Laura Andersen - [Ann Boleyn 01]

by The Boleyn King

  “How do you know? I am part of the court. I am trained to reflect back whatever a man expects to see. And I’m good at it, Dominic. Don’t pretend you haven’t noticed. You pulled me away from Jonathan Percy quick enough last week because you thought I was flirting. So I was. And if you did not like my behaviour …”

  She turned to him with eyes that in the fast-falling darkness were troubled. “You are my conscience, and you are going away again. William never reproves me, and Elizabeth just sighs and lets me go along. What shall I do without your always-right voice to tell me when I’m losing myself?”

  Somewhere in her tumble of words, which left Dominic wanting to jump to his feet to expend his nervous energy, there were questions he had to answer. But not strictly honestly. If he were to be honest, he would tell her, No, I did not like your flirting. But not because you were improper or making a spectacle of yourself. I did not like it because …

  Even silently, he dared not finish that thought. And still Minuette appealed to him, with wide eyes and furrowed brow, for help.

  “I think,” Dominic said carefully, “that if you are asking these questions, then you are quite safe. You only stop questioning when you know you don’t want to hear the answers.”

  Finally Minuette laughed; though small, the laugh was real. “I shall simply have to imagine that you are my shadow, watching over my shoulder everything I do and say. Though I would rather it was you yourself.”

  So do I. The words stuck in his throat, and he had to stand up then, because if he didn’t, he would touch her, and he didn’t dare touch her when he didn’t have himself in perfect control.

  If he’d needed proof that Minuette did not feel the same way about him, it was there when she easily threw her arms around him in a hug. “I shall miss you dearly. Promise you’ll write.”

  “I promise.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  1 October 1553

  Greenwich

  My visit to Wynfield was brief but fruitful—personally, in addition to the visit with Alyce’s sister. No longer will I have to make shift with what maids I can find wherever I am in residence. Elizabeth has been urging me to take on an attendant, not seeming to understand how limited my purse is. Being a companion to royalty is expensive and I have always had to scrimp merely to pay for my clothing, let alone a woman to care for it.

  Thanks to my visit home I have a maid of my own now, one who seems quite content with the little I can pay her. Truthfully, I had to insist she accept payment at all, for she appeared willing to serve me for nothing more than her food and a place to sleep.

  Her name is Carrie Prescott. She was born at Wynfield and, upon my parents’ marriage, my mother took her into the household and trained her as a lady’s maid. She followed my mother to the Howards’ when she remarried. After my mother’s death, Carrie returned to Wynfield, married one of my father’s tenants—one of my tenants, I suppose—and had two children by him. But they are all dead now—her husband and daughter in the plague two years ago and her little boy to the sweating sickness last autumn.

  I did not recognize her at once. She is older, of course, nearing thirty, but she is still as neat and pretty as a wren. The change is in her eyes and in the gravity of her countenance. I remember Carrie as cheerful and with a merry laugh that could always tease me out of any childish mood. She does not look cheerful any longer.

  Still, she seems genuinely pleased to come to me, and I find pleasure in helping a woman who served my mother with such loyalty. Surely whatever she can tell me of my mother will be much nearer the truth than anything claimed by Alyce’s spiteful sister.

  7 October 1553

  Greenwich

  I have told Elizabeth and William about Alyce’s unaccounted-for leaves from court in the last year. After checking that my memory was correct—and that she had indeed left court and lied about her destination—William had his secretary compile a list of gentlemen of the court who were also absent at the same times. There are fifty-four names on the list. And as William does not wish to alert a possibly guilty party to inquiries, he’s leaving it in my hands. Whom should I begin with? The Duke of Northumberland, with his devoted wife who has given him thirteen children? Might as well begin with him because not only is he incredibly unlikely but he’s Robert’s father. All I need do is ask Robert if he remembers his father accompanying him home in March—and that will strike two names from the list.

  Giles Howard is also on there. I’m trying not to let my own opinion prejudice my investigations.

  29 October 1553

  Greenwich

  Queen Anne left court this week to return to Hever. Her eyesight is growing worse, though she covers it well. Her Majesty takes care to walk only in bright sunlight or in rooms she knows well. She is beginning to avoid crowds, and I suspect it’s because she cannot always see to whom she is speaking. At Hever Castle she will be surrounded by those who have known her since she was a child, and she will be able to rest more easily.

  And Elizabeth and I leave for Hatfield tomorrow. As Hever was her mother’s childhood home, Hatfield is Elizabeth’s. It was given to her at birth, and her earliest—and happiest—memories are there. Though William is normally anxious to retain our company through the winter, he seems not to mind our leaving this year. Indeed, I wonder how long it will take him to realize that we are gone.

  15 November 1553

  Hatfield

  I received a letter from Dominic today, the first he’s sent me from France. It was brief and general. Honestly, if I wanted a weather report, I’d go to France myself.

  3 December 1553

  Richmond Palace

  Our respite at Hatfield was brief. We arrived at Richmond yesterday to keep Christmas with the court. I suppose I should be flattered that William sent for us.

  We dined with him last night. Elizabeth and I, Lord and Lady Rochford—and Eleanor Howard. Giles is in Cumberland, overseeing the manor that William gifted him upon his marriage.

  It was an uncomfortable dinner. As intimidating as the Lord Protector can be, I’ve always thought Lady Rochford far the more frightening of the two. I don’t think she likes me—but then, I’m not sure she likes anyone. Certainly not her husband. They’ve never had children, and one can only imagine Lord Rochford would rather not bed a woman with the eyes and tongue of a snake—which is saying something, since everyone knows he’ll bed almost anyone else.

  Oh, dear, I’m becoming rather shrewish. I’m sure I don’t know why.

  4 December 1553

  Richmond Palace

  I do know why—I just don’t want to admit it.

  I am jealous of Eleanor.

  I spent the afternoon watching William play tennis with Robert Dudley. I was seated next to Eleanor, and she kept saying things to me, things about William. About the horses he favours and the people he detests and his worries about the negotiations dragging on in the Netherlands. It wasn’t what Eleanor said so much as the way she said it—as if she were confiding great secrets about a man only she understands. I wanted very much to say, “I’ve known William far longer than you have.” But I held my tongue.

  Perhaps pettiness would have been better. As if determined to break my silence, Eleanor began to insinuate things—intimate things—that I’d rather not know. And I cannot escape the fact that she does know William better than I do, or at least more fully. When one is unclothed with a man, one is certain to learn things others do not.

  7 December 1553

  Richmond Palace

  I have been asked for as a bride.

  When I heard that Thomas Seymour wished to marry me, my first impulse was to wonder what a widower thirty years my senior could want with me. I have but a very small fortune and no family ties to speak of. But the truth is, I know perfectly well what Lord Thomas wanted. He is very fond of young women—his indiscretions have been a source of gossip for some time. Unlike many gentlemen, he is not afraid to flaunt his affairs. I suppose I should be grateful that he wa
s willing to marry me rather than persuade me into something less respectable. But all I can feel is a shiver of disgust when I think of him wanting to touch me.

  William remembered his promise and spoke to me in private before giving Lord Thomas an answer. Thankfully, William accepted my quick refusal, but he did ask if I had any definite ideas of my own about marriage. What could I say? Although he is my dearest friend, William is a man, and so I could not say, “I should like to feel my heart beat faster at the sight of my husband. I should like to marry a man whose touch I crave in the night, and whose company I crave in the daytime. I should like a friend and a lover in one.”

  At any rate, I don’t want Lord Thomas and William has told him so.

  12 December 1553

  Richmond Palace

  Eleanor is with child. The only pleasure I take in the news is that custom—and discretion—will force her to retire from court after Christmas.

  I have heard from Dominic only three times since he went to France. Perhaps he has a pregnant mistress as well.

  Four days before Christmas, Dominic woke at dawn with the closest thing to anticipation that he’d felt since arriving in France. Today he was leaving court with Vicomte Renaud LeClerc, a relative of King Henri’s and the only genuine friend Dominic had made here. Renaud had invited Dominic to spend Christmas with his family—a wife and two small sons—at his home in the Loire Valley. After weeks of endless talk, Dominic would have accepted any invitation that removed him from political circles for however short a time, but this invitation was truly welcome.

  He slid carefully out of bed, but not carefully enough. As his weight shifted, the woman beside him stirred and woke. “Dominic?” she purred in a way that made him very conscious she was naked. “Where are you going?”

  “I ride out in an hour,” he reminded her. “With LeClerc.”

  “An hour,” Aimée said, with the kind of smile that said everything about her intentions. “It does not take you an hour to dress.”

  He considered for the space of one breath. “No, it doesn’t.”

  Aimée’s very best quality was her boldness, a quality Dominic appreciated every time he wrapped himself around her and let his mind take flight. Indeed, she was in his bed now because one night, after several weeks of hints and innuendos, she had finally waylaid him—there was really no other term for it—in a darkened corridor. He had been homesick and lonely and had taken some liberties and in the heat of her eager response he had brought her to his room.

  That had been eight weeks ago. And though Aimée’s allure had not waned, Dominic had been growing steadily more restless. Even now, as his hands found her curves and his mouth tasted hers and his body roused to her own confident caresses, his eyes played tricks in imperfect flashes. For one moment he thought Aimée’s dark hair shone gold, then her blue eyes warmed to hazel … Dominic forced away those disconcerting imprints and let himself be swept into forgetfulness.

  After a satisfying three quarters of an hour, she propped herself on one elbow and watched him dress. “I do not see why you wish to spend Christmas elsewhere,” she sniffed. “Would you not rather stay here with me?”

  “You will never miss me,” he said, truthfully. Aimée was not known for her fidelity.

  “But you will miss me—every night that you are alone.”

  Perhaps. All right, yes, part of him would miss her very much. But Dominic was beginning to think that he’d given free rein to that part of himself for long enough. The previous women in his life had been warm and kind and self-effacing and it had all felt very natural, not as though every encounter was a skirmish to be won or lost.

  If this were a skirmish, Dominic knew he was losing. Which meant he was glad to be joining Renaud this morning and riding away from the Louvre. He rather thought he needed a break.

  When he was dressed, Dominic grabbed his woolen cloak for riding and leaned over Aimée. “A joyous Christmas,” he said, and kissed her.

  She teased at his mouth, almost making him wish he wasn’t leaving, then shrugged away, letting her hair fall around her bare shoulders. “Au revoir, Dominic. Think of me while you are gone.”

  Something in her seductive, possessive tone called to his mind an image—of Eleanor Howard dancing triumphantly in William’s arms while her husband watched from the sidelines. What was it Dominic had said to his friend that day? Have you given any thought to the lady, beyond what you desire?

  Dominic was many miles away from Paris before he could shake that uncomfortable image, but gradually his heart lightened with each mile he put between himself and the French court. Leaving aside the issue of Aimée, being a diplomat, even an unrecognized one, was more difficult than any battle Dominic had fought. He did well enough, he supposed—Rochford had not complained—but his heart wasn’t in it. In the midst of drawn-out debates on theology or the significance of Salic law in Anglo-French relations, Dominic often found himself wanting to smash his head against the nearest wall. No wonder treaties took so long to negotiate—no one could stop talking long enough to come to a decision.

  Renaud, at least, was a man he understood instinctively—a soldier who was more comfortable campaigning than negotiating. But he was also French, which made him naturally more devious, and he had taught Dominic a few things about the uses of flattery in building relationships. And between coding letters to Rochford and learning which French ministers would be most open to peace with England, Dominic had a little time for things he did enjoy, such as jousting or swordplay with Renaud and his men.

  As they approached a village snuggled in a wide loop of the Loire River, Renaud pointed out his boundaries. “My land, Dominic,” he said, pronouncing his name with the lengthened vowels of the French. “From river to hills. This prospect I take with me wherever I go.”

  A moment later a rider came into view, dressed in the scarlet and gray of Renaud’s livery. He stayed his horse only long enough to salute them, then turned and rode rapidly ahead.

  “Nicole likes to have warning,” Renaud said. “It is superstition with her that she always be in the courtyard when I return.”

  The vicomtesse was indeed waiting in the courtyard as they rode in, wrapped in a fur-lined cloak, her eyes going straight to her husband. From the way Renaud had talked about his wife, Dominic had expected … something different.

  She was short and a little plump, with mouse-brown hair and ordinary features. Dominic wondered what could possibly keep her husband as entranced as he’d always sounded. But just then she smiled at Renaud as he swung down from his horse, and Dominic caught his breath. Her smile completely transformed her face, and the charge between husband and wife made the courtyard pale by comparison, as though all the light and energy of the winter sun had concentrated on these two people, embracing fiercely in the open air.

  By the time dinner was over that evening, Dominic had no remaining doubts about Renaud’s attraction to his wife. A wordless glance, a brief clasping of hands at table—it all served to reinforce the picture of a marriage Dominic had not known could exist. After a brief introduction to the LeClerc sons, a shy four-year-old and a rambunctious two-year-old, Nicole bade the men goodnight and swept off with her boys.

  Renaud settled back with a cup of wine, basking in the contentment of home and family. Dominic could not keep from asking, though he endeavoured to be subtle, “Your wife’s family, they are well situated?”

  Renaud laughed. “You mean did I overthrow all caution in marrying for love? Nicole is of the proper background, and my family was pleased with the match. Not that it mattered to me. From the first time I laid eyes on her, I thought only of Nicole herself.”

  “And if she had been …” How to finish that sentence without rudeness?

  With a lift of his eyebrows, Renaud finished it for him. “A peasant? A serving maid? Would I still have taken her, if everyone around me had disapproved?” Renaud twisted his face in a wry expression. “Who can tell? She is who she is. I cannot imagine her different.
All I can say is that Nicole, as she is, is the only one for me.”

  Dominic stared into the fire, at the blue flames leaping into crackles of orange. There were images in those flames: the sheen of honey-coloured hair, the scent of a dying rose garden, and the appeal of hazel eyes.

  “And what of you, Dominic? You are restrained with the women at our court.”

  Remembering Aimée’s adventuresome nature in bed, Dominic thought “restrained” was not the word he would use. He parried the question. “Not as restrained as you are.”

  “I am married.”

  “So are most of the men at court. It doesn’t seem to bother them.”

  “Ah, but I am deeply in love with my wife. Which causes me to wonder who you might be in love with. Is there a betrothed waiting for you in England?”

  “No.” Dominic blinked hard, and the fire became once again just a fire.

  Something in the tone of his voice must have warned off Renaud, for he declined to pursue the subject. “Shall we speak of your king, then? What manner of man is this William? One to bring King Henri to terms?”

  Snatching the opportunity, Dominic said, “Surely that depends partly on Henri as well.”

  “True enough.” Renaud studied him. “Is William his father’s son?”

  “In some things.” As Dominic looked at Renaud’s curious face, a suspicion came to him that perhaps this invitation had not been entirely for friendship’s sake. Renaud served his own king, after all.

  Choosing his words with greater care, Dominic continued. “William is quick and has a perfect memory. What he hears once, he remembers. He has learnt well from his uncle how to see the larger picture, how history is woven together out of seemingly random people and events. He is not as subtle as the Lord Protector, but he knows how to use the strengths of his advisors.”