The Boleyn Deceit: A Novel (Ann Boleyn Trilogy)

by Andersen, Laura

  Dominic met the insinuation with less grace. “There is no woman, Renaud, so keep your thoughts to yourself.”

  Renaud laughed. “I was not implying what you think. If you are sleepless over a woman—and let us not pretend, we both know that I have met this most particular woman—it is because she is not in your bed at night. Why not marry the très belle fille and remedy the situation?”

  “If you mean Mistress Wyatt, she is the especial friend of the king and his sister and was raised a royal ward. Her marriage will not be a simple matter. And also,” Dominic struck furiously at Renaud’s blade, forcing him to step back a pace, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Renaud parried. “Bon. Of course. But if you did know what I was talking about … are you not also an especial friend of your king? I would think a marriage would not be that complicated.”

  “No more, Renaud,” Dominic said sharply, disengaging his sword at the same moment. “I will discuss many things with you, but marriage is personal.”

  Renaud regarded him thoughtfully. “Acknowledged. But you should remember, Dominic, that matters of life and death can depend on a marriage. Such as that of your king and my royal princess. That, you will want to remember.”

  “I remember it every day,” Dominic retorted. “And I desire the peace it ensures between our countries. I have no wish to clash with you in the field again.”

  “Nor I. After all, the last time I ended up your prisoner.”

  Dominic could not shake the suspicion that there had been more than one point to Renaud’s conversation; he just wasn’t sure he had followed them all. It worried him, even as he watched Minuette charm the French right and left. She was as lovely here as in England, but her spontaneity and freshness were even more noticeable in the mannered court. Of course, next to some of the Frenchwomen, even Elizabeth looked positively impulsive.

  But Elizabeth was here for a political purpose, and her position kept her to a strict round of carefully orchestrated public events: hawking with King Henri and the dauphin, afternoon visits to nearby noble homes, attending a Catholic mass with Queen Catherine de Medici and the young Princess Elisabeth. Minuette could move more freely. One morning might be spent walking in the classical gardens with Elisabeth and Mary of Scotland, the two royal girls chattering with Minuette as though they had known her all their lives while dogs of various sizes played around them. Another day Minuette received a private tour of Saint Denis, the magnificent church raised by Abbot Suger in the twelfth century and burial place of French kings. As Dominic made it his business to always know her whereabouts (and ensure Harrington was with her if he could not be), he received many assurances of her interest in and enthusiasm for France.

  The promised word from the Spanish ambassador came just three days before their scheduled departure from Fontainebleau. It was smuggled to Dominic in code, amidst a sheaf of innocuous dispatches from home. Deciphered, it gave him directions to a meeting place at midnight (why is it always midnight? Dominic wondered) and instructed him, Come alone and do not dress the gentleman.

  That last order was considerably easier than the first. Dominic only dressed as a duke when forced into it; by choice his clothing, though well made and of expensive fabric, was unadorned and somber and easy enough to conceal him in the dark. But come alone meant leaving Harrington out of it, and the big, silent man had a sixth sense for trouble. He plainly did not believe Dominic when he said he was tired and would not need him again that evening, but he respected Dominic and left when finally ordered. Dominic couldn’t swear that Harrington wouldn’t stand watch for his return, however.

  The directions led him to an unsavory section of Paris that, beneath its seediness, held the outlines of old glamour. London had places like this, where the nobility could go slumming without actually delving into the worst of poverty and apathy. Dominic had been to such places a handful of times, though never for pleasure. It was, he admitted, perfectly suited to a clandestine meeting of gentlemen, for they would not stand out as long as they adapted the slightly furtive air of men looking for a hard drink and an easy woman.

  There was an abundance of both drinks and women in the front room of the indicated public house, but as directed Dominic went straight through, up the rickety stairs, and knocked once on the second door on the right of the unlit landing.

  It was opened noiselessly by the Spanish ambassador himself. Simon Renard was in his early forties, with darkish hair and a lighter, red-tinged beard. Dominic knew of him, from his earlier studies for Rochford, and he knew the man was highly intelligent and, like all good spies, innately suspicious. Renard looked past him into the shadows of the corridor, to ensure he had come alone.

  Without a greeting, he let Dominic enter and shut the door before saying a word. “Shall it be Monsieur Courtenay tonight?” he asked in accented but clear French. “We would not want titles thrown about freely. I understand this meeting will never have taken place.”

  Dominic pointedly sat down on the only chair in the room, a rather precarious cane-bottomed seat, leaving Renard to choose between standing or perching on the bed that no doubt usually saw quite other activities. Renard chose to lean against the door, in a pose Dominic recognized. It was usually his own.

  There was no point in waiting for the ambassador to begin things; as Renard had said, this meeting was William’s idea. And though he no doubt knew the topic—or guessed shrewdly—it was still Dominic’s job to state it aloud.

  “My king is interested in Prince Philip and his matrimonial intentions.”

  “Vraiment, I had heard you are no diplomat, but still …” He shrugged. Clearly Renard had not expected him to state it with such bluntness. “If it is plain speaking you want—then tell me, does your king truly think he can marry a French princess on one hand and send his sister to Spain on the other hand? It would be the strangest of marriage beds all around.”

  Dominic could not be blunt about the next part; he had to hint without revealing anything. “My king respects Spain and recognizes her great power. To wed his own dearest sister to Spain would be an honour beyond measure. There is no tie greater than that of blood. Where his sister goes, the king’s heart will follow.”

  The Spaniard’s eyes narrowed. “I thought your king’s heart was to be found here, with the little princess at the French court. Can a heart be split?”

  “The love for a bride may grow cold—but the love for a sister is forever.”

  “And does your king’s love grow cold?”

  “It may be that winter is coming for certain loves.”

  The ambassador’s expression was thoughtful, and discerning. Dominic was as satisfied as he could be that he’d been understood. Elizabeth to Spain, in exchange for an alliance when William withdrew from his French marriage plans.

  With a single nod, Renard said abruptly, “The message will reach my prince, you may be assured. Perhaps a reply may be brought to England itself?”

  “It is likely.” In other words, another ambassador would soon be allowed in London.

  “Then perhaps you and I will meet again, Monsieur Courtenay. I have always wished to see England.”

  With his hand on the door to let Dominic out, Renard paused at the last minute. “Winter is coming for certain loves, you say. Is it possible that a new love has withered the old?”

  Dominic met his gaze without blinking. “You would have to ask my king.”

  He left the public house at once, not at all tempted to linger for a drink. It was a relief to have that done, and now he could focus on getting the women back to England. Returning Minuette to William, true, but also one step closer to ending the French game, one step closer to the decision point.

  Distraction cost him dearly. He only heard the footsteps at the last moment, just quick enough to half deflect the blow from behind. The cudgel glanced off the side of his head rather than landing full on. He stumbled and his attacker moved in once more. But Dominic was paying full attention now and step
ped into the attack, which threw off the other man’s balance and allowed Dominic to slam his palm into his attacker’s nose. A crunch and a gush of blood, and then the man ran. Dominic began to give chase, but his steps were not entirely steady and he had not gone far before another man swung out of a doorway and seized his arm.

  Dominic braced and prepared to elbow him in the face when a familiar voice shouted, “Don’t be a fool, Dominic!”

  Only one man pronounced his name in that fashion, with the long vowels. Dominic lowered his arm and said, “Why in the devil’s name are you following me, Renaud?”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  RENAUD WOULD NOT answer him until they had returned to the court. They did not go to Dominic’s more public guest chamber, but to Renaud’s own small room attached to the barracks. It was a soldier’s room: ordered, precise, and, if not quite bare, certainly not domestic. Here, Renaud brought water and a cloth and began to clean the blood from Dominic’s hair.

  He winced at the pressure, gentle as it was. The blow had caught him above the right ear and felt as though it had left a small crater behind.

  “It is clean,” Renaud assured him. “It was not meant to kill.”

  Dominic was forced to agree. He’d been distracted enough—more shame to him—that even with his last-second movement a killing blow would have done far more damage to his skull. “Why try only to knock me out?” he wondered aloud. “Robbery?”

  Renaud rinsed the cloth in the water, red bleeding into the bowl, then sighed and took a seat across the small table from Dominic. “He followed you from the tavern. A tavern well-known as a gathering place for men of the Spanish embassy.”

  “Which returns us to the pressing question—why were you following me?”

  “Isn’t the pressing question why a Spaniard would strike you down after you’d met with his ambassador?”

  Dominic debated denying the charge, but what was the point? Renaud had clearly figured it out. “We can both guess the answer to that: the ambassador wanted my meeting to become public without spreading the news himself. Hit me, leave me unconscious, and have me ‘discovered’ in the streets, leading the French to wonder why I was found in a notorious meeting place of the Spanish.”

  “Someone does not trust England’s intentions.” Renaud shook his head, his expression deeply wary. “Dominic, what is it your king has asked of you?”

  Dominic chose to meet the question with silence, knowing Renaud did not expect him to answer. Indeed, the Frenchman went on almost immediately.

  “I know, you cannot answer. And I will not force your secrets into the open. But if I can be suspicious, then others are ten times more so. Even here, I have heard rumours that your king is enamoured of a young woman. There is … disquiet at the news. If only you English were not so prudish! I suppose he will not make her his mistress, and so means to upset all of Europe just as his father did.”

  Dominic stood up a little more forcefully than intended, dizziness reminding him of his head wound. “Thank you for your aid tonight. I must go.”

  Renaud also stood, and gripped Dominic’s arm. “Let us speak for a moment not as adversaries, but as friends. The name of this young woman has also been spoken in some circles, and it is she whom I have seen you watching at our court. You are correct—a marriage between you would be extremely complicated. But if she truly is your Nicole, my friend—”

  “What?” Dominic said roughly. “What if she is?”

  He almost hoped that the older man would tell him what to do, or at least point a path. Instead, Renaud said, “If she is, then you have my understanding and my sympathy. And as much reason as I to wish your king well married to my own princess. Perhaps he will listen to you.”

  “William hears what he wants to hear.” It was the most damning statement Dominic could make, and as close to treasonous as he’d ever been.

  “If he will not hear, then you must. I am your friend, Dominic, but my country comes first. Always. I do not want war, but where France goes, I must follow. Do you understand?”

  France is suspicious and we will not let ourselves be taken by surprise. “I understand perfectly.”

  He pulled out of Renaud’s grip and walked out, sick from much more than being struck in the head.

  23 July 1555

  Fontainebleau Palace

  After just more than five weeks at the French court, tomorrow is our final day. I cannot decide if I am more excited about returning home or about tomorrow night’s closing festivities. Probably tomorrow, since returning to England means more than just home—it means a return to secrecy on all sides and my lingering doubts about Alyce’s death and the plots behind it.

  Not that there aren’t secrets and plots aplenty in France! After my initial introduction to Diane de Poitiers, I thought her merely being polite when she hinted that she would speak to me at more length during our stay. But I begin to believe she never does anything for mere politeness. Three days ago I received a gold-edged invitation to a private meeting in La Duchesse’s chambers at Fontainebleau. With more than a little trepidation, I went. Even Elizabeth was surprised—she herself has not been so favoured. But then, she is here to represent England officially and it would not do to offend Queen Catherine by meeting in private with her rival.

  It was a most … disconcerting encounter. Like Queen Anne, Madame de Poitiers has the trick of looking through one as though she knows all one’s secrets and is privately amused by them. I was not surprised that she asked me about William—everyone here knows I am close to both the Tudor siblings—but I was surprised when she next turned her inquisitiveness to the subject of Dominic.

  What does the new duke make of his estates? she asked. Does he continue to prefer the soldier’s life to that of the court? How does he deal with the ambitious females who flatter him for his rank and his person? That last question was asked in a most impertinent manner, and with a flick of her eyes, Madame de Poitiers indicated one of her women who sat nearby ostensibly reading but mostly just listening to us.

  “Aimée was quite inconsolable with his coldness. I tried to tell her that the English are not like our men—that refusing to enjoy a woman’s particular … skills … does not mean the woman herself is not worth it.”

  I did not at all like the look of Aimée. She is dark and voluptuous, and the smug air of experience about her reminds me of Eleanor. And I remembered what Madame de Poitiers had said to Dominic at the beginning of our stay—that he should beware Aimée.

  Looking at the woman, who met my gaze with a knowing smile, I do not believe this Aimée possesses a heart. If Dominic injured her at all, it can only have been to her pride. And I do not feel sorry for her.

  Minuette stayed awake long after Carrie left her that night in her elaborate, overornamented bedchamber. Some hours after midnight, still sleepless, she considered rising and writing more in her diary simply for something to do, but at last she found herself drifting into a pleasant state of half daydreams that revolved around Dominic and the abandoned church near Wynfield and, in the distance, the glimpse of two children, one fair and one dark. She had nearly put names to those shadowy children when a creak broke her focus.

  It was very soft, so that she almost thought she’d imagined it, but Minuette was not imagining the slight change in the blackness where the door to her room opened. Before she could decide what to do, the door was pulled closed carefully and all was once more black. For a moment she panicked at the thought of someone shut in the room with her, but there was no feeling of another human, no change in breath or silence. But that moment held her frozen just long enough so when she did get out of bed and threw open her door, she saw nothing but an empty corridor.

  And an object—irregular and disturbing in outline—on her chamber floor.

  Minuette focused on essentials, refusing to study the object or let her mind jump ahead. She left the door open while she located the beeswax candle on the tabletop where she’d left her jewelry casket. She had to step into th
e corridor—avoiding the unknown object—to light it from one of the torches that was kept burning at distant intervals, and she was cross when she realized she was shaking. Candle lit, she returned to her chamber and shut the door. Only then did she allow herself to take a good look at what her unknown visitor had left.

  It was a dead rat, wound in velvet as though in a grotesque parody of court dress.

  There was a parchment beneath it, though it took all Minuette’s nerve—and the use of her chamber pot—to edge the rat aside enough to see it.

  She immediately wished she hadn’t bothered. The page was a parody of the broadsides that had once plastered London in protest against the despised Anne Boleyn. This was a rough but recognizable sketch of Minuette herself, bared to the waist and looming giant-sized between William on one side and Elisabeth de France on the other. Beneath her feet lay a dove, symbol of peace. One of Minuette’s heels smashed its head.

  She sat down abruptly on the edge of her bed, staring dizzily at the rat as though the dead creature might come to life any second and bite her. She almost wished it would, for this was more twisted and disturbing than the straightforward threat of the adder that Fidelis had killed. So much for removing me from England to keep me safe, she thought numbly.

  At least one question had been answered: her enemy was not Eleanor. Or at least, not this particular enemy—seeing as an ocean presently divided them.

  There was no way she could sleep with that dead rat in her bedroom and the vulgar paper would have to be destroyed before anyone at the French court saw it, not to mention dealing with the uncomfortable knowledge that someone had opened her door only minutes ago. The culprit had no doubt thought her sound asleep and would not expect an outcry until morning. She could call for Carrie, but even as Minuette threw on a bed robe over her nightgown, she knew that wasn’t the help she wanted.

  She left the candle burning in the room and, gingerly pulling it free from the rat’s body, brought the broadside with her to show Dominic.