The Boleyn Reckoning (48 page)
Read The Boleyn Reckoning Online
Authors: Laura Andersen
Tags: #Fiction, #Historical, #Alternative History, #Romance, #General
SPEECH OF ELIZABETH TUDOR TO THE PEOPLE OF LONDON, 14 JANUARY 1559
“I thank my Lord Mayor, his brethren, and you all. And whereas your request is that I should continue your good Lady and Queen, be ye ensured that I will be as good unto you as ever queen was unto her people. No will in me can lack, neither, do I trust, shall there lack any power. And persuade yourselves that for the safety and quietness of you all, I will not spare, if need be to spend my blood. God thank you all.”
On the morning of 15 January 1559, Elizabeth rode through the streets of London in a litter pulled by two donkeys—one of them led by Robert’s older brother, Ambrose Dudley—to the acclamation of her people. She had heard nothing but cheers for the last twenty-four hours. Yesterday she had processed through the city to behold various composed pageants in her honour, and by day’s end her conquest of London was complete.
Today, however, was the moment when God would set His seal upon her reign. Elizabeth might be skeptical by temperament, but she could not deny her deep craving for the ritual that would signal
to the world that England had a queen regnant and none could oppose her with impunity.
She entered Westminster Abbey to a flood of music and an impression of a great multitude raised to Heaven on the viewing stands built for the occasion. Awaiting her at the altar were Matthew Parker, her new Archbishop of Canterbury, and the chief nobles of her current realm. There was not a duke in sight, for though she intended to pardon Norfolk, he remained for now in the Tower. The only other duke in England was Dominic, to whom Elizabeth had returned his title and estates without his consent. They could fight about what it meant later, but for now he had refused to attend the coronation or even to leave Wynfield. Minuette, though, was here as promised. Not bearing the queen’s train, as would have been Elizabeth’s wish, but somewhere in the pressing throng.
She remembered every moment of her brother’s coronation twelve years ago, and only through force of will was she able to hold back the images that kept threatening to impose themselves on today’s investiture. William wasn’t the only spectre: Elizabeth fancied she felt both her mother and father hovering near and wondered if Anne’s pride outweighed Henry’s disappointment.
The ceremony had been meticulously composed down to the very last syllable. Much of it was in Latin, as it had always been, but at several key moments Elizabeth had insisted that English be spoken instead. A symbol that the old world was passing and the new world was upon them. And when it was time for the archbishop to read her the oaths, it was Lord Burghley who handed over the sheet on which they were written. Burghley was no cleric—he was not even noble—and Elizabeth knew the action would displease the more reactionary of her subjects. So be it.
Sitting stiff and straight in St. Edward’s throne, draped in the
heavy weight of her gold coronation gown and ermine-lined robe, Elizabeth watched Archbishop Parker raise her crown to Heaven.
“I crown thee, Elizabeth, Queen of England, Ireland, and France,” Parker intoned, and placed the intricately arched crown set with jewels on her long, loose hair.
I will make you proud
, she vowed. And whether it was her mother or her father or her brother—or God—that she promised, not even Elizabeth knew for certain.
For Chris
Always
How do I begin to say thank you to those who have touched the Boleyn books and my life in equal measure? The task is so daunting I keep putting it off … but the story I began in 2004 has finally come to an end and so must my reluctance to bid this experience farewell.
Tamar Rydzinski was the first professional to believe in me and in the world of
The Boleyn King
. Thank you to the best of agents and the most patient of guides through the bewildering labyrinth of publishing.
Kate Miciak is a force of nature, and this book in particular bears the marks of her brilliant editing. Thank you for your kindness to me, for loving my world as I do, and for working so hard to bring it to others.
Ballantine/Random House has provided me only the very best of publishing experiences. Lisa Barnes in publicity, Maggie Oberrender in marketing, production editor Shona McCarthy, and a host of others who have touched these books and made them shine from cover art to the very last comma: Sophia Wiedeman, Pamela Alders, Hannah Elnan, Caroline Teagle, Victoria Allen, Robbin Schiff, Susan Corcoran, Priyanka Krishnan, and Julia Maguire.
When I began this story ten years ago, my oldest child was ten and I lived in the mountains of the West. Now my
youngest
child is twelve and I look out my window to the woods of New England. Within these ten years of change, some constants have remained. My friends at the Bluestocking Literary Guild, whom I love fiercely and devotedly. My parents and in-laws, whose constant faith in me almost make me believe I am as good as they think I am. My children, who may be bigger and more expensive in their schooling and entertainment than ten years ago, but who remain the very best creations I will ever be part of. Katie Jeppson, who is my first reader, secret-keeper, shopping and travel partner, and best friend. And my husband, who believed in my dreams when I was eighteen (of course, that dream was to be the first female Chief Justice of the U.S. Supreme Court) and in more than twenty years of marriage has never failed to be proud of me.
And some parts of this life have been wonderfully new since
The Boleyn King
was published last year. And so my final thanks is to you, dearest reader, wherever you may be. I dreamed of you for years and it was the hope of you that got me through the pain of repeated rejections. And you have repayed me in spades. To the reviewers and book bloggers (hooray for you!) who have generously shared my books with your own readers, to the strangers who have gone out of your way on Facebook and Twitter to let me know you care about my fictional world, and to all of you who care passionately about words and stories. You are my people. Thank you for making me one of yours in return.
The Boleyn King
The Boleyn Deceit
The Boleyn Reckoning
L
AURA ANDERSEN
is married with four children, and possesses a constant sense of having forgotten something important. She has a B.A. in English (with an emphasis in British history), which she puts to use by reading everything she can lay her hands on.
3 July 1546
Hampton Court Palace
Only when forced to move his uncomfortably corpulent body did King Henry VIII feel the burden of his age and ill-health. In his mind he was still in his prime: rising forty, limber on horseback, three steps ahead of everyone in his court, passionately wed to a queen who might frustrate at times but just as often satisfied his every physical and intellectual desire. These days he moved as little as possible, preferring to make the world come to him in only slightly more literal a manner than during the more than thirty-five years of his reign.
But today he endured the indignities of being helped into the privy gardens of Hampton Court, settling into a wide gilded chair beneath a portable canopy of estate that shielded him from the erratic summer sun, then dismissed the hangers-on in order to ponder the tableau before him.
He fancied for a moment that Cardinal Wolsey, so long dead, looked approvingly over his shoulder at the gardens that had once been the Cardinal’s own. How could Wolsey complain of his treatment at the king’s hands when at the far end of the gardens
stood the living proof that Henry had been right all those years ago? Henry’s son, royal and healthy. A dark-haired boy like Anne, but with the king’s own sea-blue eyes and an unconscious litheness of body that Henry envied. He shifted restlessly in his seat, the pain of his long-injured leg stabbing a reminder of his own rapid aging. Prince Henry William Tudor (it was the king who had insisted on the second name, harking back to William the Conqueror) had just celebrated his tenth birthday, born forty-five years to the day after King Henry himself.
“Should I summon him?” Anne’s seductive voice had not changed in fifteen years. She leaned gracefully over his shoulder and smiled at their son. “I think you’re making all the children nervous.”
“They’ll not be children for long.” Henry, like Anne, studied the quartet of youths, who knew perfectly well they were being watched but had been instructed by the royal guards to continue with their own amusements.
William, naturally, was the center of the group, although often as not he was twinned with the Wyatt girl who was of an age with her future king. The child’s hair was the color of honey, and Henry thought she would grow into a beautiful woman. Her mother had certainly been, though in the days he’d known her Henry had been obsessed almost wholly with Anne.
The other two in the group had something of the same watchful, wary aspect to them though physically they were nothing alike. Elizabeth was a daughter to be proud of, so very Tudor with her red-gold hair like a banner and her mind as sharp as a blade. She reminded Henry of his youngest sister, Mary, though he hoped his daughter would behave with rather more sense where her personal life was concerned. And then there was the Courtenay boy—though not so much a boy. He was fifteen, a skillful swordsman and an instinctively talented
soldier. More importantly, he was naturally self-effacing and loyal, qualities that would stand him in better stead than the ambition and deviousness of too many court members.
“Send William and Courtenay to me,” Henry told Anne. “You may take the girls off with you. I wish to speak to the boys alone.”
Dominic followed two paces behind William, wondering why he’d been included in what was obviously meant to be a father-son discussion before they parted ways. Tomorrow William would return with his own household to Ashridge while King Henry and the court moved on to Whitehall. Dominic knew the girls were as curious about his inclusion as he was. Elizabeth had turned considering eyes upon him, thoughtful as was her wont, and Minuette had very nearly spoken up in surprise. But, in Queen Anne’s presence, she’d managed to turn her surprise into a charming farewell.
The royal privy gardens of Hampton Court were alight with brilliant colours and awash in the heady fragrance of flowers and cut grass. Because of the constant pain in his legs, King Henry was rarely seen standing and today he waited for them in his great carven chair, so heavily gilded it outshone the summer sun.
Dominic made his quiet obeisance expecting to do no more than shadow the young prince as usual. But it appeared the temperamental king had something specific to say to him.
His blue eyes fixed piercingly on Dominic, King Henry announced, “Lord Rochford has recommended that you be knighted at Christmas. What say you to that?”
Caught by surprise, and never easy with words, Dominic fumbled his response. “Lord Rochford is very kind, Your Majesty.”
Henry treated that statement with the contempt it deserved. “My brother-in-law has never been kind in his whole life, boy.
If he says you’re ready, then you are. But why wait until Christmas? You’ll return to court next month, both of you, when the Admiral of France arrives to ratify the peace treaty. We’ll conduct the knighting then.”
The king turned those intense eyes on his son, who was trying to suppress his delighted grin. “I take it that pleases you, William?”
“Yes, Father. May I knight him?”
The king huffed in disbelief. “You’re a child, yet, and no knight yourself. Think you to step into my place so soon?”
For all his youth, William had his mother’s shrewdness. “No, Father. But how shall I be prepared to rule if I am never allowed to do anything?”
“Ha!” Henry gave a genuine shout of laughter. “A question I long pondered with my own father. Now there was a man for holding tightfisted to power. And money. And every possible privilege he could grasp. I daresay he thought he’d live forever and he was not overeager to teach me to follow him.”
“But you are wiser, Your Majesty.” William’s submissive tone didn’t quite hit the right note, and Dominic winced inwardly. King Henry did not care for clumsy flattery.
With narrowed gaze, the king said, “Don’t try to finesse me, boy. Only your mother has ever dared that. No, you may not knight your friend here, but perhaps … What say you, Courtenay? Is His Highness the Prince of Wales prepared to assume more royal responsibility?”
“I am certain your wisdom will guide you, Your Majesty.” And please stop asking me questions, Dominic thought desperately. He was always afraid of putting a foot wrong and losing the capricious king’s affection.
But today there was real approval in the king’s expression. “A careful man you will make, Courtenay. Mark that trait, William,
and value it. When one is king, any friend is to be cherished. But a careful friend all the more so. Charles Brandon was as good a friend as I ever had, but his lack of care led him very near the edge on occasion.”
“As when he married my aunt?” William said thoughtlessly.
Under his breath, Dominic muttered,
“William.”
For the length of several seconds, King Henry seemed to gauge how offended to be at his son’s impertinence. At last, he said with only slight coolness, “As when he married your aunt
without
my knowledge or permission. I hardly know myself why I forgave them, save I loved them both so well. And what is a man without family or friends? As long as no one forgets there is only one king.”
“Well,” William said, and this time his tone of teasing was perfectly judged, “I don’t think Dominic would run away with Elizabeth without my permission. Dominic never looks twice at any girl.”
“There’s a world of difference between the ages of ten and fifteen,” King Henry said knowingly. Wondering how the hell he kept being dragged into this awkward conversation, Dominic endured the king’s look of sly amusement with burning cheeks. “I’ll wager he looks twice, and more than looks.”
Then that amusement—as though the king knew all about Dominic’s awkward encounters last winter with the innkeeper’s daughter—was replaced by the unmistakable bite of authority. “But it’s true, Courtenay, and I take my son’s point: you have not Charles Brandon’s recklessness. Nor your uncle of Exeter’s. And all the better for you.”
Dominic swallowed against the memory of his uncle’s treasonous end and his own father’s possible entanglement in the affair, and bowed. “Yes, Your Majesty,” he said, in fervent agreement.
The king leaned back in his chair, looking all at once tired and heavy with every one of his fifty-five years. “Rochford will make the arrangements for your knighting. And when you return to court, William, you may be my deputy in some of the matters with the Admiral of France.”
William bowed solemnly. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”
The king dismissed them and Dominic felt air return to his lungs as though he’d been underwater during the entire encounter. As they walked toward the river, he caught the unusually pensive expression on William’s young face. “What are you thinking?” he asked.
“That I don’t want to get old,” William said. “I don’t want to be … I want to be young, Dom, and strong forever.”
“Better to grow old than to die young, Will.” Surely Dominic’s own father would have gladly traded the chance to be old and infirm rather than to die of a brief illness in the Tower before the age of forty.
But the practicality of Dominic’s words were lost on the young prince. “I may grow older, but I will not end confined to a litter chair whenever I wish to move.”
And then, with a familiar stubborn expression and the lofty tone of one born to rule, William announced, “Just wait, Dom. I will rule myself as well as I rule my kingdom until the very last day of my life.”