The Boleyn Reckoning (35 page)

“Well,” Elizabeth said drily, “I’ll wager that the name of King’s Lynn will adhere to the town after the rebels’ defeat.”

It was April 15, and the fickle spring manifested itself today in gusts of cold rain followed by brief periods of watery sunlight. She was closeted in her study at Hatfield with Francis Walsingham and Lord Burghley. As chancellor, Burghley had himself brought Elizabeth the news of William’s victory at King’s Lynn. It had been as much rout as simple victory, for Norfolk had learned the painful lesson that French promises were not to be trusted. France had not set a single foot across the Scots border, and without Dominic’s western forces, Norfolk had never stood a chance.

She appreciated Burghley’s consideration in coming to Hatfield, especially as she knew his position was as delicate as her own. William had not forbidden Elizabeth to correspond with those at court, but no doubt he did not anticipate his own chancellor being quite so friendly with the sister he had sent away.

Elizabeth didn’t especially care. Someone had to keep an eye on William, and Burghley was wise enough to know that and clever enough to manage things out of the king’s sight. And of course there was Walsingham, who had proven his usefulness and discretion a hundred times over this last year. Elizabeth never asked for specifics of how he gained information, although she knew it often involved large sums of money. She had given him a relatively free hand since Minuette’s flight from court and was not disappointed in the quality of his intelligence.

“Now what?” she asked Burghley. He was a different creature entirely from Rochford—more self-made man and less figure of elegance and languid grace—but he had a similar subtlety to his mind and much of the practicality that had marked her uncle. Without the arrogance or the ambition, and without the blood ties that had always given Rochford a wedge to use against his niece
and nephew. “The rebel army is defeated and disbanded, but Norfolk has managed to slip through our fingers.” She had no trouble using a royal “we” in this case—she considered herself as much England as William was.

Burghley said, “Norfolk fled by ship, almost certainly headed for France or Spain. It’s a guess which country will want to deal with him: Spain is the most righteously angry because of Mary’s execution. But France holds Mary Stuart and proclaims her England’s rightful Catholic queen now. Either way, Norfolk can continue to stir up trouble abroad.”

“Your men are watching?” Elizabeth asked Walsingham.

“Yes, Your Highness. Including John Dee, who is not a man of mine, per se, but a loyal servant to your cause.”

“To England’s cause,” Elizabeth corrected sharply. No matter how angry she grew with William, she would allow no one to forget her brother’s position in her presence.

“Of course, Your Highness.”

“Lord Burghley, upon my brother’s return to London, I trust you will endeavor to persuade him to recall me to court. I am uneasy at being long separated from one I love so dearly.”
And one I trust so little when he is angry and injured
.

“Your Highness, it is my great aim to restore you to the heart and soul of England’s court, for none graces it so well as you do.”

Another difference between Burghley and Rochford—her uncle had never troubled much with praise, and when he did it had always been tinged with irony. But though he might speak flattering words, Burghley’s eyes on her were thoughtful and appraising. She trusted his judgment and thus extended her hand and allowed him to kiss it. “I am indebted to you, Lord Burghley,” she said. “You serve England well and I will not forget it.”

“Thank you, Your Highness.”

When Burghley had bowed himself out, Elizabeth said to Walsingham, “Your men will keep an eye on William’s movements? I should like to have advance notice if he does not return straight to London.”

If he went on to Beaulieu instead, she meant. She came close to shivering at the memory of her sister, Mary, who had spent much of her adult life in that manor. A restricted, circumscribed life, with little but the illusion of freedom. What did William intend sending Minuette there? Did he mean to keep her under lock and key like a slave, a mistress always at his disposal? Or had he locked her away from himself, a protection against memories of the past that were too painful to be looked on?

But unpleasant though Beaulieu might be, at least it was not the Tower. Elizabeth spared a moment’s thought for Dominic and his no doubt certain end, then shoved it away. She could not help anyone unless she was in a position to help herself first. All her energies must bend to returning to court.

After the humiliation of being brought to the Tower in chains by men who would once have accepted his authority without question, Dominic had prepared himself for an onerous imprisonment, or even a speedy trial and execution. He was housed in Bell Tower in the corner of the inner ward and he passed the first weeks in an excess of mind-numbing boredom—no books, no paper, no visitors.

At least boredom was better than the waves of rage and jealousy that had swept through him at regular intervals during the long escorted ride back to London. Being jealous of William was not new; Dominic had hated every minute the king spent alone with Minuette over the last few years, had flinched with every royal caress bestowed on his wife.

But this was different. He knew, as well as if he’d been in the
royal tent with them, what had passed between Minuette and William. And although he did not blame his wife, a wounded part of his soul kept screaming:
I would rather be dead than live with this
.

But as he’d had no doubts that the guards would be quizzed by William on his behavior, there was no way in hell he would give the king the satisfaction of knowing how he’d been hurt. So he schooled his face and body into indifference. And in that effort his spirit became, if not indifferent, at least calm. Whatever had happened in the camp outside Wynfield had happened and could not be changed. What mattered now was the future. For Minuette’s sake, if not his own.

He was under no illusions as to his future: interrogation, trial, execution. Except that no one seemed in a particular hurry to begin. He was admitted to the Tower precincts on a cold, damp night at the end of March, and entering by the dreaded Water Gate had sent a single shudder through him that he harshly channeled into arrogance. Worse than that had been his solitude. Harrington was brought to London with him, but they were kept separate along the road, and in the Tower, Harrington was imprisoned separately.

Dominic spent twenty-two days seeing no one except the Lieutenant of the Tower (who had received him the first night with grim neutrality and no sign that they had ever met before) and the rotation of guards who stood outside the door to his double chamber and handed him food twice a day. The guards wouldn’t speak to him, and Dominic didn’t know which was worse: that he had no news of Minuette or that he didn’t know what was happening to the royal army.

At last in mid-April, the Lieutenant of the Tower appeared once again, with Harrington at his heels. “The king, having successfully routed the rebel army, has decided to be gracious and allow your man to stay with you.”

“Is the king returned to London?” Dominic asked.

The lieutenant hesitated, and Dominic brought to bear all the old authority he had once worn so easily. It was mostly a matter of straightening his posture and focusing his gaze, allowing anger to become arrogance until he looked at the lieutenant with all the contempt he could not direct at William.

At last the lieutenant said grudgingly, “His Majesty is at Hampton Court.”

He would not be drawn further, but thankfully Harrington had more news at his disposal. “No one minds the servant as much as the master,” he told Dominic. “I’ve picked up pieces of what happened.”

Dominic could not believe how good it was to see Harrington. For the first time in weeks he sat at the table in the outer chamber and felt his shoulders relax. He hadn’t realized just how tense he’d been every moment until he felt the pull of aching muscles as they readjusted themselves. “Have you been treated well?” he asked. It had been one of his fears in the night; that, barring specific instructions for Dominic, the guards or interrogators would do their worst to Harrington instead. He looked the same: six and a half feet of solidly built frame, no evidence of injury or insult. But a man that size and temperament could absorb a lot of punishment without sign.

Harrington skipped right over the matter of his treatment with a shrug. “Not interested in me. They kept me with two other prisoners, London merchants, both of them, who received regular letters from outside. The king won his battle, but has lost Norfolk. It’s said the duke took ship for refuge in France.”

“And the remains of the rebel army?” Dominic asked, thinking despite himself of tactics and maneuvers.

“The king has let it disband with only a handful of arrests. Stephen
Howard was one of them. According to a friendly guard, he was brought to the Tower last night in lieu of his nephew.”

Dominic spared a moment’s regret for Minuette’s stepfather, but that was all he could muster. The man had known what he was doing.

Finally, he asked the only thing that mattered. “And the women?”

Harrington’s jaw tightened briefly and Dominic knew the man was as concerned for Carrie as he himself was for Minuette. “No news. Except that they’re not here, and every day they are not in the Tower is good news.”

Dominic nodded in agreement, but his heart sank. If he’d thought his guards were in the least bribable, he’d have given everything he owned in the world for word of Minuette. Just as well they weren’t, because everything he owned in the world just now amounted to the clothes he wore.

“And you?” Harrington asked. “Have there been questions?”

“Not a single one.”

“What do you suppose he’s waiting for?”

He’d had time to ponder that question, but even more, he had many years of friendship and familiarity to teach him William’s mind. “He wants to do one thing at a time. Now that the rebel army is dealt with, he’ll turn his attention to me.” With clear-eyed understatement, Dominic added, “It won’t be a pleasant summer.”

As spring gently turned to early summer, William did not find the season as pleasant as in years past. As long as he could remember, April and May and early June had brought with them not only longer days and bolder sunlight and cheerful flowers, but also the childlike anticipation of his birthday. This year, the spring seemed colder, grayer, wetter. His approaching twenty-first birthday only reminded him that Minuette would be twenty-one as well.