, but as he read the letters signed Henry Rex, he realized for the first time that his father’s love had gone beyond desire. With each endearment—my mistress and friend, mine own darling, wishing myself in my sweetheart’s arms—William had felt increasingly troubled. He had whispered plenty of sweet words into women’s ears, but they had never matched the fervent simplicity of his father’s declarations.
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