Laura Andersen - [Ann Boleyn 01]

by The Boleyn King

  “Lord Rochford, yes.” Renaud drew the name out in a way that made Dominic smile. The French had always been ambivalent about George Boleyn. “He will continue to be powerful after the regency is ended.”

  “Yes. But William is his own man. He is young and impatient, but he has not been idle. He is prepared to rule—and he means to rule well.”

  “And his temper? His father had a most notorious temper.”

  Dominic held Renaud’s gaze steadily, letting him know that he recognized the drift of these questions. “He does not act in anger, nor does he let passion overrule his practicality. His temper will never get the best of his ambitions.”

  “A paragon, then?” Renaud lifted his cup in an amused salute. “Perhaps you confuse your king with your friend.”

  “Cannot he be both?”

  Renaud’s lips tightened, and with a shake of his head he set his cup down. “Let us speak frankly, as becomes men-at-arms. You know why I ask about your king, and I hear how cautiously you answer. It is the game of diplomats, and we will play it as we are ordered. But it is not our natural environment.”

  He laced his fingers together, his voice gathering conviction as he spoke. “Kings are not men like us, Dominic. Their world is one of distrust and intrigue. They talk and twist and look always for their own advantage. So do we seek advantage, but only on the field of battle. And that is never personal. If you and I were to meet in the field, we should fight with every weapon at our disposal and we should not stop until one or the other of us had won the day. And when it was done, we could meet afterward without malice. Our fight would be honourable, and so would be defeat or victory.”

  “And kings do not have honour?” Dominic felt defensive on William’s behalf, though he recognized himself in Renaud’s assessment.

  Renaud shrugged. “Of their own kind, yes. But make no mistake, it is not of a kind we understand. Kings are devoted to their own interests—always. It is a little like the religious heretics. They do everything driven by the belief that they are right and they alone know God. Kings are just as fanatic. They are true believers—in themselves. And true believers are always dangerous.”

  “What is your point?”

  “It is good to serve your king,” Renaud replied, reaching for his cup once more. “Just don’t imagine he will ever return the favour. Friendship with kings is always one-sided.”

  “No more,” Elizabeth protested as Robert tried to pull her into another galliard. She moved nimbly out of his reach and sat next to Minuette on a trestle bench across the table from William.

  It was the day after Christmas, and there were three dozen men and women gathered for a private celebration with their king. Not one of them was older than twenty-five. Elizabeth had heard Lord Northumberland grumbling in the courtyard earlier about the bad influence of the “young and flighty.”

  Elizabeth scanned the ambitious and flattered guests. Eleanor was here, of course. Pending motherhood had not lessened her obvious appeal—if anything, it had enhanced her generous curves in a fashion the men seemed to find pleasing. Even Robert’s eyes rested briefly on her cleavage as she crossed the room and seated herself cozily next to William.

  Minuette was absorbed in conversation with Eleanor’s twin, Jonathan Percy. Of all the guests he looked the most ill at ease, too serious and shy to relax in such close proximity to his king.

  Elizabeth’s eyes drifted back to where Robert stood, Gypsy-dark and smiling as he spoke to Jane Grey. After this week’s festivities, Robert would be leaving court for at least a month. It should not trouble her—he had a home, after all. But she was all too aware that Robert going home meant Robert seeing his wife.

  She realized with a start that Eleanor was addressing her. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Forgive me, Your Highness. I did not mean to divert your thoughts from something more … intriguing.” Eleanor’s eyes flicked ever so quickly to Robert and back again. “I only meant to ask about the pageant you and your ladies have prepared for Twelfth Night. Is it quite ready?”

  Elizabeth knew very well that Eleanor was inquiring out of spite. She had been hinting for an invitation to participate. “All is quite ready. Thank you for asking.”

  Which would have been the end of it, but for Minuette jumping into the exchange. “Do you not miss your husband? I would think families should be together at this season.”

  Eleanor’s smile sharpened as she struggled to compose an appropriate reply. Apparently an appropriate reply included laying claim to William, for Eleanor leaned against his shoulder until he stopped speaking to one of Robert’s brothers and looked at her.

  Smiling into his eyes in a manner that made Elizabeth want to roll her own, Eleanor said, “One does not argue with His Majesty’s wishes.”

  “Really? I argue with his wishes all the time.” Minuette positively dazzled as she added, “And I always win.”

  Turning laughter into a polite cough, Elizabeth wondered what her brother would do. She expected he would pull Eleanor into a dance to stop the exchange—there was nothing William liked less than women sniping—but after a long and thoughtful look at Eleanor, he said, “I believe Mistress Wyatt has the right of it. To argue with royalty and win—it’s a rare gift. I wouldn’t try to cultivate it if I were you.”

  The table fell silent, every eye fixed on Eleanor to see how she would handle the rebuke. Her lips trembled, but Elizabeth thought that was from rage rather than hurt. Eleanor managed an airy tone in answer: “I could never wish to argue with you, Your Majesty.”

  William heightened the tension by standing up abruptly and extending a hand to Minuette across the table. “Care to dance?” With a glance at Jonathan Percy next to her, he added casually, “You don’t mind, do you, Percy?”

  “Not … no, not at all.”

  With a snap of his fingers, William commanded the musicians, “Play a volta.”

  With visible effort, Eleanor addressed Elizabeth. “If there was some way I could be of service to you, Your Highness … Your brother listens to you in all things. I’m sure you could persuade him …”

  Elizabeth watched William and Minuette, dancing the seductive volta in perfect harmony. The only thing that saved it from impropriety was their laughter. “I know only one person who can persuade my brother to all of what she wants. If you need an advocate, you’ve chosen the wrong woman.”

  In the two months since Christmas, Dominic had grown increasingly irritable as each day came and went without any apparent progress toward peace. On the last day of February he sent off a curtly worded message to Rochford before joining some of Renaud’s men for the evening meal. Renaud himself was in attendance on his king this night, and in his absence the men were unusually boisterous. Dominic drank more than was wise and fell into bed some hours after midnight.

  Harrington woke him early the next morning. The light from the uncurtained window pounded through Dominic’s skull in a rhythm of discomfort as he took the note Harrington held out for him.

  It was from Diane de Poitiers, King Henri’s mistress, requesting Dominic’s presence in her rooms as soon as convenient.

  Dominic presented himself in under an hour, his head and stomach still somewhat fragile. Madame de Poitiers accepted Dominic’s salute graciously. “Please, seat yourself.”

  He took the empty chair before her and endeavoured to look as if meeting privately with the most notorious woman in Europe were an everyday occurrence. She wore her customary black and white and studied him with undisguised interest.

  “Lord Courtenay, it is a pleasure to meet with you seule. Such a presentable young man, and such a good friend to his king.”

  Dominic’s ears pricked. He hadn’t expected that this visit was a social courtesy, but such a quick mention of William confirmed that. “Madame, it is I who am fortunate in the connection. My king already bids to shine as brightly as his father.”

  “Indeed? He is so young, as yet—but then youth is not always a hindrance.”


  The gleam in her eyes reminded Dominic that this woman had become Henri’s mistress when she was a widow in her thirties and Henri was newly wed—and sixteen. In spite of the king’s marriage to Marie de Medici, Diane de Poitiers was the true power behind the French throne.

  Forcing his mind back to the thread of the conversation, Dominic said, “His youth and energy are devoted entirely to England’s welfare.”

  “And you, Lord Courtenay? What has kept you from this perfect king for so long? Surely you must miss your home.”

  “I serve at the pleasure of my king.”

  Dominic waited for more—for the message that surely must be the reason for this visit—but she studied him in a long silence before abruptly changing the subject.

  “I hear you are not enamoured of our women. That you keep to yourself and ignore the great beauties before you.”

  Dominic had to stifle a laugh as he imagined Queen Anne or Elizabeth posing such an impertinent question. Inclining his head, he said smoothly, “I am entirely aware of the great beauty before me.”

  She smiled complacently and, in a voice like warm honey, said, “And yet you turn away from pleasure. I hear my women talk—there have been opportunities. Opportunities declined.” Nodding to the corner where her attendants sat embroidering, she said, “Aimée, there, I fear you have quite broken her heart.”

  Dominic wondered whether it would be less humiliating to keep looking at Madame de Poitiers’s mocking smile or to acknowledge Aimée. He hadn’t spoken with her since January, when he’d returned from Renaud’s home and had ended their liaison. Aimée had refused to take him seriously and for several weeks had continued to appear in his room until finally he had resorted to telling her something that was almost the truth.

  “There’s a woman in England,” Dominic had said. “And this is not fair to her.” Never mind that the woman in question hadn’t the slightest idea of how much he thought about her. Though he might now be lonely and frustrated, at least he despised himself a little less for taking no thought with Aimée beyond his own desires.

  Aimée, unfortunately, did not seem to appreciate his thoughtfulness.

  Dominic attempted to extricate himself gracefully. “Madame, such a beautiful woman has no need to worry about a poor Englishman when she could easily capture any number of more appealing gentlemen.”

  Diane cocked her head to the side, considering. “I do not believe, as some have hinted, that it is because your inclinations lie elsewhere. No, your instincts are those of most young men. So it must be that your heart is already engaged. You are unmarried, I know—a lover, perhaps, back in England? She must be extraordinary to command such faithfulness.”

  Dominic wanted nothing more than to sink through the floor. Was this the reason he’d been summoned—not as a private messenger to William but as an exhibit of English coldness? He would not, no matter how obliquely, discuss Minuette with Diane de Poitiers. Summoning up every ounce of control, he said calmly, “I simply endeavour to remember that I am here in the service of my king, not my own desires.”

  “Ah, yes. Your king. He will soon be eighteen. King Henri is prepared to offer him quite the gift for that occasion. He would wish to speak of it to some of your lords—it is something requiring time and much conversation.”

  Grateful that she had at last gotten to the point, Dominic rose and bowed. “I’m certain that can be arranged.”

  “It is to be a surprise, vous comprenez? We should not like word to leak out to those who would spoil it.”

  Meaning Spain or the Netherlands. “Naturally.”

  He kissed the perfumed hand she held out. When he would have released it, she tightened her fingers and, with a hint of enticement in her voice, said, “Give the young lady my regards.”

  “Which young lady, madame?” He hadn’t forgotten one, had he? He was sure Aimée was the only woman at court he’d … dallied with.

  “The one who is not your lover.” Her expression was that of a conspirator. “We shall have to return you to England soon, so you may remedy that.”

  The sooner the better, Dominic thought. It was already the first of March; if things progressed smoothly, he could be home in time to wish Minuette a happy eighteenth birthday.

  In time to give her Diane de Poitiers’s regards.

  A week later, William sat in his private study with Lord Rochford, reading a copy of Dominic’s ciphered letter. “You think this is a serious step toward reconciliation?” William asked.

  “I do.”

  “I agree. Private messages, shrouded in secrecy—it reeks of the French. Henri does not want us campaigning this year. Northumberland will be disappointed not to be going to war.” William tossed the paper on the desk and leaned back in his chair, thinking. “Whom do you propose sending to treat with them?”

  “I thought Edward Seymour and the Earl of Surrey.”

  “Seymour’s good, but Norfolk’s grandson? I don’t know.”

  “He is liked by the Catholics.”

  “And as like to support Mary as he is me.”

  Rochford said, “So give him a reason to support you. They are not just subjects, they are kinsmen. Tie his positions, his honours, and his wealth to your rule. Loyalty is surest when self-interest is involved.”

  “As my father did.” William knew his uncle was not wrong. The Tudor kings were known for breaking the old hereditary nobility, with its dangerous blood claims to royalty, and elevating those of lesser birth but outstanding service. Like Rochford himself, whose father had been ennobled only when Henry grew enamoured of Anne. Or the Duke of Northumberland, who had received the title after the centuries-long Percy hold on it had been broken.

  Rochford waited for an answer, which William appreciated. Perhaps his uncle was also counting the days until his majority, when the office of Lord Protector would cease to exist and he would continue to serve only at William’s pleasure.

  “All right,” he agreed. “Send Surrey. But I want to speak with him first. Let him know personally that the trust we repose in him will guide our future generosity. Anything else?”

  There shouldn’t be; this wasn’t a council meeting, and Rochford would want to get to work preparing Seymour and Surrey for France. In his mind, William was halfway to the grounds to watch the training of his newest hunting dogs.

  He should have known better.

  “What is Mistress Wyatt up to, William?”

  His uncle only called him William when he was displeased. Instantly uneasy, and angry that Rochford could still make him so, he said sharply, “I don’t know what you mean, nor do I see how Minuette is any concern of yours.”

  “Minuette.” Rochford drew out her name and eyed William with an unreadable expression. “Personally, she does not concern me at all. But when she interferes with the court—”

  “Interferes?”

  “—by writing to men far above her rank and fortune, seeking information that is none of her business …”

  William drew in a sharp breath. They should have anticipated this—how could they ever have thought that they could completely evade Rochford’s watchful eye? Now William was going to have to tell him the truth.

  At least part of it.

  He chose his words carefully. “Do you remember Alyce de Clare, who died the night of my last birthday?”

  “From Anne’s household. Yes.”

  “She and Minuette were friends. You know the girl was with child. Minuette is bothered that she does not know who fathered that child. I have given her leave to search out the man. Discreetly.”

  Rochford grunted. “Do you think that wise? The girl is dead, the damage done. Why raise more enmity?”

  “Enmity?” William said mildly. “She is not seeking to build a court case, merely to satisfy her own unhappy conscience and let the man know of my personal disapproval.” He apologized silently to Minuette, who no doubt would have raged at this casual dismissal of Alyce’s death.

  But he was not prepared to talk to Ro
chford about the other aspects, the overtones of treason. That was his fight.

  If it even existed any longer. They had gone months without any further outbreaks of old scandal or new threats.

  He met Rochford stare for stare, and at last his uncle relented. “I would advise her—and you—to be wary. These are not men to make enemies of. Be sure the information gained is worth it.”

  “Thank you for your counsel,” William said, and surprised himself by meaning it. Perhaps because it had truly been offered as counsel, instead of as a command cloaked in politeness. If this was what being king meant, then he looked forward even more to June.

  Elizabeth arrived after the tennis match had begun, and she was glad of the rustles and whispers of disturbance as she moved to the front of the crowd. Those rustles caught Robert’s attention, and he paused before serving to bow to her. William, waiting on the other side of the net, threw a brief glance at Elizabeth before turning back to his partner.

  “I’m waiting,” he called, in a tone that brooked no argument. It seemed to Elizabeth that lately William had become more watchful where she and Robert Dudley were concerned.

  He was not the only one. Northumberland had spent a lot of time this winter being wherever she was. Today, for example. Not five minutes after she arrived, Northumberland slipped into a suddenly open space next to her. Like her, his eyes were fixed on the game—but his attention was not.

  “May we speak, Your Highness?” he asked in a low voice.

  “Speak of what, my lord?” Neither of them looked away from the tennis match. Robert and William were both good, keeping up long volleys between serves.

  “There are whispers, Your Highness, of disturbances planned to disrupt the king’s coming majority celebrations.”

  “Surely that is a matter for the council.”

  “Not those kinds of disturbances. These are more … subtle. Rumours, old gossip, stories that you would not like retold.”

  Like the broadsheet of her mother’s reputed witchraft or the taint of bastardy being flung at Will … no, those were stories she did not want retold. But neither would Northumberland. He had staked everything on Anne’s children and the English Church. He could never profit from Mary.