The Boleyn Deceit: A Novel (Ann Boleyn Trilogy)

by Andersen, Laura

  Robert didn’t miss a beat. “Of course.”

  Wondering if the man could ever be thrown off-balance, William abruptly changed the subject. “Does not your wife miss you? You are so often gone from home.”

  A twitch of the eye was the only sign that Robert had his points of weakness. “I serve at your pleasure. Amy knows that. She bears with it as any wife must.”

  William nearly snorted at his audacity. Everyone knew that Robert had long been investigating the possibility of a divorce. Perhaps it was time to point out that, divorced or not, he would never be a suitable husband for Elizabeth. Might as well take out some of his restlessness and irritation on Robert.

  “Politically speaking, who do you think is the wisest choice for my sister’s husband—another French match, to further cement the ties of the treaty, or a Protestant lord at home to appease the rabid anti-Papists?”

  “Being Protestant myself, you cannot expect me to recommend the princess marry a Catholic. I’m hardly an objective judge.”

  “Not objective at all.” William infused the words with meaning.

  There was a long pause, and when Robert spoke again, his voice had lost its aloof amusement. “I fear I cannot consider your sister’s marriage solely in a political light, Your Majesty. I have known her too long and liked her too well to think of her only as a means of extracting you from your own folly.” In a voice lowered to a whisper, he continued, “She will do whatever you ask, without demur. But you’ll be sacrificing her happiness for your own.”

  “I would hold my tongue if I were you.”

  “I have no wish to incur your anger, Your Majesty. But you must know your interests have not gone unnoticed. You think me foolish in my hopes. My folly is nothing compared to yours. If you expect to break with France and place a simple girl on England’s throne—”

  “You will cease such idle speculation. If relations with France are damaged by malicious gossip, I will hold you and all Protestants responsible. Take care that you do not bring down disaster on your own head.”

  William turned on his heel and stalked away as Robert said softly, “I might counsel you the same.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “A MAN TO see you, Your Highness.”

  Elizabeth turned, frowning, from appraising two gowns in decision, and said to Kat, “French? I haven’t forgotten an appointment, have I?”

  “As if you ever would,” Kat Ashley sniffed. Even the French court could not shake the woman’s imperturbable calm. “No, this man is English. Francis Walsingham, he says. He has brought a letter of introduction.”

  She handed it over, and Elizabeth read swiftly the words of praise and recommendation from Lord Burghley. “I’ll see him in the presence chamber, Kat.”

  When she swept into the presence chamber set aside for her use at Fontainebleau, Elizabeth saw a tall man with a pointed beard, younger than she’d expected, dressed in the sober style of an academic. His medium-brown hair dipped into a widow’s peak, accenting his frighteningly intelligent eyes. The kind of eyes ever alert to secrets, she thought. Wherever they occur.

  He bowed. “Francis Walsingham, Your Highness. Thank you for seeing me.”

  “Lord Burghley, a man I greatly respect, wrote in his introduction that meeting with you would be worth my time. Why is that?”

  “Because of what I can do for you.”

  “How presumptuous.”

  “Yes, Your Highness.”

  Despite herself, she laughed out loud and gestured for him to make himself comfortable. They both sat and she said, “So what can a presumptuous man do for me?”

  “I can give you knowledge.”

  “I have studied many years to gain knowledge for myself.”

  “There is knowledge … and knowledge, Your Highness.”

  “Speak plainly, Master Walsingham.”

  “I am an intelligencer. The knowledge I can give you will be that found in dark streets and far-off palaces, whispers and rumours of whispers in places you could never go yourself.”

  She arched her eyebrow. “And I suppose such knowledge will cost me dear.”

  “Knowledge is never too dear.”

  She leaned back in her chair, attempting to intimidate him with her frank appraisal. Walsingham just looked back at her calmly. “You have worked for Lord Burghley?” she asked.

  “From time to time.”

  “Anyone else? Anyone outside of England?”

  “I am loyal, if that is what you are asking, Your Highness. Loyal to England and its tolerance. Loyal to a stable government without the fanaticism of Popery. Loyal, if you allow it, to you personally.”

  And that, Elizabeth knew, was the appeal. To have her own intelligencer, a man of secrets and knowledge to work for her alone. William had any number of such men working for his government—why should she not have the same?

  “It should not be too difficult to tease out secret knowledge while I am in France. I will see what you can do, Master Walsingham. Impress me, and I will consider your future.”

  He bowed once more, but did not seem overly surprised by her challenge. “It will be my honour, Your Highness.”

  It was a relief to William to leave Wales behind, even on an unpleasant errand. He nearly changed his mind a dozen times on his way to Beaulieu, but whatever Dominic might claim, he had a sense of duty. Especially where family was concerned.

  His own guards saluted as he rode into Beaulieu. Although he had recently allowed Mary to return to her favorite residence, he kept his half sister under guard, still wary after last year’s maneuverings. Rochford might be doubtful of the late Duke of Norfolk’s intention to rebel last autumn, but William could never rest easy while Mary was alive. There would always be unscrupulous, power-hungry men to use her.

  He was greeted by John Dudley, Earl of Warwick. Despite Guildford’s arrest and the Duke of Northumberland’s continuing absence from court, William had seen no need to relieve Warwick of his position. Northumberland’s oldest son had done a creditable job overseeing Mary’s house arrest and should not be punished for his father’s arrogance. Six years older than Robert, Warwick was much more like their father—blunt and straightforward and, most importantly, a devout Protestant who took seriously his task of keeping Mary from fomenting further rebellion.

  “Your Majesty.” He bowed, not quite as gracefully as Robert would have managed. “The Lady Mary is ready for you in her privy chamber.”

  “How is she?” William asked as they walked together through the quadrangular palace. His father had built much of it after acquiring it from his future father-in-law a decade before Henry even thought of Anne as his wife. Ironic, William often thought, that Beaulieu was Mary’s favorite home. Though likely it had to do with their father’s stamp on the architecture and the many remnants of his seal in various interiors.

  “The heat does not agree with the Lady Mary, but then neither does the cold nor the wind nor the rain.” There was a hint of his brother’s humour in Warwick’s voice, but he was far more respectful than Robert. “She has been low in spirits, Your Majesty. I know your visit will cheer her.”

  I doubt it, William thought grimly. Not with the news I bring.

  He saw at once what Warwick meant when his sister curtsied to him. He raised her up and studied her face. Though she had gained weight in the last few years, her cheeks today were gaunt and her deep-set eyes feverish. “I am sorry you have not been well,” he said, truthfully.

  “I will be all the better for your presence,” she answered.

  “Please, sit.”

  Mary’s privy chamber was a reflection of the woman: richly decorated but somber, almost old-fashioned, in its feel. Even the air felt heavy in here. William did not wonder that his sister was often ill if she spent so much time brooding in this chamber. It was a shrine to crucifixes and representations of martyrdom, and he thought cynically that if all the Reformation had done was remove this depressing décor from England, it had been worth it. They were alon
e today, at William’s politely worded command, for he wanted only to deliver his news and be done with it.

  When they were both seated—Mary in a cushioned chair nicely judged to be almost but not quite the equal of the king’s—William said, “I do apologize that I have not been to see you before. It has been a busy time, particularly with the prolonged visit from the French.”

  “And now our sister returns the favour with a tour of France,” Mary replied with a thin smile. “I am certain Elizabeth is enjoying herself.”

  “Elizabeth is my personal representative to the French court. She is tasked with ensuring an appropriate respect for England and our current peace treaty.”

  “The treaty that will tie you to the French king’s daughter.” Mary spoke neutrally, but that in itself was damning.

  “How can you not approve of my betrothal to Elisabeth de France? She is Catholic.”

  “And if that was why you chose her, I would rejoice, brother. But the girl is too young to hold out against you. Your council will force her to raise your children in heresy and thus damn their souls before they are even born.”

  William drew a breath to steady himself. He did not enjoy fighting with women. “That is not the point of this visit, Mary. I have some news for you, news that I fear you will find unpleasant.”

  She tilted her head in query, one hand restlessly fingering the rosary she wore at her waist. The expression on her face might have been patience but was more likely stubbornness.

  “Edmund Bonner has been convicted of treason. He will die at the stake two days from now.”

  She blinked once, the only betrayal of her feelings. “Burning at the stake is not the penalty for treason.”

  “He was also convicted of heresy.”

  “Oh, William.” Now there was true emotion in her voice, a plea of anger and sorrow. “How can a follower of the True Church commit heresy? It is not for you to say—”

  “It is for me to say. I am Supreme Head of the Church, Mary. That is never going to change. We will never return to Rome and their corrupted popes. I allow you to worship as gives you comfort, but do not press me. My leniency is not unlimited.”

  “I must speak as my conscience demands—”

  “And that is why you are, and will remain, under house arrest. I will not allow your conscience to endanger my people or my throne. I am sorry for you, Mary, but this is the life you have chosen. As long as you cling to the past, you will remain locked away. But remember—that is your choice. I do not make it for you.”

  She paused, breathing heavily, and William was smitten by the reminder of her poor health. At last, she said simply, “I will pray for you, brother, as I never cease to do.”

  “And I welcome your prayers as coming from my own dear sister. Rest well, Mary.”

  William was so anxious to get away from her cloying religious devotion that he did not even stay the night.

  After their dispute in Wales, Robert Dudley was not surprised when William told him he was not welcome to accompany him for the rest of the king’s progress. He was not the only one; Rochford, too, had been sent packing. One by one William’s picking us off, Robert thought, and grimaced. He wished uneasily that Dominic were in the country. The new duke might be humourless and inflexible, but those very qualities made him a good ballast for William’s mercurial moods.

  For about three minutes he considered going to Dudley Castle and seeing his father; for less time even than that he considered visiting his own home—and wife. Instead, Robert returned to London and Ely Place. He expected the town house to be empty of his family, but to his surprise he found his mother in residence.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked, after the filial kisses had been bestowed. “London is never pleasant in July.”

  “Edmund Bonner will be executed tomorrow.” His mother might be dressed as a woman of the court in her dark gray silk and diamond earrings, but she spoke with an inflexible purpose.

  Alarmed, Robert said, “Surely you don’t mean to attend! A burning is not a fit spectacle for any woman.”

  “That didn’t stop Bishop Bonner from inflicting it upon Anne Askew.”

  How could he have overlooked his mother’s championship of the Protestant martyr? Bonner had had Anne Askew tortured to the point that she’d had to be carried to her own burning in a chair, unable to even walk to her death. His mother had a most active conscience, and she had never forgiven the Catholic bishop for his torment of Askew. But even so, there was no way Robert could let her anywhere near the raw brutality of Bonner’s death. If for no other reason than that his father would kill him if he didn’t stop her.

  “Mother, be reasonable. If you won’t be swayed by propriety, then at least consider the matter politically. If the Duchess of Northumberland were to be found at the execution of a recalcitrant Catholic bishop, it would be seen as gloating. His death may be necessary, but inflaming the religious divide is not.”

  “And how would it be seen if one of the duchess’s younger sons were to be found at the execution?”

  Robert pressed his lips tight to keep from swearing. Had he just been neatly maneuvered into attending Bonner’s burning? He wouldn’t put it past his astute mother to have orchestrated the entire thing—including even his argument with William—just to get him to London and to the execution. It was true that he would not be a controversial spectator—in the midst of the crowds avid to watch the spectacle, he could much more easily blend in than his mother. And even if he were noticed, he was, as Rochford kept telling him, not important enough to cause more than a ripple of interest.

  “Fine,” he answered. “I will watch Bonner burn and tell you all about it, but then you must leave London. No doubt Father is missing you.” Unlike too many marriages—his own, for example—that was not mere politeness. His parents were fiercely devoted to each other.

  With his acquiescence, his mother’s stern expression softened. “I miss your father,” she agreed. “But Bonner is not the only thing that keeps me in London. I have one son here who is not at liberty to leave. You have not forgotten Guildford, have you?”

  “I have not. But just because the king is on progress doesn’t mean you’re going to get into the Tower to see Guildford. Rochford has returned to Whitehall, and I promise that the guards’ orders are strict. None of us will see Guildford until the king is ready to let us do so. And the worst way to get the king’s permission is to maneuver behind his back.”

  She favoured him with a smile of approval. It made her look much younger than any mother of thirteen had the right to look, Robert thought. “It is easy to overlook your intelligence in the midst of your charm,” his mother said. “After Bonner’s death, I will return to Dudley Castle and await word from the princess on our invitation. Do you suppose she will come?”

  Robert shrugged. “I suppose Elizabeth will do precisely what she pleases.”

  Having placated his mother, he did as she’d asked and attended the execution of Edmund Bonner, Bishop of London. It took place at West Smithfield, a large grassy space just outside the city walls. Robert had seen men die by hanging—and of course on the battlefield—but this was something else entirely. Bonner stood in an empty tar barrel, bound to a stake, and faggots were heaped high about him. Sometimes, Robert knew, those condemned to burning were strangled first but there was no such mercy for heretics. There was a priest to pray for Bonner, but no one tried to plead with him to recant. Only the Catholics cared enough to save a man’s soul at the end, Robert thought cynically, or perhaps they were enamoured of their own righteousness. The Protestants were more pragmatic and there were no wasted words or time; the faggots were simply lit.

  As long as he lived, Robert hoped to never see anything half so terrible again. It took Bonner a long time to fall unconscious from the smoke, long enough for him to scream from the pain of the flames. It was a sickening death, and so Robert reported to his mother when he returned to Ely Place.

  “That is why Mary must never b
e allowed near the throne,” his mother said firmly, looking up from her needlework, her face very pale. “How long do you think it would take the Catholics to import the Inquisition to England?”

  “And so we fight fire with fire,” Robert answered ironically.

  “And so we do what we must.”

  She left for Dudley Castle the following morning. As Robert waved farewell, he kept thinking that his mother had sounded awfully like Lord Rochford. He was beginning to be wary of people who were so inflexibly certain. It made him wonder what his father was doing at Dudley Castle this summer. He was pretty sure it was more than just wait for Elizabeth’s answer to their invitation. He was also pretty sure that he didn’t want to know about it.

  After almost a month at Fontainebleau, Dominic was more than ready to leave the French court behind. It was even worse than England, where at least he knew the courtiers and politicians and lawyers, and where the peculiarly English character was familiar. The French court made England’s look like child’s play. Everything here was byzantine and circular so that one step led not to the next but to an entirely different path that bore no relation to where you actually thought you were going.

  He had not spoken directly to the Spanish ambassador, as would have been his choice. The man had a French servant deliver a message from a Spanish servant to the effect that discretion was in order. I will send you word of time and place, the ambassador had written. Be prepared to disguise yourself sufficiently not to be followed.

  Who would want to follow me? was Dominic’s first thought. But he was not stupid enough to fail to recognize that as William’s friend and now a duke in his own right he would indeed be followed and watched. Friendship with kings is always one-sided, he thought sourly, and Renaud seemed to see the same thing in him.

  “Still playing diplomatic games against your nature?” the Frenchman asked as the two of them sparred comfortably in an empty practice yard. “I think it keeps you sleepless, mon ami … or perhaps there is a more pleasant reason for your look of tiredness?”