Authors: Laura Andersen
We have not written to William, not yet
.
Soon we may have to
.
28 August 1554
Hever Castle
We have dispatched a rider to Dover with a letter for William
.
Though she appeared composed as she wrote it, Elizabeth’s elegant script was less tidy than normal, and the postscript was barely readable: “Do not delay.”
“Marie?”
Minuette stirred instantly at the sound of the queen’s voice. She had learnt to doze easily on a pallet these last nights, as she stayed with Anne almost constantly. Elizabeth she had sent to bed with her own dose of laudanum tonight, and though Lord Rochford had arrived two days ago, he could not bear to stay long in the sickroom. Minuette was the chief mainstay, with Carrie and two of the queen’s women doing most of the heavy nursing.
“Marie? Are you here?”
“I’m here, my lady.” The lie came easily to Minuette, as did the use of Anne’s long-outdated title. The queen spent a lot of time wandering in the past, and Minuette did whatever she could to let her stay there.
She leaned forward in the chair she kept next to Anne’s bed until the queen’s fingers closed around her wrist and her head turned in the direction of her voice. “Don’t leave me tonight, Marie. You can’t leave me. The blood … I’ve been bleeding since yesterday. Since the moment of Catherine’s internment—”
She gave a twisted laugh that ended in a spasm of pain. Even that kept her firmly in the past. “If I lose this child—the very month of her death—the people will say it is God’s will. That it is God himself denying me. Denying my marriage. They will turn Henry from me. His eye wanders … does he think I cannot see it? I know him. If I lose this child …”
“You will not,” Minuette said firmly, with all the assurance of present truth. “You will recover and you will give the king a healthy boy. England will love him and love you for his sake. You will have done what no one else could do. You will see your son crowned king and you will marvel at the goodness of the Lord.”
Anne gave a shuddering breath. “You will stay with me until the end?”
“I will stay.”
“No,” Anne said sharply. “No, I remember now. You are already gone, Marie. You are bound to your Henry. You tried not to be—you married your nice Jonathan—but in the end …”
Minuette’s head, already dizzy with lack of sleep, whirled with Anne’s words.
Your Henry
? What did that mean? Her mother had married Jonathan Wyatt, Minuette’s father, and then he died and she married Howard.
“Your Henry,” Anne murmured. “I named him that. Because I know what it is to love a dangerous man. A man you should avoid. A man you love and hate in the same breath. A man you cannot do without as much as you sometimes want to.”
“Stephen Howard.”
Minuette only knew she’d spoken aloud when Anne agreed. “Howard, yes. Go to your Henry. Genevieve will be safe at court. Between us, we will keep her happy and away from the attention of dangerous men.”
The queen patted her hand, then slipped back into an uneasy sleep. Minuette stayed in the chair, wide-awake and finding it hard to swallow.
Your Henry
—was that how her mother had felt about Stephen Howard? If anyone would know, it seemed that the queen would. But she was not the only one. There was Carrie, silent at the end of the bed, who had heard it all. Who had known her mother with both of her husbands.
Carrie must have sensed her mood, for she came on quiet feet to Minuette’s side and crouched down to eye level. “Don’t fret yourself tonight, miss. The dying do not always know what they are saying.”
“Is she right? Did my mother love Howard?”
“And if she did?” Carrie shook her head with pity. “Whatever she felt for him did not touch what she felt for your father. I saw her with both, remember? And I tell you true that she was never more at peace than when she was at Wynfield with your father and you.”
Minuette nodded in acknowledgment and thanks, but still she did not sleep. In the hour just before dawn, the queen woke again, and this time she did not call for Marie.
“Genevieve?”
“I’m here, Your Majesty.”
“Is William coming?”
“Yes, he is coming.”
I hope soon enough
, she thought.
A long series of shallow breaths, then the queen said, “I am glad you are here, Minuette.”
Only much later did she realize that it was the first time the queen had ever called her by her pet name.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
WILLIAM SAT HIS horse at the top of a rise two miles west of Rouen, watching the French formations moving slowly, steadily toward him. He was a little forward of his own line here, but there was no hurry—the royal archers were between him and the enemy line, and it would be some time before the French could break a way through those deadly volleys. There were no better bowmen in the world than the Welsh. Besides, they were flanked by cannons.
The weather was perfect—blue sky and a freshening breeze—and so was the terrain. Northumberland had chosen their battlefield well. The English held the high ground, such as it was, and the French were coming at them hemmed in by trees on one side and the Seine on the other. There was little room for artillery that wouldn’t cut down one’s own forces, and the low spot that the French were moving toward was still boggy from weeks of rain, enough to cause hesitation in both horses and men.
William withdrew just as the archers were beginning to fit shaft to bow, running expert hands the length of their arrows and calmly leveling their aim. The master bowman stood behind, his eyes fixed to the line of mounted knights; when the French shifted from deliberation to speed would be the moment to loose.
With his squire following near behind, William walked his horse the length of his own mounted line. Northumberland was in the center, leading the vanguard that would burst into motion as soon as the French managed to break through the archers. William’s personal forces were on the river side to the right, the most protected position of the day. He had argued long and loud about that but had given way in the end. He would not have done it for anyone but Dominic.
He reached the far left flank and wheeled his horse round to make his way back. As he did so, he saluted Robert Dudley with a nod and a quick twitch of his lips. His eyes went from the borrowed plain gold tunic that Robert wore, deliberately flaunted, to the dark line of trees that cut off any sight of Rouen. He wished briefly that Dominic were next to him. Nothing had been harder than watching him set out with his men last night, having to trust that all would be well. Not, as everyone assumed, because William had wanted to lead the covert force himself. He had, but that was not why he had prayed twice as long as usual last night. It was not jealousy that had prompted his devotions—it was fear and a memory of the time his own willfulness had nearly cost Dominic his life.
It had been in January 1547, when William was nine. He’d been staying at Hever with his Boleyn grandmother, and he’d dared Dominic to sneak out of their room before the sun rose. It was the coldest winter in decades and he’d wanted to see if it were true, as a maid said, that it was cold enough to freeze running water.
Any other time and place and they never would have gotten as far as the river. But his father was dying at Windsor Castle, and in the disruption of a smaller household, they were able to slip away with vague lies about watching the sun rise for an astronomy lesson.
William had been disappointed to find the river still running, though tendrils of ice snaked out from the banks, winding white fingers through the black water. Dominic, fourteen years old and cautious by nature, wanted to go straight back. William might have listened if Dominic hadn’t made the mistake of calling him a foolish boy who took too much pleasure in flouting the advice of his elders.
William hit him. Well, almost hit him, but Dominic was bigger and well able to predict his moods. He saw William’s arm move and stepped back to avoid it.
He had forgotten that his back was to the river.
Before he knew it, William was in the water after him, screaming his name. The water was running high, but Dominic was able to hook an arm round the limb of a fallen tree. He was quick enough to grab William’s hand and awkwardly shove him into the crook of the limb, William’s body as far out of the water as possible.
Even nine years later, William could feel the ache of the cold that seemed to come from inside his bones and spread outward. Dominic kept talking to him while his legs, in water up to the knees, grew numb. He didn’t know how long it was before he realized Dominic was not talking anymore. Shaken out of himself, he saw that though Dominic’s arm remained twisted around the branch, his eyes were closed and a rim of frost iced his wet hair.
It was the next part that still gave William nightmares, the memory of his own desperate pleading:
Dom? Dom, wake up. Don’t do this to me. Don’t leave me alone. Everyone wants something from me but you. My father’s dying and I have to be king and I’m afraid. I can’t do it without you
.
They’d been plucked out of the river in time, but William had never forgotten his fear of being left by the only friend he knew he could count on. But this wasn’t Hever and he was no longer a child king. Prepared for battle, William heard the surge of the French line before he saw it—the brief last hush, broken by a rumble of hooves that vibrated through the earth, making his own horse pick up his feet in recognition. He risked one more look behind the French to the trees. There wasn’t even a glimmer of steel—not that he had expected there to be. Dominic knew what he was doing. And so did William.
The archers set about their work with deadly accuracy. Hole after hole opened in the French line, men and horses going down in a tangle of flesh and blood, with the worst damage done to those who could not rise quickly enough and were trampled by their own forces.
It might be as long as an hour before the archers could be bypassed, but William stayed mounted so as to view the field clearly. Although he was aware of the entire battlefield, with its individual swirls and eddies, he kept his attention fixed on the bright scarlet and gray banner that floated constantly above the driving wedge of the French.
Renaud LeClerc was a formidable fighter. He kept his men ordered and methodical, and soon William could see that the archers wouldn’t be able to hold off this man as long as an hour. Already he was advancing—not carelessly or without thought to his own losses, but with precision and accuracy.
Northumberland saw it as well, for he called sharply to his men to be mounted and ready. The chaplain made a brief benediction before withdrawing behind the line. The English army readied itself, squires doing their office to mounted knights, un-mounted men-at-arms sturdily gripping pikes. William drew in a cleansing breath as he saw the tip of the French army wedge itself into a point decidedly to the right of middle. They were heading for Robert Dudley. Dom had been right. LeClerc had set himself straight for the foe he most wanted to meet in battle.
Robert was ready for them. As his father brought the vanguard into movement, Robert surged ahead of his own men, with a yell that set William’s heart alight with pleasure and a wish to do the same. But William’s job was not to dive into the heat of the fighting. He was the distraction—the royal prize that would keep most of the French occupied in attempting to reach him and draw their attention away from what might be happening behind.
Northumberland and his son bore the brunt of this battle, and they met it well. Though William was busy enough keeping the fight turned inward so that no one slipped behind their lines, he could track Northumberland’s figure, ferocious and commanding in his armour. He kept his men tight about him, and even his banner looked disciplined.
In contrast, Robert Dudley romped through the field, fighting with a careless joy that William well understood. He wheeled and circled on Daybreak, Dominic’s own favoured charger, and the horse followed his movements perfectly. No one could touch them.
Two things happened almost at once—in a moment of time that seemed to slow until it nearly stopped. As William pulled his sword free of some unlucky squire who’d been wearing only leather armour, he looked to his left, where he saw Northumberland erect on his horse, sword raised high.
He seemed to hold that position forever, until William wondered just what enemy he was trying to intimidate. The sword fell first, out of a hand that William could see was suddenly senseless. Before he could even think what that meant, Northumberland himself fell, his armoured body hitting the ground hard and his horse shying away. A French arrow stuck out of the shoulder joint where his armour plates met.
The French had seen Northumberland’s fall as well, and they took it as a sign and a motivation to press harder. Even as he was swept into this new and more dangerous fight, William saw what he had been waiting for: Renaud LeClerc, achingly close to the plain gold banner and the man who fought beneath it, checked and hesitated.
Though William was not near enough to distinguish individual sounds, he thought LeClerc might have given a shout of laughter. Without a second look at Robert Dudley, LeClerc wheeled his horse around and called his men to him. In that turning motion, he looked straight at William.
For half a second it seemed LeClerc might forget the threat to Rouen and his own rear guard and make a dash for William instead. Capturing the king certainly would undo any advances the English made today. But after that one brief look, LeClerc decided. With what might have been a salute to William, he led his men back the way they’d come, not in retreat, but to meet the covert force that he now knew lay behind him to cut him off from Rouen. Between facing William and facing Dominic, it seemed there was no choice.