The Boleyn Deceit (47 page)

Dominic was not so certain.

The doors at the back of the hall opened and Northumberland was escorted in. The hall at Westminster was a rich backdrop to today’s trial. A stage had been erected in preparation, hung with tapestries and a canopy, beneath which was a bench for Northumberland. Dominic viewed the tableau with a cynicism that he had learned from Rochford—the trappings might argue respect for the accused, but he knew all too well they were mostly meant to remind those watching how far the man had fallen.

Northumberland conducted himself with gravity, three times reverencing himself to the ground before the judges. Dominic thought wryly it was the most humility he’d ever seen from John Dudley.

The hall was crowded with spectators, including members of London City’s guilds as well as diplomats and foreign merchants who would no doubt be taking careful notes and sending word of the proceedings far and wide across Europe. England had been the subject of intense Continental scrutiny for quite some time—what with her young and untried king, her inflammatory religious divide, and her highly desirable and unwed royal princess.
England may not be the powerhouse that France or Spain was, but it was very often the critical piece that decided the dangerous balance of power.

And now a peer of the realm was being tried for his life. Not to mention that a mere five months ago—despite a peace treaty—a French army had engaged English troops in battle on the Scots border and since that time England’s king had been mostly absent from public view. Everyone in England and Europe knew that William had been ill and some had correctly guessed at the smallpox that had driven him to seclusion. Now even his own people were beginning to grow restless. They had waited years for William to grow old enough to take his father’s place as a reigning monarch. They were not content to leave the government in the hands of men like Rochford and Northumberland, rightly distrusting the motives of such powerful men. The people wanted their king.

This trial was the first step in giving them what they wanted. Northumberland was hugely unpopular—though Dominic had not been in London when the duke and his sons were paraded through the streets to the Tower, he had heard countless versions of how they had been booed and mocked, pelted with rotten fruit and even stones. With William not quite ready to return to public view yet, Northumberland’s trial for high treason was a distraction.

It was also, in large part, a sham. The original plan had been to have Parliament pass an Act of Attainder against Northumberland, thus avoiding a public trial and allowing the Crown to quickly confiscate the duke’s lands. Granting him a trial instead in no way meant that Northumberland stood a chance of acquittal. There could be no doubt of the verdict; this trial was for the sole purpose of placating the populace.

Rochford opened the trial with a reading of the charges, none of
which Dominic could dispute: the calculated secret marriage between Northumberland’s son Guildford and Margaret Clifford, a cousin to the king and thus in line to England’s throne. That disastrous marriage had been annulled after Margaret had given birth to a boy, but Northumberland’s impudence could not be overlooked in the matter. And then there was the damning charge of “with intent and malice aforethought confining Her Highness, Princess Elizabeth, against her will”: Dominic had seen firsthand the duke’s intent to keep hold of Elizabeth in his family castle until William was forced to listen to him. Related to that last was also the charge of raising troops against the king—again indisputable. For the last two charges alone, Northumberland’s life was forfeit.

But Dominic was less easy about some of the other charges considered behind the scenes. That Northumberland had conspired to bring down the Howard family two years ago, that he had offered alliance with the Low Countries, even claiming in writing that Elizabeth would be a more amenable ruler than her brother … Dominic had been the one to find those damning letters in Northumberland’s home. He just wasn’t sure how much he believed in them. Papers could be forged. Letters could be planted. Witnesses could be co-opted to a certain testimony. And it hadn’t escaped his attention that those particular charges were not being tried in court today.

“We’ll keep it simple,” Rochford had said. “Leave out the messier aspects of Northumberland’s behavior.”

And that was why Dominic kept a wary eye on Rochford. Because the messy aspects of this business were also the most open to other interpretations. More than eighteen months ago, the late Duke of Norfolk had died in the Tower after being arrested for attempting to brand the king a bastard and have his half sister, Mary, crowned queen. Dominic now believed, as most
did, that the Duke of Norfolk’s fall had been cleverly manipulated.

“What say you, John Dudley?” Rochford asked after the reading of the charges.

“My Lord Chancellor,” Northumberland responded, rising. “My lords all,” he addressed the others of the jury, “I say that my faults have ever only been those of a father. I acknowledge my pride and ambition and humbly confess that those sins have led me to a state I do greatly regret. But I have not and could never compass a desire to wish or inflict harm upon His Most Gracious Majesty. My acts were those of a desperate father to a willful son. Guildford’s death is greatly to be lamented, but I do desire nothing more than to be reconciled to our king and his government.”

Northumberland was led out after his speech, and the jury retired to discuss their verdict. It took far less time than Dominic was comfortable with and the outcome was never in doubt. Rochford and the twenty-year-old Duke of Norfolk (grandson of the man who had died in a false state of treasonable disgrace) were the most vehement of Northumberland’s enemies, but every other lord on the jury had cause to resent the duke’s arrogance and ambition. And as Dominic studied each man there, he was aware of an undercurrent of fear, deeply hidden perhaps, but real. There was not a single peer present whose family title was older than Henry VII, and most of them had been ennobled by Henry VIII or William himself. The Tudors had broken the back of the old hereditary nobility, raising instead men whose power resulted from their personal loyalty and royal usefulness. Just consider Dominic himself—grandson of a king’s daughter, true, but in more practical terms only the son of a younger son with no land or title at all until William had granted them to him.

Or consider Rochford, who might have been only a talented diplomat or secretary if his sister had not been queen.

The problem with being raised up by personal loyalty was that one could as easily be unmade. And thus it was today—the jury would find Northumberland guilty because William wished it as much as because it was right. And after all, Dominic would vote guilty without more than a slight qualm, for he had ridden through the midst of Northumberland’s army last autumn. He knew that it had been but a hair’s breadth of pride and fear from open battle against the king.

They returned to the hall, and Northumberland stood to face the jury as, one after another, each member stood and personally delivered his verdict. Dominic saw the glint of tears in Northumberland’s eyes as Rochford pronounced the traditional sentence of a traitor—to be hung, drawn, and quartered—and concluded with, “May God have mercy on your soul.”

There was a tinge of triumph to George Boleyn’s voice.

Elizabeth was with her brother when Dominic and Rochford returned to Richmond to report on the trial of Northumberland. They waited for the two dukes in a reception chamber of Richmond Palace known as the painted hall for the heavily coloured and gilded paneling that surrounded them.

The royal siblings were not alone, of course. There were half a dozen quiet attendants who had learned these last months to give their king his space. And Minuette was also there—though these days one hardly needed to specify Minuette’s presence. Wherever William was, there was Minuette at his side. Since his recovery, the only place she didn’t follow the king was his bed at night and Elizabeth wondered how long that restraint would last. Since his illness, William’s devotion to Minuette had grown perilously near to obsession.

William sat beneath the canopy of state as he received Lord Rochford’s official report in silence. Another effect of his illness;
his characteristic restlessness was often submerged beneath lengthy periods of stillness. When Rochford handed him the execution order to sign, William took it without a word, almost as though he had no interest in the matter.

It was Elizabeth who said, “Thank you, Uncle.”

That stirred William enough to say flatly, “You may go. Lord Exeter will return this to you shortly.”

Rochford gave them all a long, hard look but he was not ready to bring his discontent to open argument. Elizabeth knew it was coming—this inner circle of just the four of them could not be allowed to last much longer—but for today the Lord Chancellor held his tongue. He left them alone, the attendants filing out after him.

They had always been exceptionally close—the “Holy Quartet,” Robert Dudley had named them. But since his brush with death, William had kept his sister, his love, and his friend even tighter around him. Elizabeth wasn’t sure if it were for comfort or protection.

Alone with those he trusted, William stretched out his legs in a characteristic gesture that made the tightness in Elizabeth’s shoulders ease. She rejoiced with every little moment that spoke of William as he had been before.

“Sentenced to be hanged, disemboweled, and quartered,” William said to Dominic. “I’ll commute that to beheading, of course.”

“Of course.”

“You have nothing to plead else?”

Elizabeth tightened again. They had not told William of Robert’s plea to see her, of his claim that another man had as much to do with Northumberland’s fall as his own actions. But despite that silence, William knew Dominic. Clearly he sensed there was more than just his usual caution behind his friend’s reserve.

But in this, Dominic did not hesitate. “Northumberland held Elizabeth and Minuette against their will. He raised an army that could only have been meant to be used against you. I have nothing to plead for him.”

William nodded, then stood and crossed to the table where pen and ink waited. The three of them watched as he signed in swift bold strokes—
Henry Rex
. His father’s name. His ruling name.

He handed the signed order to Dominic—always entrusting his closest friend to see his will carried out—and, as though the momentum caused by one decision made led him to another, he said abruptly, “I’ve settled on Easter for my return to London. We’ll spend it at Whitehall and celebrate lavishly. Masques, tournaments, riding through the streets to Westminster Abbey for service …”

Elizabeth added tartly, still trying to gauge when and how to speak to her brother as before, “All elaborately designed to set people’s minds at rest and give them reason to rejoice in their brilliant king.”

Through everything—Rochford’s report, William signing someone’s death—Minuette had sat in perfect stillness. Another change, as though her own being was linked to William’s and what he experienced so did she. Now she stood and joined William without touching him. There was something poignant almost to pain about the pairing—something indefinable that set Elizabeth’s heart wringing—as Minuette smiled gravely and said to William, “The people are waiting to rejoice in their brilliant and handsome king.”

William flinched slightly and, as he always did these days, kept himself angled a little away from Minuette’s gaze. Keeping his left side turned always to the shadows.

The smallpox, which had covered his face and chest and arms
wholly, had not scarred quite so wholly. If one looked at William from the right, one saw only the perfect face he’d been born with. And his left hand and arm had healed almost cleanly, with only a small scattering of scars. But the left side of his face …

Minuette was the only one who could speak of it, or touch him. She did so now, resting her hand on William’s ruined cheek. “The people love you, Will, as we do. The rejoicing will be honest. What matters more than that you are still here?”

Only Minuette could make him smile these days. He did so now, and Elizabeth thought if only he could be brought to smile more, to be himself more, to quit brooding on the scars, that people would hardly notice them.
We see what we expect to see,
she thought.
Will must make people expect to see only the king and all will be well.

Dominic waited for her in the Richmond gardens. It was well after dark, but Minuette knew every line and shadow of her husband and the dark was their ally these days. Their only ally.

It was all supposed to have been over by now. They had wed secretly (and illegally and, according to the Protestants, heretically) last November, with every intention of confessing to the king at Christmas. Then William had been stricken with smallpox. And in the space of days when they had feared for his life, plans and confessions had fallen to the wayside.

But not their marriage. And not their love, Minuette thought as Dominic wrapped her in a tight embrace, his cloak covering them both. She rested her head on his shoulder and let herself be at momentary peace. Her only peace in an increasingly troubled world.

“What will happen to his sons?” she asked quietly. She did not need to specify Northumberland’s sons; Dominic read her these days with an ease that went beyond familiarity to almost uncanny.

“It is the duke himself people hate. His sons will remain in prison for now, but I suspect they will be safe. Not their lands or titles, though—there will not be another Duke of Northumberland for a long time. But I think John Dudley would count the title well lost if it saves his sons.”

“Does he still expect to be pardoned?”

She felt Dominic’s shrug. “I suppose I will find out when I deliver the order tomorrow.”

“I’m sorry it has to be you.”

“Better me than Rochford. At least I will not gloat quite so openly.”

She drew a little away, so she could see his face—or at least its outlines—as she asked, “What are you going to do about Robert’s accusations?”