The Boleyn Deceit (5 page)

These arguments almost never made it out of his closed mouth. He preferred to serve to his strengths, which would never be debate and theology. He was a soldier. He was sworn to his king and country and he would not dishonour that.

Except by loving the woman his king wanted.

Dominic distracted himself from that uncomfortable thought by focusing on the chapel’s choirmaster—another man who had once loved Minuette. Jonathan Percy had proposed to her just six months past, and Dominic had never been so glad as when he’d learned she had refused him. Percy had taken the rejection well enough and had even served as Dominic’s squire during the French battles, but he had always belonged here—in a royal chapel creating music for kings, both earthly and heavenly.

Dominic wondered if Percy’s continuing presence at court meant that he was truly valued as a musician, or if William’s past relationship with Percy’s twin sister had more to do with it than his talent. Eleanor Percy Howard had been married to the Duke of Norfolk’s youngest son in order for William to make her his mistress without complications. She had already borne William one child—a girl—and even now claimed to be carrying another child that she laid at William’s bed.

Of course, that claim was being made from the Tower of London, for Eleanor had been caught up in the Duke of Norfolk’s plotting, which ended in the violent death of her husband, Giles. The other women of the Howard family were being kept merely under house arrest, but Eleanor had been brought to the Tower almost a month ago. Not because of hard evidence that she’d intended treason, but because she had twice attempted to escape house arrest from the Howard estate at Framlingham. When she was caught the second time—twenty miles away from Framlingham and headed for London—she insisted, as she had all along, that she must be allowed to speak to the king.

But William, wrapped in his consuming passion for Minuette, had sent word for Eleanor to be kept in the Tower since she could not be trusted in a lesser confinement. Dominic thought that had been for Minuette’s sake, for she had always disliked Eleanor and
no doubt William thought it a sort of gift to his beloved to lock away his former mistress. Dominic did not expect Eleanor to be locked away for long. She was a woman, and the mother of William’s child, and had proved herself skilled at pleasing the king. No doubt the king’s memories of pleasure would, in time, lead to her release.

When the service was ended, everyone rose for William and waited while he swept out. Dominic was kept from following by Robert Dudley, who left the side of a smiling Elizabeth to speak to him.

“What is it?” Dominic asked roughly. He had a hard time taking Robert’s measure, and that made him uneasy. Add in the fact that Robert had been at Framlingham on that last, disastrous night when Norfolk had been arrested and his youngest son killed …

Robert did not take offense, though he always seemed to give the impression of understanding and somehow pitying Dominic’s unease. “I merely wondered what news from the council this morning.”

“Ask your father.”

“I’m asking you. Is it true that William means to return Surrey to court?”

How did Robert always manage to know what was going on quicker than anyone outside the privy council? Dominic said as little as possible. “No decision has been made.”

“I hear you’re going to meet with him,” Robert threw in carelessly. “Wonder how he’ll feel, dealing with the man who murdered his uncle. Well, not that anyone much liked Giles Howard. Probably you did Surrey a favour removing the least of the Howards.”

Before Dominic could frame an appropriate answer without giving way to anger, Robert added in a lower voice, “Have you
ever thought that the evidence against Norfolk might have been just a bit too tidy? Penitent’s Confessions, Spanish naval involvement, Lady Mary preparing to lead foreign troops against her brother … it does sound like a plot made to order by suspicious Protestants. Interesting to think about that when talking to Surrey. The Howards have plenty of enemies themselves, you know. Just a thought.”

He dazzled his mercurial smile at Dominic and whisked off—after Elizabeth, no doubt.

Had Robert just hinted that he believed Norfolk innocent of attempted rebellion? The Dudleys and Howards were long antagonists—why would Robert want to see the Earl of Surrey cleared from suspicion? But then Rochford had voiced something of the same opinion in council earlier. What had he said?
I am disturbed by his consistent denials.
Well, so was Dominic, but he would not have expected the naturally wary Rochford to agree with him. Or Robert, for that matter.

He watched as Robert caught up with Elizabeth and bent his dark head to her red-gold one. Even from behind and at a distance, it was clear how he felt about her, and Dominic experienced a surge of jealousy.

How has it come to this, Dominic thought, that I envy a married man in love with another woman? But he knew his envy wasn’t about Robert’s love—it was because Robert didn’t bother to pretend about it.

Minuette’s Christmas day was a blur of sound and colour, punctuated by clear flashes: the piercing familiarity of Dominic’s dark-green eyes in chapel, the tremor of alleluias in her bones, the headiness and triumph of pageantry. The masque was a fabulous success, everyone said so, even Elizabeth had gasped in delight at the marauding Saracens draped wrist to ankle in black
with red velvet headdresses who threatened the court until the gallant Christian knights bearing the enormous papier-mâché dragon of St. George came to rescue the ladies from their clutches. There was smoke and thunder and music and hilarity and dancing and fighting—everything a Christmas masque should be. William kissed her hand before all the court in thanks, and both men and women flattered her with praise. It was very satisfying.

But none so much as when Dominic came to stand beside her and, surveying the crowds, said, “Playing politics, Minuette? That is unlike you.”

Even as she replied, “Whatever do you mean?” in pretended innocence, her heart soared that Dominic alone seemed to have caught the small detail at the end.

“The single knight who took his enemy’s hand rather than put him to the sword. They walked off together, with a woman between them.” He turned his head and lowered it nearer hers so no one would overhear. “Do you mean to be that woman, to bring peace between Catholic and Protestant?”

“Of course not—it wasn’t a real woman, she was the symbol of Peace itself. And anyway, the masque was about the Turks.”

When Dominic smiled at her, it nearly broke her heart. She so rarely saw him smile. “You could be that symbol, Minuette. You would have that power, if you were …”

He didn’t say the word, didn’t even mouth it, but she heard it nonetheless.
If you were queen.

Her eyes went to William, laughing at some clumsy wit from his aunt, Lady Suffolk. “I won’t be,” she said. “Not ever.”

His smile had faded when she turned back to him, but he leaned in farther and whispered in her ear. “Happy Christmas, Minuette. I left your gift with Carrie. I hope you like it.”

He was gone so suddenly that Minuette wanted to cry out in frustration. Why couldn’t he do as William had and hand her the
gift himself? The king had seized ten minutes alone with her when he’d come to see Elizabeth after service this morning: one minute to watch with satisfaction as Minuette stumbled thanks for the far too noticeably costly ruby necklace, and nine minutes to thank her for the very simple embroidered missal cover she’d made him. His had been a mostly wordless thanks.

Didn’t Dominic want to thank her the same way? She’d given him a missal cover as well, trying to be discreet, as they all must be. Except it seemed that she alone was discreetly in the middle. On one end was William, recklessly sure of himself and not afraid enough of being caught. And on the other end was Dominic, so absolutely devoted to control that in public he barely even seemed to tolerate her company these days.

Men.

She was still feeling somewhere between excited and wounded when she escaped to her room far earlier than she normally would have. She had a headache—something she had never been prone to until these last weeks—and yes, despite her frustration, she was curious what Dominic had left her.

She had not expected it to be alive. But when Carrie told her Lord Exeter’s gift was in her bedchamber, Minuette flung open the door and was confronted by a pair of silky brown eyes that kept rising and rising as the dog seemed to unfold itself until it stood before her.

The eyes were beautiful, and the cinnamon coat, but good heavens it was enormous! An Irish wolfhound whose nose came level with her rib cage. Minuette could not think of a single thing to say. It was the only animal she’d ever owned, apart from the horse William had given her last year. The hound was nearly as large as Winterfall.

Minuette was even more perplexed when the dog bent his head down and pushed something toward her with his nose.
Hesitantly, Minuette picked up the paper-wrapped rectangle—definitely a book—and sat on her bed to open it.

Il Canzoniere
 … Petrarch writing to his Laura … Minuette’s Italian was nearly fluent and her cheeks burned as she skimmed the pages. The last time she had seen these poems had been in the aftermath of her friend Alyce de Clare’s sudden death and a frantic search to decode a message. Now she took the time to look at the words themselves. If this was a fair measure of Dominic’s feelings beneath that damnable self-control, then it was a wonder she did not go up in flames every time he looked at her.

The dog sat and laid his marvelous head in her lap. Minuette stroked him between the ears. “What am I supposed to call you?” she murmured.

Carrie was at the door, ever knowing precisely the moment she was needed. With her glossy brown hair and knowing eyes, she always reminded Minuette of a bird. A wren, perhaps. “Lord Exeter said to tell you Fidelis is his name, and so is his nature.”

Fidelis
—Latin for loyalty. “Loyal by name and nature,” Minuette said wryly. “I could not describe him better myself.”

O
N THE
F
EAST
of Epiphany, January 6, Elizabeth attended morning service at Greenwich’s Chapel Royal and listened to Bishop Latimer preach from the text of Isaiah chapter sixty.

“ ‘Whereas thou hast been forsaken and hated … I will make thee an eternal excellency, a joy of many generations.’ Thus spake the Lord to his chosen Israel, but is not scripture also the Lord’s word to us? Has not our own kingdom been hated for the truth’s sake, and forsaken by those more concerned with worldly power than heavenly gifts? Hear his promises to us, that we will be an excellency and joy to generations.”

Latimer was a good speaker, Elizabeth admitted. Grudgingly, because the more fiery the rhetoric, the more she instinctively wanted to argue the opposite. Not that she didn’t agree that God had worked wonders in England, but so often his wonders were hard to distinguish from the more earthly ambitions and plots of men. Did Latimer believe that her mother had been set in her father’s path specifically to seduce him into splitting from Rome? That argued a God of sardonic intent and not always impeccable methods.

If William had ever entertained such doubts, she didn’t know
it. Her brother tended to the practical wherever religion and politics collided, and kept his personal impressions close to his heart. She believed he had them, she just didn’t know if God’s words to William’s heart ever deviated from his personal wishes.

The final prayers were spoken and Elizabeth had just reached the chapel door when Lord Rochford was suddenly, silently, next to her. “May I walk with you, niece?” he asked pleasantly.

“Certainly.”

They kept a companionable silence with one another as they passed out of the tiled chapel floor and into the more crowded areas of the palace. Since her mother’s death last summer, these informal conversations had been carried out once or twice a week. At first Elizabeth had been surprised that her uncle would seek her out, but she had come to realize how deeply he missed his sister. They had always been exceptionally close and, with Anne gone, Rochford seemed to think Elizabeth the nearest thing to a substitute.

Not that he would ever say so.

When they reached the less public north galleries, frigid enough for breath to be seen if one walked slowly, Elizabeth asked, “What is on your mind, Uncle?”

“I have been brooding on the Penitent’s Confession and the aborted Catholic plot in November.”

She inclined her head in acknowledgment and waited. There would be more. There was always more than the obvious when George Boleyn spoke. He did not need to elaborate, for Elizabeth had been a full party to the search for the alleged Penitent’s Confession, a document the Catholics desperately wanted to lay hands on as evidence that William had not been Henry VIII’s son at all, but rather, born of incest between Anne and Rochford himself.

The search for the Penitent’s Confession had ended at the
Duke of Norfolk’s home at Framlingham in November. Minuette had been sent by Rochford precisely because she could look for the document without raising suspicions. She had found it, all right—and promptly burnt it, for the forged confession had purportedly been signed by Minuette’s own mother, once a friend to Anne Boleyn. Elizabeth thought that Rochford had not been exactly displeased at that.