The Boleyn Deceit (41 page)

His hands curved between her waist and her hips and his own laugh was strangled in his throat. “Don’t tempt me, Minuette.”

“My lord Duke of Exeter,” she murmured into his ear, “I did not know you were capable of being tempted.”

He stopped her words by kissing her hard and long. When she was well and truly breathless, he said, “I am tempted by you every moment of every day, Mistress Wyatt, and even more when I am in my bed at night. And if I don’t leave this room now, I will be more than tempted.”

He set her on her feet and found his own. Putting his hands on her shoulders to hold her just barely away from him, Dominic said, “I want you as my wife, Minuette. And now that we’re close—now that we have a plan and a time—I can wait. I will let the temptation be a pleasure until the night we are wed.”

“Well then, we shall have to tell William at Christmas, because I don’t think I can wait much longer.” She was only half teasing.

“Christmas,” he agreed solemnly, and her heart quickened. “Now, tell me you’ve put me in a room with a door that locks on both sides.”

Dispatches from Dominic Courtenay, Duke of Exeter, personal to Henry IX, King of England:

Dominic and the Duke of Norfolk made a quiet entry into Newcastle just before sundown on October 24. They wore no symbolic colours and flew no banners, for they did not want it widely known that they had left Carlisle. Although William’s visit here had been only hastily planned, the streets were swarming with men. Armed men, Dominic realized, his heart sinking at the sight of so much steel this far north. Had William changed his mind about negotiating?

Less than forty miles from the border, Newcastle was protected by massive stone towers built into a city wall. Once through the walls, Dominic and Norfolk still had to gain entrance through the Black Gate, the barbican added by Henry III more than three centuries before. The castle was eighty years older than even that, and only the square Norman keep was still habitable. But what the grim castle lacked in structure it made up for in current guards—it took far longer for two members of the privy council to get inside and be announced to their king than Dominic would have guessed.

When at last he and Norfolk were with William, Dominic said carefully, “Your Majesty, you appear to be raising an army.”

William wore a simply cut doublet of black wool over a linen shirt. His sober clothing was matched by the plainness of the square chamber at the top of the keep, furnished with table,
chairs, and an abundance of maps. The last time Dominic had seen William studying maps like that was during the battles in France.

“The army had already been raised, against Northumberland,” William answered. “Might as well put it to use. I must appear to be doing the expected if we are to gain full value from negotiation. Let the French think I’m ready to march across the border—it will add weight to your words.”

Norfolk moved slightly, drawing William’s attention. “You disagree, my Lord Norfolk?” the king challenged.

The duke took his time, weighing his words, and Dominic thought that, despite Norfolk’s youth, he was a man who would approach every choice with clear-eyed dispassion. He would not damn himself with vengeance and sentiment like Northumberland had. “If I were in your position, Your Majesty, I would do the same. But in
my
position, I’m in two minds. I’m born and bred in the North, and I know the Scots as no southerner can. They will be at our throats every moment that they’re not at one anothers’. Force is the only language they understand, and so part of me longs to take this ready army and march into their lands, doubling and tripling the destruction they have wreaked on us for too long.”

“But?”

“But I am also an Englishman, and I do not relish war. If it were the Scots alone, I’d say march and burn and to hell with everything else. But the French are in this, and you need their princess. No one knows that better than I do.”

It was a not-so-subtle reminder that Norfolk was a power broker in the Catholic faction. Dominic kept silent while William, with narrowed eyes and dangerously soft voice, asked, “And what is it, precisely, that you know so well?”

Norfolk was not easily intimidated, although he was also not stupid. He managed both to flatter and to warn. “You are a king men will follow, but feelings run high where religion is concerned. A French Catholic queen is the most politic decision you have ever made. It would be folly to throw that away for revenge.”

“Your orders are unchanged—hold the peace along the border while Dominic slips across and negotiates the withdrawal of French troops. I’m sending a contingent of my personal guards back to Carlisle with you. That will give the spies something to debate about.”

As the door closed behind Norfolk, William sighed and shook his head. “He wants that French marriage. When I throw it off, what do you think he’s likely to do?”

“I think he’s too clever to damn himself in rebellion. But he’s a man capable of anything, so long as he’s persuaded it’s in his best interests.”

William sighed again and ran his hands through his hair, a gesture that made him look young and vulnerable. “You know what to do.”

“Wait two days for Norfolk to return to Carlisle. Then I’ll send Harrington across to Renaud with the meeting place.”

“Where?”

“There’s a cairn at the peak of Windy Gyle in the Cheviots. The border cuts straight through the summit, a mile west of Hexpethgate crossing. It was one of several suggestions by Norfolk, and he assures me it’s lonely enough. I’ll take only Harrington with me, and not even Norfolk will know which spot I have chosen.”

“When?”

“Five days from now.”

William drummed his fingers restlessly against his thigh.
“LeClerc might suspect a trap, or a delay, or a feint to draw attention away from battle plans. He might not come.”

“He’ll come.”

Dominic could almost feel the temperature drop as he neared the Scots border, and he cursed the French king for making this move so close to November. It was his first time in the North. Taken in all, he thought, looking around at the forbidding landscape, he preferred Wales.

Though it was clear, the wind was biting and cold and he hoped there wasn’t snow in that threat. He and Harrington had ridden to the market town of Rothbury the day before and spent the night in a soot-heavy inn with bad food and worse beds. It was eighteen miles from Rothbury to Windy Gyle peak, and they moved warily through the unwelcoming terrain. He and Harrington were both dressed plainly and wore no armour. But his trust did not extend to traveling unarmed. Not even a merchant would do that in this country.

Harrington was a comfortable companion in silence. Dominic knew that the big man was scanning the horizon as well, eyes roaming ceaselessly over the hills with their folds and deceptive cuts. The Salter Road that they were on was a common trade route, but they saw no one. Not even a sheep or cow.

They approached the cairn from the south, the horses picking their way slowly up the treeless slope. After a careful circuit of the tumbled stone, Dominic was satisfied they had arrived before Renaud. He set Harrington to watch the south and west, and walked his own horse to the north, from where Renaud would arrive. He was already beginning to regret choosing this spot, for Windy Gyle more than lived up to its name; the gusts seemed to come from nowhere, a cold bite to the wind that spoke not only of winter but of violence.

It was a testament to Renaud’s skill that he got closer than anyone else would have before Dominic saw him. He, too, had a single companion with him, and they appeared out of one of the folds in the hills just close enough for Dominic to recognize the horsemen. Renaud had started up the last push to the summit, his man riding behind, when he raised one hand to Dominic in greeting.

That was the moment the arrow flew.

It struck Renaud in the back, with enough force to throw him sideways off his horse. Dominic was off his own mount in an instant, scrambling headlong down the steep slope, without ever pausing to wonder if more arrows were on their way. Out of the corner of his eye he saw movement—another horseman fleeing back into the Cheviot Hills.

Renaud lay on his side, the arrow—with deadly accuracy—driven through his cloak and into his leather jerkin. Before Dominic could kneel and see the damage, he found himself at the end of a sword.

The steel blade wavered slightly in the hand of Renaud’s squire. Dominic stood absolutely still and looked into the young man’s face—equal parts outraged and terrified.

With exaggerated care, Dominic spread his hands wide and raised them. “It wasn’t us.”

“Where’s your companion?”

“Coming down the slope.” Dominic could hear Harrington behind him. “The arrow came from below; I saw the movement of a horseman who is no doubt getting away as we speak. Let Harrington go after him.”

The boy—for he could not be more than sixteen—licked his lips, looking from Dominic to his fallen commander. He nodded once and Harrington was gone in an instant. Then the squire lowered his sword and said, his voice trembling, “Is he …”

Dominic was on his knees, frantically loosening the cloak and jerkin. What he saw beneath made him breathe out in relief. Beneath his unobtrusive clothing, Renaud wore a breastplate of plate armour.

Renaud had been stunned by the fall, but now he swore loudly and inventively in both French and English as Dominic helped him sit up. They disentangled the arrow from the fabric it had gone through and Renaud studied it closely. “Recognize it?” he asked.

Dominic didn’t expect to. This bore all the hallmarks of an assassination, which meant anonymity.

Renaud’s face was the grimmest Dominic had ever seen. “Is this why you asked me to come?” he asked accusingly. “Because you meant violence?”

“You know me better than that.”

“Do I?” Renaud got to his feet, grimacing at what would no doubt be a wicked bruise. “At least I know negotiating is not on the table.”

“Apparently not.”

They were still standing there, glaring at each other, two soldiers trying to work out the lethal labyrinth of politics behind each one of them, when Harrington returned. Renaud’s squire raised his sword in reflex, but Renaud stopped him.

“Any luck?” Dominic asked.

Harrington shook his head. “Whoever’s out there knows his business. He could go to ground in any one of a dozen small valleys. If we had twenty men, we could flush him out. But the four of us alone—and one of us the target—it would take a stroke of luck to stumble over him without getting killed in the process.”

Dominic studied the furrows and crinkles of the Cheviot Hills, considering. Though part of him was straining like a greyhound, desperate to lay hands on the man who had torn through
Renaud’s cloak with one expert arrow, he knew Harrington was right. They might never find the assailant. And as much as Dominic wanted the archer, he wanted the man who had sent him even more. He had the beginnings of an idea, a faint churning in his chest that he was desperate to disprove.

“You’d better go,” he said abruptly to Renaud. “I think you’ll be let through to your men, now that we are both on guard.”

“I think so, too. Are you sure, Dominic, that I was the only target today?”

He wasn’t sure of anything, except that he had some burning questions to pose once he got back across the border.

Renaud shrugged. “At the least I can give you my message. We French don’t want war, at least not this winter. The battle with the border forces was meant as a warning. Word leaked of your meeting with the Spanish ambassador this summer, and my king was extremely displeased with the implications. Go back to your own king and tell him that our treaty holds—for now. But he should be wary of provoking further displeasure.”

“I will return that message to my king.”

Renaud remounted. His squire, clearly well-trained to obey, did so as well. Renaud shook his head ruefully. “Poor Dominic, always carrying messages he does not want to know. I pray I will not see you again anytime soon,
mon ami
.”