The Boleyn Deceit (42 page)

Dominic watched the two Frenchmen ride back the way they’d come, waiting for sudden movement. But it seemed they would indeed be let through. The assassin was probably under orders not to be found out, and shooting again might give something away.

Eyeing him aslant, Harrington said noncommittally, “It was Norfolk suggested this spot.”

“One of several. He didn’t know which I’d chosen.”

He swung up onto his horse and kicked it into a gallop. The need for secrecy was gone, blown to bits by the arrow and its target. But even speed could not keep Dominic from thinking. He kept replaying bits and pieces of conversations and seeing half-forgotten images, all twining into one slender skein of fact.

They made a brief stop at Morpeth and Dominic forced himself to eat and wait two hours to rest the horses before remounting and riding the remainder of the fifty miles to Newcastle. It was several hours after dark on an autumn night of lowering fog and relentless drizzle when they reached Newcastle, and Dominic had to use his title more than once to get them through the streets and into the keep. He left Harrington with the horses and was ushered up to the same private chamber where he and Norfolk had met with the king five days earlier. William stood across the room, hands clasped behind his back and an expression of neutrality in his guileless blue eyes.

Dominic found the words stuck in his throat. He was tired and sweat-stained and he kept seeing that arrow, flying swift and straight into Renaud’s back.

In the end, William spoke first. “What happened?”

“Renaud was shot in the back.” Not quite a lie; not quite the truth. The result was open to interpretation.

There wasn’t a flicker of response from William, and in that moment of nonreaction, Dominic was sure. “Why, Will?”

The answer was clear and cold. “Do the unexpected. Your advice, was it not?”

“It serves no purpose.”

“In one stroke I have deprived Henri of his most brilliant military mind. And I have shown that I rule this island, not he. I have given Henri the only answer he will ever respect—that of force.”

Through the tearing pain in his chest, Dominic said, “You never meant to negotiate. It was a ploy—to distract the French and Scots while you brought your troops north. But you could have left it at that. You could have told me five days ago that you meant war, and left Renaud out of it altogether.”

“The French will be scattered and of little use without LeClerc. Now Norfolk can sweep across and deal out vengeance for his three hundred lost men. And I’ll come in behind, reinforcing primacy on our own border.”

Dominic didn’t know if it was exhaustion or grief that was making his eyes water and his head pound so that he could not think. He had never heard William sound so much like his father.

In the end Dominic went straight to the heart of the matter, the one betrayal he could not forgive. “You used me. You used my friendship with Renaud to lure him there—and you lied to me about it.”

“I needed you unwitting so that LeClerc would be unwitting. I regret the necessity of his death. But he was a soldier, and a soldier lives every day under that threat.”

“On the battlefield, yes. But there are rules, Will. You broke them all today—and you did it in my name. I cannot forget that.”

For the first time, William’s composure faltered and Dominic saw a hint of the boy who, when in trouble, had always looked to him for approval. “Dom, I am sorry you were there. But this is part of ruling. I cannot think of individuals—I must think of kingdoms.”

Dominic turned away, taking a shaky breath to steady himself. All he could think of at the moment were individuals. It seemed that he could almost see Renaud’s wife in the shadows of the room.
Nicole likes to have warning. It is superstition with her that she
be always in the courtyard when I return.
If Renaud had been less lucky, the Frenchman would never have ridden into that courtyard again, never watched his sons become men or his daughter grow into a woman.

“Dominic? I ride for the border in the morning. Half the command is yours if you wish.”

He never wanted to see Scotland again. He turned back to William and, in his most formal voice, answered, “I would prefer to be given leave.”

“Now?” William’s eyes were no longer guileless. Defensiveness turned to attack. “I have never revoked your command as lieutenant-general of my armies. You are a senior peer of my government—your place is where I order you.”

Dominic felt only a crushing weariness and knew he couldn’t summon the ability to soothe William tonight. He didn’t even want to. “I never asked for command or titles. And I will gladly relinquish both.”

“You would let my armies fight without your experience? I thought I was not capable of doing it as well as you.”

The premonition Dominic had felt earlier was being amply justified. How many slights did William carry, just waiting to avenge? Dominic shook his head. “Do you really want a commander in the field who is there under duress?”

“Are you telling me that you will only serve if I command it?”

“Do you so command?” Dominic didn’t know what he would do if William said yes.

William turned his back on Dominic and slammed his palms onto the table behind him. A goblet fell over and crashed to the stone pavings. Dominic did not flinch.

At long last William faced him once more, his face remote and forbidding. Dominic felt as though a veil had descended between
them, altering the other’s form and voice into that of a stranger. He wondered if William felt it and, if so, whether he counted it as one more cost of kingship.

Friendship with kings is always one
-
sided;
so Renaud had once told him.

“I will not ask you to serve against your conscience,” William said. “For now, I suggest you withdraw to Tiverton. I gifted you the title and the estate—perhaps you should begin to act like you are a duke. I will send for you from there.”

Dominic nodded. “Yes, Your Majesty.” And then he delivered the final blow. “There is one more thing. Renaud LeClerc was wearing plate armour beneath his cloak. He is sore as hell, and madder than even that, but he’s not dead. You might want to consider that when you lead your troops across the border.”

“He was …” William seemed torn between anger and respect. “Why was he wearing armour?”

“He’s a cautious man. One doesn’t get to be a soldier of his reputation without caution.” Even furious and heartsick at William’s betrayal, Dominic could not in good conscience avoid giving one last piece of advice. “You should be cautious as well. Try to balance between honest reprisal and blind vengeance.”

Dominic left the king and the castle and spent the night dozing in the stables. Before dawn he and Harrington were riding south out of Newcastle-on-Tyne.

Only once did Harrington speak, and his question showed the depths to which he understood Dominic. “To Wynfield Mote?”

It had been, naturally, Dominic’s first impulse. But he’d had time to think through the brief hours of the night, and now he shook his head. “Surrey. My mother’s house.”

Minuette was in her mother’s rose garden when she heard the clatter of hooves on cobbles. Hope rose in her, wild and
immediate, and she did her best to quench it by refusing to run around the house and see for herself. She gathered up the knife she’d been using to deadhead the last of the roses and laid it in the basket with the shriveled petals. Removing the leather gloves that had once been her mother’s, she laid them across the shears and settled the basket on her arm. Only then did she leave the gravel paths of the garden to walk sedately around to the front of the house, Fidelis stalking silently by her side.

The beating of her heart was anything but sedate when she saw Dominic, talking to Asherton as a groom led away his horse. Harrington was with him, naturally, and another man Minuette did not immediately recognize. She had eyes only for Dominic. His expression was detached, almost icy, and she relaxed only a little when he turned to her and smiled, for even then his eyes remained unreadable.

“May I have a word with you?” He indicated the direction from which she’d come.

Asherton seemed to have everything well in hand, and neither Harrington nor the other guest—who she recognized with bewilderment as Michael, the priest from Dominic’s mother’s home—looked at all perturbed by Dominic’s abruptness. She led him back into the midst of her mother’s roses, where he stood silent.

Now that he had her alone, he seemed all at once indecisive, shifting his weight and hardly looking at her. Desperate to break the tension, Minuette behaved as any good hostess would. “Will Michael be staying long?”

“Just the one night.”

Minuette said lamely, “How nice.”

At last Dominic shook his head and sighed, and the smile he gave her this time was almost recognizable. “I know I’m not making much sense. I had thought the hard part was behind me, deciding …”

“Deciding what?”

His answer did not seem to match her question. “You know, of course, that Michael is not primarily a clerk. He’s a Jesuit priest, and my mother’s confessor.”

“I remember. I don’t understand why he’s here.” But she thought maybe she did, only she was afraid to be wrong, afraid to grasp at the hope in case Dominic snatched it away at the last moment.

“I’ve brought the priest, Minuette, and a witness. I thought you might supply the church? I know you have one convenient.”

Through the spinning in her head, she snatched at one point. “I thought … Christmas. Didn’t we agree we would tell William at Christmas?”

All at once his dark green eyes were aware and full of hurt. “I shouldn’t have sprung this on you. I apologize. I was thinking only of myself.”

“Dominic, what has happened?”

His eyes once again went blank. “Nothing. I’m sorry, I’m not doing this very well, but … Do you not want to marry me?”

The vulnerability of the question made her long to comfort him for whatever hurt had brought him here. She had known for months now that something or someone would have to break to end this painful stalemate they were locked in. She had never guessed it would be Dominic. She had never guessed Dominic
could
be broken. What had been done to him?

This was not the moment to press. She reached her hands to the back of his head, laced her fingers together through the soft, dark hair and, rising on tiptoe, kissed him. There was one moment when he was stiff and surprised, then his arms came around her with unusual force and she knew it would be all right.

She pulled her head away, just enough to whisper, “The twelfth of November: our wedding day, Dominic.”

That refrain danced through Minuette’s thoughts like quicksilver over the next two hours. She allowed the joy of it to overwhelm the whispers of caution within, warning that some disaster must have precipitated Dominic’s abrupt action. It must be William. Something the king had said or done had tipped Dominic from prudence to recklessness.

After those few heady moments in the garden, she fled into the house, afraid to speak to anyone for fear her happiness would spill into indiscretion. After a brief meal of bread and cheese, Dominic went ahead with Michael to the church, leaving Harrington behind to accompany her. If they were seen together at the church, they would say that Michael, as a guest, had wished to see the estate.

Minuette was so overwrought with nerves and excitement that she barely noticed Carrie’s unusual quietness, until she came out into the forecourt and found three horses, not two, standing patiently. Harrington and Carrie were already mounted.

She opened her mouth to order Carrie off, and caught Harrington’s eye. “I’ve already tried,” he said gruffly.

“You’re not leaving me behind,” Carrie told her, her soft brown eyes and round cheeks looking unnaturally stern. “Not today.”

It seemed Carrie knew all. Had always known, perhaps. And she was right, Minuette did not want her left behind. It would be comforting to have another woman present, especially a woman who had known her mother so well.

And two witnesses were better than one.

It was a point she had to make to Dominic, when his face darkened at the sight of one more person in on their secret. But he was too practical to debate the issue—as long as Carrie knew anyway, she might as well stay.

And it was Carrie who had the second biggest surprise of the
day, wrapped in soft linen on the floor of the carved quire. She shooed the men out of the church and told them not to come near until she called.

As she undid the ties binding the fluidly bulky package, she explained to Minuette. “I knew how it would be the moment I laid eyes on the priest. Hard to mistake him, however he dresses. Anyway, I’ve had this ready for some months. It was only a matter of wrapping it and asking Edward to ride over here while the two gentlemen were eating.”

“Edward?”

Carrie blushed, as if caught in an indiscretion. “Harrington, I mean.”

Minuette looked thoughtfully at her maid. So that was the way of things, was it? But Carrie had the linen undone now, and the sight of what lay within made all other thoughts slip away.

Cloth-of-silver, gleaming in the dusty interior of the church like moonlight poured out and caught in fabric. “Not the best condition,” Carrie explained, “being folded and wrapped like that, but much more suitable than a riding habit.”

Minuette had seen this dress before, as a child. “Is that …”

“Your mother wore it for her first wedding, so she told me, and on special occasions after. She put it away when your father died, and I found it where she’d left it. Needed a little mending, but not much. And all the jewels are still there.”

Indeed, the square neckline was bound an inch deep on each side with rubies and sapphires, their deep colours blazing against the silver paleness of the fabric itself. Minuette touched the bodice gently with one finger, too moved to speak.

Carrie smiled. “I know a dress is just a dress. I know his lordship would marry you in your shift and never mind it. But I thought you’d like this.”

Minuette did like it. And so, to judge by his expression when
he saw her, did Dominic. He stopped for a long moment in the open doorway, his eyes sweeping over her where she stood, trembling, in front of the altar.