When he had come upon her in the gardens with William, he had not known her. And in those few seconds of nonrecognition, he had found himself appraising her as if she were a stranger—tall, lithe, and with a touch of joy in her movements that was very pleasing.
And then, like a shifting prism, it was Minuette on that wall, jumping to him as if she were still ten years old. But it had been the body of a woman he’d caught and held for longer than he’d meant to. And in that brief embrace, he’d heard a voice in his mind that had thrown him out of all countenance: Giles Howard’s crude but accurate assessment—rather like a colt, all eyes and legs and spirit.
He’d almost forgotten that Minuette walked next to him until she said softly, “I’m sorry, Dominic.”
Startled, he said, “What on earth for?”
“You should not have had to see me like … I should never have been there. I should have known what to do. It’s so humiliating.…”
That stopped him in his tracks, horrified at how he had been brooding on his own injuries and completely ignoring Minuette’s. She would not look at him, and he wanted desperately to make her do so.
“Your only sin is too great kindness,” he said firmly, “and who can fault you for that? You would not be Minuette without it. I only hope that tonight has not driven kindness from you.”
Finally she looked at him, a liquid glance that rearranged his insides. “You are not angry with me?”
“Never with you.”
“This was not how I imagined it would be when you came back to court.”
“What did you imagine?”
He told himself that he was wrong about the hitch in her breathing, that he was tired and fanciful and the whole day was becoming increasingly unreal. He needed to sleep, he told himself firmly. And when he woke up, the world would right itself and Minuette would be—
A scream knifed through the air, abruptly cut off with a sickening thud. Some things Dominic could do by instinct; he was moving toward the sound before he knew it, Minuette on his heels. He almost told her sharply to stay behind, but he didn’t want to abandon her in an empty corridor.
A woman lay in a fatally unnatural sprawl at the bottom of a staircase, the rich red of her dress pooled around her; in the torchlight he could not tell where the blood began and the fabric ended. Dominic threw out his arm to stop Minuette, but she had already seen. More than just seen—recognized.
“Alyce!”
CHAPTER FOUR
MINUETTE WAS SOMEWHAT startled to wake up the next morning; she had been so certain that she would never be able to sleep. Still, when she opened her eyes she saw not only the narrow chamber around her but Alyce’s crumpled body and dented skull from last night.
She sat up and pressed her hands to her face, but blacking out sight didn’t change things. Alyce was dead—and it was Minuette’s fault. She should have told someone about the pregnancy, even though Alyce hadn’t wanted it. Her friend had been in despair and not thinking … why else would she have thrown herself down the stairs? And why hadn’t Minuette realized how desperate Alyce was?
An accident, Dominic had soothed her last night. No light at the top of those steps, and so easy for a woman to stumble with the heels and the skirts …
Minuette didn’t believe that for an instant. Court women were accustomed to their heels and skirts; otherwise, there would be tripping in corridors and slipping on steps every day. Alyce had not stumbled last night, except on purpose. Maybe she had not even meant to kill herself. Maybe she had only been trying to lose the baby.
Then why did she scream? a little voice niggled. If she did it on purpose …
She opened her eyes and brought herself back to the now. It was her first day in Elizabeth’s service, and she could not begin by being late.
Swinging out of bed, she almost hit the opposite wall with her knees. The chamber she had been allotted was tiny, but for the first time in her life it was all hers—a rare luxury for any nonroyal lady, and a mark of how high she stood in Elizabeth’s household. Minuette might hold no objective power, but she would be a gatekeeper to the princess.
She stood up, already making a list of things to do: choose a dress, find someone to help with her hair (she might be more important now, but that didn’t mean she had any more money to hire a maid of her own), pretend that she had not watched Dominic nearly kill a man last night (for your sake, a little voice whispered).
Giles Howard was vile and dangerous, true. But Dominic had stopped him with an intensity that had penetrated her own fear, and William … William had promised he would let her marry whom she chose. She still felt a jolt of triumph that she held that kind of sway with the King of England—a jolt that turned uneasy at the memory of Alyce speaking to William last night. Surely that meant something; she could not recall Alyce ever speaking with him before. And that she had died soon after … Minuette shoved the thought aside.
She chose her simplest gown of white underdress and blue linen overdress embroidered with ivory leaves along the hem. As she tied her hair back with a silver ribbon, someone knocked on the door. She opened it to a young page, expecting to hear that Elizabeth had summoned her, but instead the page said, “Mistress Wyatt? I have a letter for you.”
He handed over a thick sheaf of paper—it was more a small book than a mere letter—and she looked at the plain wax seal. “From whom?” she asked.
“Mistress de Clare.” He bowed himself away in the moment of Minuette’s shock.
Alyce de Clare. Alyce—who was dead. But apparently still sending letters.
She broke the wax and read the first page, dated yesterday.
Minuette,
You are right, of course. I am in trouble, though I do not think you could begin to imagine what sort. I believe I can find my way clear. But in spite of my protestations, I find I need your help. Will you keep the enclosed for me and not tell anyone? They are my assurance. When I am clear of this trouble, I will let you know and you may burn the enclosed.
Alyce
Postscript: Thank you for the loan of Petrarch. If I forget to return the volume, you may retrieve it yourself from my chest.
Unnerved, Minuette sank onto her bed. What did Alyce mean, that Minuette could not guess her trouble? She was only too clearly with child. And what were these assurances of safety? Love letters, perhaps, meant to force a man to take responsibility and help his lover? But then why throw herself down a staircase if she thought she knew her way clear?
Scanning the enclosed sheets, her bewilderment grew. There were eleven in all, but they were completely unreadable. There weren’t any words, just strings of nonsense letters in short blocks of text. Ciphered? Her confusion gave way to fear. Alyce had been right: Minuette could not begin to guess what sort of trouble her friend had been in.
She folded the ciphered pages together with Alyce’s covering letter and put them inside her sparsely tenanted jewelry casket. She was in over her head and needed to think about who best to help her. Her first thought was Dominic—probably because he had been with her last night when Alyce had died. Also because he was the steadiest man she knew and she needed someone steady to tell her what to do.
But first she had a princess to report to.
William prowled the perimeter of the council chamber, empty except for Dominic, who said, “Don’t you ever sit still?”
“I think better when I move.”
“Any chance you’re thinking about Alyce de Clare?”
William drew a momentary blank, then remembered and shrugged it off. “You’re overreacting. So she spoke to me last night. So I agreed to meet with her today about whatever she wanted to talk about. No doubt it was about something trivial like taking a leave from court.”
“Then she would have been speaking to your mother, not you. Are you sure you’ve never spoken with her before?” He asked it casually, but William heard the unspoken accusation and resented it, the more so because it came from Dominic.
“I will swear
it on my throne, if you like. I do remember women’s faces, if not always their names.”
“Still,” Dominic pressed—and this time the casualness was overdone, making William’s nerves twitch—“I think there is something more to this.”
“The girl fell down the stairs … and that’s the charitable version. I’ve already heard from four people this morning that she was pregnant. For her family’s sake we should leave it alone. Why give the gossips more to talk about?”
“Why would she ask to speak with you and then throw herself down a staircase?”
William stopped prowling and stared at his friend. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Dominic hesitated, and in that moment the door was thrown open and the regency council entered by twos and threes, only Lord Rochford keeping to himself amidst the babble of male voices. William braced himself to argue with his uncle about Dominic’s presence at today’s meeting. Dominic was staying—William would make him a secretary or clerk on the spot if he had to; hell, he’d make Dominic a bishop if necessary to keep him in the room. But Rochford merely went to his customary seat to the right of William’s and waited for his nephew to take his place. In the flurry of the eight councilors arranging themselves at the long table, Dominic quietly sat against the wall behind Rochford as though he had always belonged there.
So his uncle had anticipated him. William couldn’t wait to hear what that was all about. He would have to ask Dominic—at least if he wanted more of an answer than “I think it’s best for the kingdom.”
Not the kingdom, William always wanted to retort. My kingdom.
The topic of this meeting was, of course, the French treaty. No one said a single unexpected word—in fact, William was certain he could have written out the entire discussion himself, complete with repetition and petty disagreement and mind-numbing boredom. It didn’t matter in any case; Rochford wanted this treaty as much as William did, and now that Northumberland had been persuaded, the debate was a matter of form.
As Lord Protector, Rochford gave the final orders. “I’ll speak with the French ambassador and send word to our ambassador in Paris. We will continue plans for a September meeting outside Calais.”
Why am I even here? William wondered as his uncle looked around the table and asked, “Anything else?”
Amazingly, William heard Dominic clear his throat. Every head at the table swung in his friend’s direction. Curious, he waited for Dominic to bring up Alyce de Clare’s death (what else could he have to say? Something about the Welsh border?), but instead Dominic shook his head and said, “Sorry. It’s nothing.”
Rochford didn’t look as though he believed Dominic any more than William did, but he dismissed the councilors. As they rose Northumberland asked sardonically, “I suppose the Lady Mary is ill once more and unable to attend the celebrations this week?”
“She is,” William said, since his uncle didn’t seem in any hurry to answer. Rochford usually let William deal with his troublesome half sister—at least in public.
Northumberland snorted. “Not ill enough to keep from holding mass.”
The aging Duke of Norfolk—the leading Catholic lord in England and William’s great-uncle—said stiffly, “This council has granted her permission to hear private services as she chooses. It is little enough to allow her.”
“Private, are they?” Northumberland said bluntly. “With dozens of worshippers who don’t even pretend to be part of her personal household?”
William wanted to hit something. Mary was a never-ending flash point, one he did not wish to argue about today.
His uncle, sensing his mood, cut across the quarreling councilors. “No doubt the Lady Mary is truly ill,” he said smoothly. “Unless you believe Henry’s daughter is a liar?”
Not a liar, William thought. Never a liar—just inflexible. Religiously, emotionally, historically … Mary did not bend, she did not forget, and she did not forgive. And never would she come near a palace where her mother’s replacement was in residence. In the twenty-one years since Anne’s coronation, Mary had not once acknowledged her stepmother as anything other than “the person” or “the woman.”
But Northumberland was not willing to let it go. “Your Majesty, your leniency does you credit as a brother. But as a monarch, every leniency you allow your sister is pushed fourfold by those who continue to adhere to Rome.”
“You cannot expect the king to upset the delicate feelings of either Lady Mary or the queen,” Rochford said.
And that was one condescension too many for William—especially in front of all his councilors. “Northumberland has a point. I believe someone once told me that mercy is only effective once strength has been established.”
He could swear he had made his uncle twitch, and the pleasure of catching him off guard made William bold—and impulsive. “Send word to Lady Mary that I expect her to attend me at Hampton Court this night. I will brook no excuse.” It wouldn’t be that hard on her; she had spent the week at Whitehall, which was only a few miles upriver. She could come by boat and hardly be disturbed.
“If she will not be moved?” queried Norfolk.
“Tell her that she will either spend tonight in my court or I will arrange lodging for her farther east.”
Had he really just threatened to send his half sister to the Tower? Apparently he had, for no one said a word more. William himself was so surprised that he almost forgot to detain Lord Norfolk. It was Dominic who stopped the duke and looked at William questioningly.
“Right.” William snapped back to himself, carrying the satisfaction of power used and respected. “I am not to be interrupted for anything,” he commanded a guard, then flung himself into a chair.
Studying the slight but still erect figure of the man who had been a child in the last days of Richard III, William did not mince words. “Your son is a disgrace to my court.”
Norfolk’s eyes flickered, and William realized he had expected to be lectured about his partisanship of Mary. But despite his age, Norfolk was quick and had ears everywhere. “You speak of young Giles.”
“You will see to his removal at once. He may return to the country while I …” William tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair. “… consider his punishment.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Norfolk answered, not anxious to expend political capital on defending a son of minor importance. Once before he had stood by a son, and he had been condemned to death for it. His eldest son had been executed, and only the death of William’s father—the day before Norfolk’s scheduled execution—had saved the duke. After languishing in the Tower for the first two years of William’s reign, Rochford had suggested a pardon and a restoration of Howard’s title. Northumberland had also been made a duke at the same time, in order to balance any Catholic sentiment on Norfolk’s side.
“Also,” William continued, “you’ve held the patrimony of Mistress Genevieve Wyatt since her mother’s death. After the grave insult offered her person, I will not subject her to any dealings with your family in future. I have sent a messenger to her estate at Wynfield to apprise them that I claim her holdings for the crown.”
That did not sit well with Norfolk, property being more important than sons, but he managed to bow stiffly. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”
After just four hours as Elizabeth’s principal lady, Minuette was exhausted both physically and mentally. Elizabeth was not a decorative princess. She was a serious scholar who kept up a voluminous correspondence with Continental philosophers and religious figures, a powerful landholder who knew every animal and outbuilding in her control, and a primary avenue of royal influence. She had secretaries and ladies and clerks in plenty, and she threw Minuette straight into the fray without blinking.
“The only way to learn is to do,” Elizabeth commanded. “Hastings won’t you let stray too far.”
And so with her own secretary from Elizabeth’s household (Minuette had known Oliver Hastings since childhood), by midafternoon she had dictated two
dozen letters in answer to the most pressing complaints, ranging from a boundary dispute on one of Elizabeth’s farms to abased pleas for preferment at court. It had barely touched the surface of what waited. As Minuette separated letters into appropriate stacks for future work, she directed a steady stream of commentary at Hastings.
“Another request for a place at court from a friend of a friend of a relation,” she sighed. “Do these people really think a princess royal has nothing better to do than look after their candidates for sheriff or priest or clerk?”
Beneath his formidable graying eyebrows, Hastings’s eyes met hers levelly. “As long as the king is unmarried and childless, the princess is next in succession. People will take of her what they can.”
Minuette sighed and placed the last letter on the smaller stack, those she would write herself. Handing over the larger stack, she said, “Be polite, Hastings, but firm. Make it clear that she is more likely to respond favorably to their requests if they refrain from making them quite so shrill.”
“I know my business, girl.”
Minuette smiled at the secretary, who had always treated her with a sort of fretful indulgence, as one would treat a puppy that could be trusted only so far.
“And I know mine,” she said briskly. “You can trust me to compose my own replies to the diplomats. Discretion is best hidden behind the mask of candor,” she said, repeating a favorite maxim of his.
He eyed her with mock gravity and shook his head. “Yes, well, mind you keep your wits about you. There’s many looking to take advantage of the princess, and their eyes are upon the newest—and most influential—lady in her household.”
A sharp voice cut in. “Don’t go flattering her, Hastings. She’s still only a girl.”
“Kat!” Minuette stood and enveloped the older woman in a hug. “I’ve missed you.”
Kat Ashley stepped back and surveyed Minuette critically. “You look well enough,” she sniffed.
Minuette grinned. Kat had been Elizabeth’s governess in childhood, which meant she had been as good as Minuette’s governess. Round-faced and rather plain, Kat possessed a good mind and an excellent education and had trained both girls well in everything from sewing cambric shirts to choosing their words with care in tense political situations. “Have you missed me?”
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