Authors: Laura Andersen
That particular day had passed at Greenwich, where the entire court had gathered to celebrate Prince William’s eighth birthday. As the hours passed, Minuette realized for the first time that, with her mother dead, there would no gifts for her this year—nothing more than a hug from Elizabeth. Though her mother’s gifts had always been of a practical nature—a prayer book, new embroidery needles—they had at least been for her alone, a measure of someone’s remembrance that she had come into the world and been loved.
She curled up in a corner of the rooms she and Elizabeth shared at Greenwich and cried. Elizabeth grew exasperated when she could not calm her. Minuette wished she could halt the tears, if only to stop worrying her friend, but it seemed beyond her control. She thought she might just huddle in this corner forever—arms around her knees, head buried in her skirt—and cry until she turned to dust.
When Elizabeth had departed for her audience with her parents, Minuette thought she was all alone and her tears increased. She didn’t realize someone was sitting next to her until a hand came to rest on her back.
She knew Dominic by his voice, just beginning to deepen. “Cry as much as you like. It’s a sad thing to have lost both your parents.”
The kind understanding had startled her into lifting her head off her knees. His dark green eyes were sympathetic as he said, “Elizabeth cannot understand why you are grieving now. Your mother has been gone some months.”
“But …” She’d stopped, feeling all at once ashamed of her display. “But today’s my birthday,” she whispered.
“I remember.”
She’d looked away. “Because William was born the same day.”
“Yes, he was. But don’t you find it fascinating that you were born in the same palace at the very same hour as the prince when you had not been expected for another six weeks? Surely that must mean something.”
Interested in spite of herself, Minuette had said, “Do you think so?”
“I do. I think it means that we are all connected. You and William are closer than even twins would be, for you drew your first breaths in the same minute. And now you share Elizabeth’s life as I share Will’s. Dozens of noble families would give anything to have their children in such a position. But it is you and I, Minuette, who are here.” Dominic had let out a long breath. “You’ve heard of the falling stars that were seen in the sky in the hour before William’s birth?”
Minuette had nodded. “It meant that a boy was coming who would be a great king. A sign from heaven of his importance.”
“Perhaps. And perhaps it was something else.” He’d looked at her and smiled. “Perhaps it meant that we are all important. Even you and I.”
And then Dominic had begun to tell her a story.
Once there were four stars who shone very near one another in the skies over England. They danced and laughed and twinkled as stars do, until the time came for them to jump into the world and become human.The biggest, boldest star went first, promising to catch those who came after. The next star to go was the quietest, though she shone with the clearest light.The last two remained together for a time, until the day came for the brightest star to go on. He prepared to jump into this world, and hesitated. For the last star—she who was sweetest and merriest of them all—was weeping, her tears streaking in flashes of light across the sky.“Don’t leave me behind,” she begged.And so, though it was early for her yet, the brightest star enveloped her in his light and they jumped together. Pleading tiredness from travel, Dominic excused himself and left the stables pondering his reaction to William’s unexpectedly generous gift to Minuette. He wanted to believe his discomfort was because of what the court might say. But beneath that entirely practical reason, Dominic felt something less laudable: he could not help comparing the magnificence of the horse with the star pendant he’d left in Minuette’s room.
As he came through the entrance into Clock Court, a page presented him with the message that Lord Rochford wished to see him at once. It was not a request. George Boleyn, Duke of Rochford, was not only Queen Anne’s brother but Lord Protector of England until William became king in fact as well as in name. Rochford was the most powerful man in England—and well he knew it.
Dominic had never liked the duke much, though he’d spent his childhood as Rochford’s ward. It had been an honour accorded Dominic because of his blood—Boleyn by his mother, royal by his grandmother. But the year Dominic turned seven, his blood seemed likely to be his undoing. His paternal uncle, the Marquis of Exeter, committed treason and the estates that had made Exeter the largest landholder in England after the king were confiscated. The marquis himself went to the block, while his wife and twelve-year-old son were imprisoned.
Dominic had known nothing of his own father’s subsequent arrest until Rochford had come to see him a month after Exeter’s death. Young as he’d been at the time, Dominic had never forgotten it. Rochford’s black stare could make grown men sweat, let alone a seven-year-old boy.
Rochford had not troubled to be gentle. “Your father is dead. He died of a fever in the Tower.”
Dominic had felt his lower lip tremble, but he’d met Rochford’s gaze unblinkingly as the duke continued. “It is fortunate for you, for nothing had yet been proven against him. Better the son of a possible traitor than the offspring of a proven one. But not much better. You would do well to remember that.”
For a time Dominic’s future had hung in the balance, though he had not been aware then of how close he’d come to being sent away. But King Henry, ever unpredictable in his enthusiasms, had taken a liking to Dominic. Thanks to the old king, Dominic was placed in the Prince of Wales’s household and thus had begun his friendship with William. Rochford had not been pleased, and Dominic knew the duke had watched him closely ever since—presumably to ensure he was not another Exeter, just waiting to betray his king.
Dominic’s spine straightened automatically as he approached Rochford in the long gallery outside the chapel. The Lord Protector was speaking rapidly to a clerk, no doubt giving orders related to one of the hundred projects in his control. He jerked his head in acknowledgment of Dominic’s presence but did not stop talking.
Dominic wondered how Rochford would adjust to his diminished role when William turned eighteen and the regency council was dissolved. He would retain a place as his nephew’s advisor, likely the most important, but it wouldn’t be the same as ruling England in all but name.
“Courtenay.” Rochford dismissed his clerk abruptly and turned to Dominic. “You’ve done good work in Wales. Will the peace hold?”
Dominic chose his words with care. “For a time. But when border lords are unduly harsh, they create enemies where there need be none.”
“You do not approve of our measures.”
“I am neither the king nor a member of the council. It is not for me to say.”
Eyes dark with amusement, Rochford nodded. “Which brings me to my purpose for speaking with you.”
Rochford led him into the chapel and straight through to the queen’s pew. Dominic was curious about his obvious desire for privacy—and a little wary. One could never be certain just what the Lord Protector might be going to say.
He waved to Dominic to sit and did the same, leaning forward with hands clasped and elbows on his knees. “I have a proposal for you, Courtenay. I would like to train you as my personal envoy to the Continent. It would require you to travel and meet with various political and religious leaders. You would take your orders from me alone.”
In the dead silence that followed, Dominic scrambled for an answer more sophisticated than
Are you mad?
“I’m not sure I understand.”
Rochford raised one eyebrow. “I believe I spoke plain English.”
Dominic felt the colour rise in his cheeks, and the humiliation of it made him blunt. “Why me? There are plenty of men older and better qualified for such a position.”
“Yes, there are. But none who has the ear of the king the way you do. In one year, the regency ends. William will then choose his own council—and you will be on it. Do I think that, at twenty-two, you are too young to advise the king? I do. But as it appears you will be advising him whatever my opinion, I intend to make you as fit for the position as possible.”
Dominic had to admit the wisdom of Rochford’s reasoning, even if he left out the part about using Dominic for his own ends. And, in spite of himself, he was flattered.
Rochford said smoothly, “It is a proposal, not a command. I prefer an envoy who wants to serve, not one who is compelled to.”
Dominic stood when Rochford did, surprised when the duke offered his hand and said, “To be honest, you’ve turned out better than I expected. You are a steadying influence on His Majesty. I only want to increase your ability to serve him.”
How did the man do it? Just when Dominic thought he had him figured, Rochford turned around and did something so genuine and unexpected that Dominic was taken completely off guard. Although he would never understand Rochford, neither could he entirely dislike him.
After William’s embrace, Elizabeth made him stand back so she could look at him. He had passed her in height two years ago, and the difference had only increased in the last few months. Where Elizabeth had the fair skin and red-gold hair of their father, William was undoubtedly a Boleyn, with his mother’s darker colouring and sulky, sensual mouth.
Alerted by the turn to that mouth, she asked, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” He attempted to stare her down but was soon grinning. “When are you going to teach me how to read others like you do?”
“As soon as you have learnt how to control your countenance.”
“Fair enough,” he sighed. “Dominic was displeased with my gift to Minuette.”
Elizabeth tilted her head in query, and William continued. “A Spanish jennet. If she’s to be your lady, she needs a horse of her own, not whatever she can borrow at stables along the way.”
As mildly as possible, Elizabeth said, “I could have provided her a horse myself.”
“Why may I not do the same?”
“Because people will talk. Minuette is young and pretty and orphaned. If you destroy her reputation with thoughtless gifts, she will not thank you for it.”
Elizabeth felt her brother draw into himself, channeling irritation into arrogance. “She is nearly as much my sister as you are. I cannot control people’s opinions, but I can control the expression of them. If anyone is fool enough to hint at anything improper between us, they’ll have severe cause to repent it.”
He bowed haughtily to his sister and swept out, taking some of the pleasure of the day with him. Unsettled, Elizabeth waved off her attendants to a far corner of the room and perched on the window seat.
She amused herself for a time watching people pass below her in Clock Court. There were the Dukes of Norfolk and Northumberland clearly arguing with each other. The Catholic Howards and the Protestant Dudleys were long enemies—both personally and religiously—and the two lords did not often agree on anything. Elizabeth wondered what this particular disagreement was about. If she was lucky, Northumberland was protesting her betrothal to the French Catholic prince.
Several of the younger men of the court were grouped around a figure in one corner, whom it took her a moment to identify as Giles Howard. He was worked up about something—he kept gesturing violently. Elizabeth stifled a laugh when she realized he was moving as though he held a sword and fought an unseen opponent. No doubt he was embellishing some tale of his mediocre abilities.
In the circle around Howard, she found at last what she had not admitted looking for—a young man standing toward the back, disdain writ clearly in the slouching lines of his body. Robert Dudley did not care much for Giles Howard. Then again, Robert Dudley did not care much for most anyone.
As she studied him, Robert lifted his head. Whether he identified her by the brightness of her hair or simply knew which window was hers, Elizabeth did not know, but he saluted her with a nod of his head and a quirk of his lips that made her heart beat faster than it should have. She drew away from the window and willed herself to composure.
Her marriage was a matter of state, not of liking. She had known that since she was old enough to talk. Kings may indulge their desires apart from marriage—but she was a woman, not a king. Her reputation was even more delicate than Minuette’s, and she could not afford to tarnish it with a man she could not marry. Robert was Northumberland’s fifth son, not a promising prospect for any woman of ambition and certainly not for a royal princess.
But for all that, Elizabeth knew she might have been severely tempted to plead with her brother to consider such an uneven match—if not for the simple fact that Robert was already married.
CHAPTER THREE
“HER MAJESTY, QUEEN Anne, presents the Three Graces. Long may they shed their light on England and our king.” Applause rippled through the great hall as the steward retreated and three white-robed maidens took his place. Though this particular pageant was his mother’s birthday gift to him, William let his mind wander as a poet declaimed on the wonders of his reign and the glories still to come.
Elizabeth sat straight-backed, head held high in a manner he knew was unconscious. His eyes flicked from his sister to his mother, sitting next to him, and back to Elizabeth. Though their colouring could not be more different, he had always seen a great similarity in the two. Something about the set of the chin and the expression of the eyes—and, as intelligent as their father had been, William thought Elizabeth’s mind owed more to Anne’s quicksilver wit than to Henry’s stubborn shrewdness.