Robert sighed. “What untraceable task am I to be given next?”
“One very much to your taste and talents: I want you to attend Elizabeth assiduously this winter. Make yourself indispensable, so that my niece does not have a need that you have not anticipated. I want you in her presence chamber and her privy chamber. I want to know who else is there, and what they discuss when they are.”
“I will not spy on Elizabeth.” Robert said it flatly. “Not for anything.”
“I think that point is debatable, but it is also irrelevant. It is not Elizabeth I want you watching—it is Mistress Wyatt.”
“Minuette? Whatever for?” But Robert was afraid he very much knew what for.
“I told you she bears watching. My instincts are never wrong. It is for you to tell me why the girl makes me uneasy.”
Because she killed Giles Howard, Robert thought. But even if Rochford knew that, he didn’t think the Lord Chancellor would care. Giles Howard had been the last and least of the Duke of Norfolk’s sons and he had earned his death with his own violence. Not a matter to sharpen Rochford’s interest—so what about Minuette made the Lord Chancellor so uneasy?
“It is in your own interest as well,” Rochford said now. “Mistress Wyatt is the one who made all the fuss over Alyce de Clare’s unfortunate and untimely death. She suspected Giles Howard was responsible, but does she still? If she believes the pregnant Alyce’s tumble down the stairs is not to be laid at Giles’s feet, she will not rest until she has found the guilty party. And you wouldn’t want her stumbling over your mistakes, would you?”
Robert most certainly didn’t want Minuette stumbling over his connection to Alyce. The first person she would tell would be Elizabeth, and their relationship was already complicated by his wife. How could he explain a pregnant mistress as well? Especially one who had died so inconveniently while spying on Elizabeth’s mother.
The damned man was so certain of Robert’s acquiescence that he didn’t even wait for it. The only satisfaction Robert could get was calling out a question as Rochford retreated. “Why on earth has the Earl of Surrey not been brought to trial? I thought your goal was to eliminate the Howard family. And yet Surrey continues to sit in the Tower without any charges being brought.”
That stopped Rochford, just long enough for him to look over his shoulder dismissively and say, “Don’t attempt to know my mind, Lord Robert. You might not like what you find.”
If there was one part of being king that William would have abolished if possible, it was council meetings. Here it was Christmas day, and still his privy council would not let him be. The aftereffects of drought and poor harvests, Rochford said. Torrential rains. People starving. Not to mention Mary imprisoned and the death of a duke of England under taint of treason. A realm does not sleep, Rochford insisted, and her king must be willing to do likewise.
So as the sun rose behind leaden clouds, here was assembled his much reduced privy council, more or less the remains of the regency council that had ruled in his name for years. Six months ago William had turned eighteen and gone immediately to war. Followed by his mother’s death, and then more weeks in France negotiating, and then Minuette …
William imagined announcing his engagement this very morning, having it preached of in the chapel, setting the bells to ring out his love. Then he imagined the shouting that would follow—mostly from Rochford—and sighed. Not yet.
As Lord Chancellor, his uncle opened the council, which this morning consisted of just over half a dozen men: Rochford and Dominic, naturally, along with the Earls of Pembroke and Oxford and Archbishop Cranmer. Sir Ralph Sadler ran the household and William Cecil, Lord Burghley, the treasury. Most of them were in their forties or fifties—Cranmer was actually in his sixties, though still active in both mind and body—and even Burghley, who was only thirty-four, behaved like a cautious old man.
Age and temperament aside, there were not nearly enough members of the privy council. And that was the true purpose of this meeting. His uncle had been pressing him for a decision for three weeks, and now he meant to force the matter.
“Your Majesty,” Rochford began, “before the new year dawns, we must have a complete council. You cannot long afford to overlook some of the realm’s most powerful men.”
William slouched back in his chair, willing to allow his uncle the chance to drone on and list his no doubt well-thought-out and even better phrased arguments to press his point. Why deny the man his pleasure? William meant to agree—if only to stop the endless tide of pressure—but he could afford to be generous this early in the morning. The Christmas service was still two hours off.
Dominic was not so patient. “Who?” he asked. “With Norfolk dead, and his heir imprisoned, the council already holds the only two remaining dukes in the kingdom.”
Rochford himself and Northumberland, easily the two most Protestant lords in England. There had been four dukes appointed to the regency council, but the Duke of Suffolk had died of apoplexy when William was sixteen. Suffolk had had only daughters—Jane Grey his eldest—and there had been no question of naming another duke since then. It was unlike Dominic to make a political point, and William wondered where he was headed with this one.
So was Northumberland. His blunt face (the rough edges of which so perfectly mirrored his soldier image, a man uncomfortable with pomp and elegance) looked skeptical as he asked, “What are you implying, Exeter?”
Even though he had named Dominic Marquis of Exeter just six months ago, William still wasn’t used to hearing Dominic called as such.
Northumberland pressed on. “Do you think the realm needs another duke?”
“It is not titles I am thinking of, but opinions. I think the realm needs binding, and this council should represent more than one viewpoint to serve effectively.” Dominic, unlike Northumberland, always looked perfectly suited to the finesse of the court. Tall (though William, at six feet two inches, Dominic had finally topped him by an inch), and though soberly dressed, Dominic had a way of carrying himself that reminded everyone that he had Plantagenet blood several generations back. Mostly, though, Dominic belonged because he never bothered to think about whether he did or not. It was instinctive.
“Such as the views of those who meant to march a foreign army upon London and kill our king?” Northumberland countered, brusque and angry. He had not his son Robert’s careful guile; he was too sure of his power to play games. “There is no place for traitors in England, let alone welcoming them into the heart of the court.”
“Traitors, no,” Dominic retorted. “But men of good heart and honest thought, who want the same end but perhaps through different means. No one man holds a lock on all virtue.”
William laughed. “Really, Dom, how old are you? You sound like a university philosopher. Not,” he added, “that you aren’t right. It is a poor king indeed who cannot be trusted to hear more than one voice in council.”
“Does that mean you are ready to name new men?” Rochford pressed.
“It does. Wriothesley, Arundel, Paget, and Cheney. We need men as skilled as they are opinionated. And they will be free to speak their minds.” William looked around. “That’s all.”
He was half out of his chair when Rochford said, “Lord Exeter spoke truly, Your Majesty.”
Subsiding with a suppressed groan, William said, “He always does. On which particular point do you agree with his truthfulness?”
“We must decide what to do with the Earl of Surrey.”
The late Duke of Norfolk’s grandson, currently held in the Tower of London for suspicion of treasonable activity, Surrey was heir to his grandfather’s title and vast lands that would place him on a footing with Rochford and Northumberland—if he didn’t lose his head. Even if William chose to leave him alive, he could seize the lands for the Crown and, say, banish Surrey to the Continent. Or simply keep him imprisoned.
Not that they had evidence Surrey had done anything treasonable.
Not that it necessarily mattered.
Northumberland had already made up his mind; no surprise considering how the Dudleys and Howards hated one another. “Norfolk cheated us of a useful execution—make Surrey take his place. That will teach the Catholics not to play at rebellion.”
“Surrey has been raised Protestant,” Dominic pointed out. William didn’t have to ask his friend’s opinion; distaste was written all over his face. The others would agree with the louder voices. That left, as always, Rochford.
“What say you, Uncle?” William asked. “Kill a man for his name?”
Rochford hesitated, and in that unusual moment of uncertainty William saw a momentary likeness to Dominic. Again, a resemblance not wholly surprising considering that Dominic’s mother was a second cousin to George Boleyn. They both had long, thoughtful faces and dark good looks that made women pliable. “There is wisdom in the use of a public execution. But there is also wisdom in mercy. You have established a position of strength, Your Majesty: victory in France, betrothal to the French king’s daughter, the Lady Mary under house arrest … I think, perhaps, it is time to ponder mercy.”
“Besides the fact that there is no evidence of Surrey’s involvement?” Dominic broke in, barely a step away from open sarcasm.
“That is true,” Rochford answered slowly. “In fact, I am disturbed by his consistent denials. Surrey has not wavered, or been caught in a single falsehood. It may well be that he is innocent of any crime.”
“Except representing a family that would listen to a foreign pope over our own king,” asserted Northumberland. “A pope who insists that the throne belongs to Mary Tudor and our king is naught but a bastard.”
The room went very still. Cranmer and Burghley shared a look that united the old cleric and the younger councilor in shared disapproval of such folly. William felt his stomach roil; though he knew it was said of him elsewhere, he should not have to listen to such words in his own council chamber. “That’s enough,” he said sharply. “I will judge a man by word and action, not by gossip. And certainly I will not rule out of fear. My uncle has doubts. That is sufficient for me to be cautious.”
Already a plan was forming, not yet more than a thought and a sense that it would be unexpected and thus fun. As well as useful. He kept the possibility in the back of his mind and dealt with the immediate issue.
“Lord Exeter.” He always addressed Dominic in formal terms when he was about to make a political point. “Visit Surrey in the Tower. Not just yet, though—leave it for a month or so. We will let him sit awhile and ponder the error of his family’s ways. I will keep the interrogators away from him until then. When you go, speak to his guards, speak to his servants, and speak to the inquisitors.”
He dared Rochford to protest, but his uncle seemed, if anything, approving. Hard to tell behind that masklike face. Sometimes William wished Rochford was as openly violent in his feelings as Northumberland.
“What is my brief?” Dominic asked. “Guilt or innocence?”
“Fact,” William said. “Did Surrey have any knowledge of his grandfather’s plot with the Spanish? If you are satisfied that he did not, then it will be time to speak of recompense.”
Dominic was visibly glad, and William basked in that moment of approval. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
“That is all.” William waved them away, all except Dominic.
When the door was closed on just the two of them, William stretched out his legs and sighed. “Tell me true, Dom, do you think Surrey knew of his grandfather’s plans?”
“No.”
“That’s an awfully quick answer when you haven’t even spoken to the man yet.”
“I’ve read the interview transcripts. He’s been racked—did you know that?”
Gentlemen were mostly spared torture, but Rochford had insisted. It did make Surrey’s denials more plausible. William ignored the underlying disapproval in Dominic’s question. “We all know how stubborn the Howards can be, particularly when their lives are at stake.”
“Surrey wasn’t at Framlingham during the Lady Mary’s residence. He had come nowhere near East Anglia for eight months. You appointed him to the northern marches and, except for the time he spent in Paris at your command, there he stayed—where, by the way, he has been remarkably effective on the border. He has ever served well and faithfully, with not a hint of his father’s radical Catholicism. I daresay I’ve never heard the man express a religious opinion before now.”
“He’ll have to if I let him live. The Catholics will force it of him. He’ll have to come down on one side or the other.”
“Will he?”
“What does that mean?”
Dominic shrugged, but the tension in his eyes belied his attempt at being casual. “As long as we force men to hold a religious opinion to the exclusion of all else in their life, England will remain unbalanced, liable to be tipped at any providential moment from one side to the other.”
“You think I would return this country to Rome?”
“Never. Which is why you will always be a target for those who would.”
“Then little has changed. Don’t worry about me, Dom. I’m young, I’m handsome, I’ve beaten the French, and I’m engaged to a Catholic princess. I’d say we’re fairly balanced just now.”
Dominic shifted restlessly in his chair, but he would not stand until William gave him permission. “If you’re thinking about balance, does that mean you would invest Surrey with the Norfolk title and lands?”
“An almost-Catholic duke against two Protestant ones? I think I shall have to.” With a grin, William added, “And perhaps another title as ballast against my uncle and Northumberland. We shall see.”
Dominic seemed uninterested in William’s hints. “Then I’ll speak to Surrey.”
Christmas at court was an exercise in furious revelry and exhausting entertainment. Dominic had never cared much for the masques, those exuberant displays of costume and dramatic theme and over-the-top allegory, though he had been forced to participate in several in earlier years. But this Christmas he had flatly refused when pressed by several comely court ladies to join the play. Minuette did not press him, though he knew she was part of it. In fact, from the accounts of the Master of Revels, it appeared she was planning the masque single-handedly. Orders had been given for multiple lengths of black fabric, both velvet and muslin; for red velvet headdresses; and for a machine that would produce thunder and lightning. It all seemed silly to Dominic. These days everything seemed silly that wasn’t directly connected to the present security of the state or the secret betrothal of Minuette and William.
But before the Christmas debauchery came Christmas worship. This part Dominic did enjoy, if only because everyone, even William, sat still and he could slip his gaze sideways almost as often as he liked and glimpse Minuette next to Elizabeth. The view of her was one he knew well and never tired of: caught in profile, the line of her brow and throat, the spill of her hair onto her shoulders beneath her sheer black hood … Dominic had done little enough praying in church these last weeks, unless God counted it worship to devour Minuette with his eyes.
She didn’t seem to mind. Although she glanced his way rarely, there was a wealth of pleasure in those flashes.
William, naturally, assumed those glances were for him.
Today’s Christmas service was full of gratitude for the nation’s safe delivery from the hands of evil councilors and the whore of Babylon who looked to enslave all the world. Dominic caught William’s brief frown as the archbishop hinted at the whore being not only the collective Catholic Church, but the individual person of William’s half sister, Mary. Though he might not have cause to trust her, the Tudors were very clannish, and William believed he alone had the right to chastise his sister. But Archbishop Cranmer deftly brought his words around to England’s king as the champion of true Christianity, and then the choir was singing and the soaring alleluias brought a shiver to even Dominic’s religiously conflicted heart.
If anyone had asked his beliefs, he w
ould have said he believed in honour, his king, and God. In that order. Unlike his mother (who had longed to join a religious order when young), Dominic did not follow Rome and would fight to keep England from returning to the sway of papal power. But he also disliked Martin Luther and the other Continental firebrands who thought a new Earth could only come on the blood and destruction of the old one. What use was any religion, he wondered, that demanded blood? That was the Old Testament. This was the world of the New Testament—did not Christ himself command, “Ye shall love one another”?
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.
The Boleyn Deceit: A Novel (Ann Boleyn Trilogy) Page 3
