The Boleyn Deceit: A Novel (Ann Boleyn Trilogy)

by Andersen, Laura

  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?”

  “When am I going to tell Will about them, do you mean? One step at a time, sweetheart. First let’s get him back into the world. It’s almost spring, which means campaigning, which means we’ll find out if the French intend to continue their aggressions. I’m watching Rochford, but honestly, after destroying Norfolk and Northumberland, who is left for the man to bring down?”

  “You,” Minuette answered softly but resolutely. “And me. Rochford does not trust your influence with the king, and he despises me heartily.” She hesitated over the next part, but someone had to be sensible. “Do you never think that, rather than being our enemy, we could turn Rochford to our best ally?”

  Against William, she meant, or at least the king’s anger. Because William was going to be angry. He was going to be furious when he found out they had married behind his back. While Minuette was secretl
y betrothed to William himself.

  How had they come to this, the lies and the betrayals? She often wondered what she could have done differently. But she and Dominic had made their choices and they could not be unmade. All that could be done now was to mitigate the damage. And for that, they would need allies.

  Elizabeth was the most obvious, but Minuette could not burden her with this when she had been so worried about her brother. Besides, she had her own touchy royal pride and might not be entirely understanding. But Rochford was, above all, practical. Add in the fact that he wanted nothing more than to ensure his nephew did not marry a common girl for love alone, and he seemed the perfect choice to counsel and aid them.

  If only Dominic could be persuaded. Because there was the not inconsiderable fact that, if Robert Dudley were right, then it had not been Northumberland who had ordered Minuette poisoned last year: it had been Rochford.

  She read Dominic’s resistance in the hard lines of his chest and shoulders and was not surprised when he shook his head. “I do not trust Rochford in the least, and I will not attempt to ally myself with a man who may be a traitor simply because it is convenient for me.”

  There had been no chance of a different response. Where Rochford’s core principle was practicality, Dominic’s was honour. He would never use a man he despised simply because it could benefit him. Minuette had not really expected him to agree. She had only proposed it so he could not accuse her later of acting on impulse.

  She could never regret being married to Dominic, even if it had been hurried and secret and perhaps wrong. She could not regret a moment of the brief weeks they’d had together at Wynfield Mote as husband and wife. There were no such moments now, except in dark corners where the most they could manage were a few guilty kisses. But from the moment William’s eyes had opened and his slow recovery had begun, Minuette had felt a great looming pressure that spoke of unavoidable disaster. She didn’t know what form it would take or when it would strike, but every choice she made each day seemed designed only to plug a leak in the flood that threatened to overwhelm them all.

  Once she’d been confident in her ability to find a solution that would preserve not only themselves as individuals, but their friendships. Now her confidence was gone and when she wept, which was often, it was for a tangle of troubles far beyond her abilities to solve.

  At such times, there was a terrible whisper in her head, poisonous and treasonous, that would not leave her alone. If only William had not survived the pox …

  She buried herself in Dominic’s arms once more to shut out that thought. William had survived and she was glad of it, and if there were terrible prices to be paid in future she would pay them with a clear conscience.

  “It will be all right,” Dominic whispered, his hands stroking her hair. “It shall all come right in the end.”

  And there was a measure of how the world had upended itself: that Dominic had all the confidence and she all the doubt.

  “After the execution, I will speak to Robert again. Perhaps his father’s death will loosen his tongue,” Dominic said.

  And if not, Minuette thought, I shall have to make my own choice about whether to approach Rochford.

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