The Boleyn Reckoning (31 page)

Like a good Frenchman, Renaud gave a shrug of apparent indifference when they declined his offer. But his words were more direct. “I hope you will not come to regret it, Dominic,” he warned. “You know what will be asked of you if you stay.”

“He’s already been asked,” Minuette retorted. “And we all must make the best choices for ourselves.”

With a sad little smile, Renaud lifted her hand and pressed it to his lips. “So we must,
madame
. To be honest, I did not have much hope of persuading him. But you both should know, the offer will never be rescinded. You will always have a friend across the sea ready to come to your aid.”

“Thank you.”

“Dominic,” Renaud turned to him, “would you tell your man to ready my horse? I will not stay.”

When Dominic had left, Renaud turned back to Minuette. Urgently, he said, “Take care of him,
madame
. Men of rigid honour can be so easily broken.”

“Like yourself?” she countered, though an icicle of fear poised at the base of her neck.

“I am by nature more … pliable. But Dominic—I fear for him in what is coming.”

“So do I fear, for all of us. I cannot undo the bonds of friendship and history that tie us to others, nor would I wish to. But as I also do not wish my marriage undone, I ask you,
monsieur
 … what would you do in my place?”

“I cannot tell. But remember that my offer of sanctuary is not
solely for your husband. If ever you require aid and must act alone, you have only to ask.”

The fear stabbed chilly through her at the word “alone” and Minuette wished Renaud had never said it. Not that the thoughts didn’t lurk in the shadows, but she did not want them acknowledged. She had Dominic; she must think of today and not, as she had said to him, worry about a future that they could not control.

“Are you ready?” Dominic asked from the door; Minuette wondered how long he’d been standing there and what he had heard.

“Farewell,
madame
,” Renaud told her, with a kiss for each cheek. “I hope we may meet again on a happier day.”

“So do I.”

She watched the two men walk away and felt that another bridge had been crossed and set ablaze behind them. Was there another bridge ahead, she wondered, or only a chasm?

W
ITH
M
ARY
’
S EXECUTION
the murky path ahead that William had spent so long trying to divine miraculously cleared. He knew precisely what to do. No more waiting for Norfolk and the Catholics to decide when and where they would strike—it was time to take the battle to them. William made clear his orders in the first privy council meeting that followed Mary’s death.

“I expect an army ready to move by mid-March,” he announced to the grim-faced table. “Lord Sussex, you are in command. You have three weeks to muster troops to London to guard the city and a larger force to march.”

“In which direction will the troops march?” Lord Burghley asked delicately.

“In whichever direction I send them,” William bit off. “I will not wait for our enemies to encircle us. We will sweep up the traitors wherever we find them.”

If his uncle had been here, he would have pressed the issue. William did not expect that from anyone else, but Burghley was surprisingly persistent. “Does that include Lord Exeter?”

The time had passed for private fury, but William would not
allow impudence, even if it was disguised as concern. “Do you see Dominic Courtenay at this table? Every man here knows his crimes. And every man here also knows his strengths. Would you have me leave the West Country vulnerable to his leadership?”

He wasn’t sure what expression crossed Burghley’s face—relief, perhaps, or sorrow. Or perhaps something of both. “No, Your Majesty. The threats to the Crown must be confronted.”

It didn’t answer the unasked questions about how and when and where William meant to confront Dominic. Some of those unasked questions were the king’s own. He could not ponder too long upon the subject without losing himself in a mire of rage and doubt. And he could not allow himself to doubt. Rochford was gone and Dominic was gone and Minuette was gone … William could rely on no one but himself.

Which is why he decided, “I will lead the army personally when we take to the field. I will not sit in safety while my kingdom is threatened.” Also, he could then make the decisions the moment they came to him.

If there was any doubt about his choice, no one on the council said a word. Perhaps they trusted him more than Dominic ever had, or perhaps they feared him more, so they dared not voice their honest opinions. Whatever the reason, William was savagely glad of his unopposed command.

“I will appoint a regent while I am in the field,” he continued. “To ensure the government in London does not languish for lack of immediate care.”

He knew what they expected to hear: surely it would be Elizabeth. Who else was left to him?

But he no longer trusted his sister as he once had. Elizabeth had been the one to talk Minuette away from the guards he’d set on her that disastrous day of confession; she had allowed Minuette to
slip through his grasp. They had never spoken of it, but William would wager Elizabeth had simply been waiting to be punished. Here was her punishment, although she did not know it yet.

“Lord Burghley,” William announced. “You will act as regent in my name while I am in the field. Any actions that must be taken so quickly that I cannot be consulted will be in your hands.”

Burghley looked more unhappy than shocked. “The Princess of Wales—” he began.

“The Princess Elizabeth will be retiring to Hatfield for a season. The strain of this year has been too much for her.”

He wondered if anyone there believed him, for no matter how much strain she might be under, Elizabeth would never be less than poised and prepared and in control. Better if they didn’t believe him, for then they would all the better read in this action what he wanted them to: that no one, not even his full sister, was immune from the consequences of her actions.

No one protested, although Burghley looked both thoughtful and concerned as the council dispersed. William ignored him. The man would do as he was asked; Burghley was almost as constitutionally dependable as Dominic had once been.

William would break the news to Elizabeth later that night. First, he had a woman or two to see.

His aunt, the Duchess of Suffolk, was simple to locate. She had taken to hovering at court like a large, persistent dog, unwilling to miss the slightest chance at William. Truthfully, he had delayed the inevitable this long only to annoy her. That same desire led him to wave her off when he entered the chamber where she held a small court of her own and say abruptly, “I would speak privately with Jane.”

He didn’t miss the flash of jubilation from his aunt, nor the devouring eyes of those around her. When Jane hesitated, he beckoned
her sharply. With a blush, she rose from her seat and made her way to his side. With several dozen pairs of eyes on them, William led Jane into a corridor. He ordered his guards to keep out anyone foolish enough to eavesdrop.

He might once have been kind. He might once have taken the trouble to speak softly, to offer compliments, to woo even a woman he did not love. For most of his life he had not expected to marry a woman he loved—but he had expected to be courteous.

That time had passed. “When the matter of the rebels is settled, the privy council will approve our marriage. We will marry this autumn.”

Jane did not flinch, did not smile, did not betray in any way that she had even heard him except for a unique quality to her stillness. With exquisite irony, William asked, “I assume you have no objections?”

Give her credit; Jane’s response held a hint of her own irony. “What possible objection could I make?”

“None at all that I can see. You will be Queen of England. Have you not longed for the opportunity to ensure our country is kept free from Catholicism?”

“I am grateful for the opportunity to serve God and England.”

William’s irritation grew with each cool, composed reply. Heaven knew he no longer wanted a wife who would endanger his happiness and peace of mind, but it would be nice if she didn’t look quite so much like he was the worst part of the bargain.

Abruptly, he seized her by the shoulders and kissed her. Jane, as he might have predicted, was stiff and surprised and unresponsive, even when William backed her against the wall and trailed kisses from her mouth along her slender jaw and throat. And in a flash of unbidden memory he was not in a corridor with Jane Grey, but at Hever with Minuette.

Suddenly he was aware of everything, every inch of him alight with her touch. He kissed her again, his hands moving up her back to twine into her heavy, loosely plaited hair. She returned his kisses with a hunger that may have started in grief but changed rapidly to desire—he knew the signs well enough. Her hands swept through the tangle of his wet curls, keeping his head pulled firmly down to hers
.

With a gasp, William pushed himself off Jane and stumbled backward. From being unresponsive a moment ago, Jane looked suddenly concerned. “Your Majesty?” she asked, taking a tentative step forward.

“You may go,” he snarled. “Tell your mother she’s won.”

She hesitated, then said in a rush, “William, I am sensible of the great honour you do me. I promise, I will never give you cause for grief.”

Nor for joy, William thought bleakly, but he managed a nod to the slight, upright figure of his future bride. For a woman so committed to the Protestant faith, she dressed remarkably like a nun, all dark colours and severe lines, as though beauty were an offense to God. She curtsied deeply and left, back straight and shoulders set.

William closed his eyes and tried not to be swept away by dizziness and desire. Not for Jane, not for a stranger, not for any of the women he had ever enjoyed in his bed … the only woman he desired these days was the one woman utterly out of his reach.

He wished he could believe that everything about Minuette had been a lie. It would be easier to despise her if he believed that she had never loved him, that every time he’d touched her she’d simply endured it. But William knew better. He had made her shiver in response, he had roused her desire to match his, she had never recoiled from him. Not even when the smallpox left him scarred. That last night before her flight, in what William could now recognize as Minuette’s unspoken farewell, she had undressed
and lain in his arms and made herself vulnerable to whatever he wanted of her.

And despite all of that, she had still chosen Dominic.

Was there no one in this world who loved only him?

A tangle of bedsheets, a throaty laugh, eager hands and voluptuous curves and a proud mother of his child
 … William opened his eyes and breathed deeply.

He would send for Eleanor. The only woman who had never pretended to be anything other than what she was: amoral and greedy and sensuous. And absolutely devoted to him.

On the day of the vernal equinox a handful of riders appeared at Wynfield Mote—two of whom commanded a much greater flurry of attention than any others over the previous weeks. The two men at the center of the small party dismounted, wearing no identifying badges, only travel-stained riding leathers. The first man Minuette had been waiting for and so knew him at once: the young Duke of Norfolk.

But it was Norfolk’s companion that made her nerves flare to a high pitch: older, more familiar, and much more injurious to her peace of mind.

Stephen Howard. Uncle to the Duke of Norfolk, and Minuette’s stepfather.

Dominic and Minuette greeted the men in the hall. She uttered the words she would have used with any guest, though she was certain they would not stay. “Shall I prepare a chamber?”