The Boleyn Reckoning (7 page)

His anger had kept him sober, but it had not helped him sleep. Exhaustion pounded behind his eyes as he took his place with the other men of the privy council, each with varying degrees of shock and dismay in their expressions. Even Rochford, normally difficult to read, was openly furious.

If not for his personal stake in the affair, Dominic might have found it impressive how William controlled the room from the moment he entered. The king didn’t falter or break stride at the palpable tension in the air, as though this would be nothing more than a normal council.

William took his gilded chair and faced the circle of advisors with an air of casual ease that, a day earlier, would have pleased
Dominic. He had not seen his friend behave so effortlessly since before the smallpox.

“France.” William cast the word into the silence like a stone skipped into standing water. “Our old enemy, renewed once more.”

“Because of your choice.” Rochford left little doubt that he would have preferred a stronger word than choice—
folly
, perhaps.

“Because of
their
choices. You were not in the field last autumn, Lord Rochford, to see the effects of their attacks. I was. The French army broke the treaty the moment they crossed our border.”

William Cecil, Lord Burghley, cleared his throat. The most levelheaded of the privy council, and perhaps the only match for Rochford in strategic planning, the thirty-five-year-old Burghley had a high, broad forehead and wide, cautious eyes. “Are we to understand that the return of a Spanish ambassador to England is pertinent to this discussion?”

“Most pertinent,” the king agreed serenely. “Before summer’s end, Philip of Spain will visit England to sign a treaty of marriage between himself and the Princess of Wales.”

There was only a small rumble of surprise. Burghley kept to the point. “A Spanish treaty to replace the French? That makes it more likely that France will indeed retaliate in force. Will the Spanish move against France itself if, say, they move to retake Le Havre and Harfleur?”

“I have no intention of defending those cities. I only took them two years ago to force Henri to negotiations. We will hold fast to Calais and let the others go.”

Sussex, one of the most experienced military commanders now that Northumberland was dead, spoke up. “And if France sends an invasion fleet?” His dour expression was habitual; almost fifty years old, the Earl of Sussex used his age and noble bloodlines as an excuse for bad temper.

With a chilly nod, William replied, “That is the real danger, I
concur. Which is why this council’s primary business today is to name a new Warden of the Cinque Ports.”

One man to take charge of the defenses in southeast England, with all authority to summon men and arms and ships and to command troops against the threat of foreign landings on the coast. George Boleyn himself had once held that post, as had Henry VIII’s illegitimate son decades earlier, Henry FitzRoy. Now it should be Sussex, for experience, or Rochford again, for position. But Dominic knew his friend and so it was only a slight surprise—accompanied by a grave sinking in his heart—when William said, without even looking at him, “Lord Exeter will be Lord Warden of the Cinque Ports.”

No one seemed any more surprised than Dominic, although some few were displeased. Only Burghley nodded thoughtfully. “The French have good cause to remember Lord Exeter. They will be wary of facing him once again.”

Dominic wished he could believe that. The French might have to send ships to reach England, but there would be an army on those ships ready to land and march and only one man would be in command of that army—Renaud LeClerc. Who had been beaten once by having his own tactics turned against him by Dominic. Who had nearly been assassinated by an English arrow last autumn while under promise of safe conduct. Renaud wouldn’t be wary. Renaud would be spoiling for a fight.

For the first time since entering the council chamber, William looked directly at Dominic. “What say you, Lord Exeter? Will you lead England’s defenses for your king?”

In sardonic silence, Dominic thought, Well done, Will. How can I possibly say no when you put it like that? Aloud, he said, “I serve at your pleasure, Your Majesty.”

“That is well done,” Rochford cut in, his voice with a ragged edge of temper. “But we must discuss the precipitating event, Your Majesty. We must speak about Mistress Wyatt.”

“There is nothing to discuss.”

“There is everything to discuss! You cannot throw a common girl into the public eye in that inflammatory colour and then refuse to speak.”

“I cannot?”

The temperature dropped instantly. Every man seemed momentarily joined in awareness that they could argue and bluster and rage all they wanted—but the youngest man in the room was the one with all the power. It was almost as though the Duke of Northumberland’s headless body lurked in the corner as a reminder of what the king could do.

Bless Lord Burghley for his temperate instincts. Once again he moderated Rochford’s words. “Your Majesty, we wish only to serve you and England well. It is difficult to do so if we are kept in the dark about your intentions.”

Grudgingly, William said, “My intentions have never been more clear. I need a wife, and I will have none but Mistress Wyatt. There is nothing of substance can be said against her, and it is past time England has a royal marriage untainted by politics. It is not open for discussion.”

The hell it isn’t, Dominic thought. Because that’s
my
wife you’re talking about.

When the council meeting adjourned, Dominic was among the first to escape. Once, William would have expected him to remain behind. Now the king didn’t even notice when Dominic walked out with Rochford, who seemed glad of the chance to speak with him alone.

“What can we do to persuade William of the folly of dismissing the French so lightly?” Rochford asked urgently.

“I have no idea.”

Rochford grunted, the lines around his eyes carved deep. “You’re Warden of the Cinque Ports now, I suggest you ensure William
knows how vulnerable our coasts are to invasion. Paint him a picture of Portsmouth ablaze, our navy sunk, and foreign troops marching across the southeast of England.”

“Why don’t you paint him the picture?” Dominic was past trying to please his former master and guardian. These days he could barely keep himself together.

“Because William doesn’t listen to me!” Rochford stopped himself. He so rarely lost his temper that Dominic realized anew how deadly serious this all was. William marrying Minuette was such a personal disaster that he had not thought sufficiently about the dangers Rochford had just outlined.

Unfortunately, Rochford was also right about William’s refusal to listen. “I’m afraid the king doesn’t listen over closely to me these days, either,” Dominic admitted. “Not after the battles in Scotland.”

Rochford threw him a keen glance. “From which you were so conspicuously absent. Is that where the constraint between you arose? You counseled the king against battle?”

“It doesn’t matter. The French withdrew. And now we are all left guessing what their next move might be. Last autumn I had Renaud LeClerc’s message that their first attack was meant only as a warning not to provoke them further on the matter of the treaty.”

“Throwing that girl in the French ambassador’s face dressed in purple is far more than provocation,” Rochford spat. “Is there any way you could find out from LeClerc what their intentions are this summer?”

“No.” Dominic had been used once, unknowingly, against LeClerc. He would not be used openly.

“Then I suppose I shall have to find another way, as always.” Rochford sighed. “Sometimes I think I am the only man in England who is truly concerned with the general welfare of the nation and not just my individual desires.”

He stalked away, leaving Dominic staring at his retreating back.
It was not like Rochford to lose his temper and say things he did not mean. But if he had indeed meant that last statement, then he was verging uncomfortably close to what, in another man, could be called treason.

Dominic headed for the stables, for he had promised Robert Dudley he would return to the Tower today and demand an accounting of his evidence. But before he could leave the palace precincts a messenger wearing the crowned falcon badge that Elizabeth had adopted from her mother intercepted him with a request to join the princess as soon as possible. Altering his steps, Dominic thought ruefully that all of this running around at least kept him from the deep—and disastrous—impulse to find both Minuette and the nearest bed and lay claim to the woman everyone else was now looking at only as William’s beloved.

When Elizabeth and Walsingham returned from the Tower, the first thing she did was send word to Dominic to join her when he could. Then she closeted herself alone with her intelligencer and sighed deeply. “What do you think?”

The best thing about Walsingham was that, despite having known her such a short time, he understood every twist and turn of her mind. He pondered deeply before answering, another quality she appreciated.

“I think he’s telling the truth,” he answered at last. “And that makes me uneasy.”

Elizabeth closed her eyes. “What do you suggest?”

“Do you need a suggestion from me?”

She smiled, eyes still closed. “I thought it polite to ask.”

“The very last thing with which you need to concern yourself is being polite, Your Highness.”

A discreet knock sounded on Elizabeth’s interior door and she opened her eyes. “Yes?” she asked the lady who appeared.

With a curtsey, the lady said, “Lord Exeter, Your Highness.”

Elizabeth made a rapid decision. “Walsingham, speak to Dominic for me. Use my chamber here. Tell him what Robert said and make plans. Knowing Dominic, he will insist on going to Kenilworth himself to retrieve that chest. Let him.”

“Yes, Your Highness.” Walsingham rose as she did. “We can easily go elsewhere, no need for you to leave.”

“I have someone else I would like to consult,” she said tersely. She left Walsingham and nodded to Dominic as they passed in the doorway. For once she was grateful for his reticence as he let her pass without question.

Elizabeth made her way to a plainer section of the palace, with tiny chambers opening off whitewashed corridors for lesser guests of the court. The chamber she wanted had its door closed and, unusually for her, she knocked and waited.

The door was opened by Dr. John Dee. When he saw her, the scholar showed a glimmer of surprise, then bowed in welcome. “Your Highness.” His eyes, deep-set beneath inquisitive brows, always seemed to Elizabeth to see far more than the physical world.

“May I come in, Dr. Dee?” she asked, with the lightest touch of royal privilege.

“Forgive me, of course you may.”

The guest chamber was just large enough for a small pallet bed, a chest at its foot, and a narrow table being used as a desk. The single window showed glimpses of swift-moving clouds and hints of sun. The changeable spring of England, Elizabeth thought. An appropriate mirror to the court’s current conditions.

Dr. Dee offered Elizabeth the sole chair; he remained standing. “What may I do for you?”

“You can tell me your impression of the current tenor of the English government.”

“Is that all?” he asked drily.

“And then I may have an assignment for you.” Though, strictly speaking, Dee did not work for Elizabeth. Strictly speaking, he did not work for anyone just at the moment; he had been in the service of the Duke of Northumberland, but had chosen to warn William of the duke’s perfidy in confining Elizabeth to Dudley Castle. Since then Dee had remained at court in a semiofficial state.

Rather like Walsingham, Dee took his time answering her. Elizabeth was patient, knowing that when he did speak, it would be worth listening to. A rare trait at court. “The current tenor is unsettled,” he finally offered.

“Is that all?”

“Do you really need me to confirm your own impressions?”

Elizabeth sighed. “I was rather hoping you would tell me I am wrong.”

“You are not. The king’s illness has unsettled everyone, not least yourself. What is it you fear, Your Highness?”

“My brother is not recovering himself as I had hoped. He is at once both too sensitive and not sensitive enough. William has always been extremely good at judging his moments, at knowing when to act and when to pause. Now he appears deaf even to his own conscience, while being quick to take offense at any criticism of his conduct. He is practically begging the French to land and march across England. What will we do if they send an invasion fleet to the south and send troops across the Scots border at the same time? England is not prepared to fight on two fronts at once.”

“Have you told the king so?”

She threw up her hands in frustration. “He doesn’t need to be told it! He knows it for himself. He simply doesn’t care.”

“And that is your true concern.”

What was it about John Dee that made her feel as though he anticipated and understood every one of her half-formed fears?
Elizabeth sighed again. “For all my father’s stubborn insistence on his own way where his personal life was concerned, he at least managed to preserve England’s security. But Will … he seems prepared to burn it all himself as long as he can have his Minuette.”

“The lady is your friend, I believe. Does it divide your heart to wish her unhappiness?”

“The more time that passes, the more I believe that her happiness is not at stake. Unlike me, Minuette’s abiding concern is to please others. She will do what William wishes and not count her own happiness. But she is wise enough to know she is not the right choice for England’s queen.”

John Dee tapped his fingers along his leg and Elizabeth had a flash of the same déjà vu she’d experienced with him before—that this was neither the first nor the last time she would consult him on matters of some delicacy. Though only a few years older than she, Dee had an ageless quality to his wisdom that Elizabeth respected. At last he asked, “Might I inquire as to the nature of the assignment you spoke of?”

“I wondered if you would care to travel the Continent for a time, finding books to add to my personal library. A man of your talents will know the sort of volumes I’m looking for—humanist, rare, thoughtful. You have contacts in Europe and I thought you might enjoy the opportunity to renew acquaintances.”