Laura Andersen - [Ann Boleyn 01]

by The Boleyn King

  Minuette felt a great pity for the resentful and, yes, wronged Mary. But she was also weary of her inability to recognize what would be in her best interest. “And as you loved your mother, my lady, so does the king love his. He does not ask you to betray anything—only to be civil. Surely we can all manage that for the good of England.”

  When Mary turned stubbornly to look out the window, Minuette added, “It would have pleased your father greatly.”

  “Do not presume to tell me about my father!” Mary snapped, and this time it was Elizabeth she resembled.

  Fortunately, Minuette was too used to Elizabeth’s anger to be intimidated by Mary’s. “I seek only to serve His Majesty. He wishes peace at home. You have the power to give it to him.”

  Then she turned away herself and shut her eyes, calling up images of Hampton Court to soothe her. She could not wait to arrive and hand over this responsibility to William.

  Dominic rode into view of his mother’s house just before sunset on June 26. He had landed in Dover the day before and, though anxious to return to court, he could not in conscience overlook the opportunity to visit. He came alone, having sent Harrington on ahead. There were things waiting here too personal to be shared with anyone.

  His mother stood on the steps as Dominic dismounted in the courtyard, her slight figure dwarfed by the double-width oak door behind her. The dark blue gown she wore was unadorned, her hair completely covered by a white headdress. She looked like nothing so much as a mother abbess.

  Which, some days, she thought she was.

  But today, it seemed, was one of her good days. She greeted Dominic with a smile and even stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. In spite of that, Dominic could not relax entirely—he was too busy searching her face and voice for clues as to her state of mind. She knew who he was, she knew he’d been in France, and, most important of all, she spoke with a soft lucidity that indicated her mind was as calm as her face.

  After a hot bath and fresh clothing, Dominic escorted his mother to the low-beamed hall where a long table had been set for four. They were joined at dinner by Dominic’s old nurse, Grace, who now cared for his mother through both good and bad. The other guest was a short, powerfully built man in dark robes who was introduced only as Michael, his mother’s clerk. It was a charade one played in Protestant England. Michael was only the latest in a long line of Continental priests who had taken refuge in his mother’s house.

  It didn’t take long for the first danger signs to appear. Dominic grew increasingly uneasy as his mother questioned him about his personal life and attachments. Not that the inquiries themselves were unnatural—it was what mothers did, after all, and he usually welcomed any sign that Philippa was normal.

  But with each probing question, his mother’s voice grew higher and more rapid and her green eyes began to glitter unevenly. Dominic was spare and neutral in his answers, hoping by his reserve to keep her anchored firmly in the present. But he could not avoid answering a direct question and he was forced to admit that, no, he was not as yet betrothed.

  Philippa smiled. “I’ve been corresponding with Margaret Haywood in Devon. Her husband is sheriff of the county. Four sons and one daughter. The girl’s quite lovely … they sent me a miniature—”

  “Mother, please. I don’t need you to find me a wife.”

  She perched on the edge of her chair, chattering on as if he had not spoken. “She needs the right kind of husband, of course—it is such an uncertain time for those of the true faith. But you are both kin and friend to the king. The girl would be quite safe with you. Her name is Katherine, and her mother assures me she’s as sweet-tempered and biddable a girl as ever there was. Just turned fourteen, but a woman. You would not have to wait for children—”

  “Mother.”

  She blinked.

  Caught between anger and despair, Dominic did not measure his words. “You speak out of turn when you consider me of your faith. I do not follow Rome. And when I choose to marry, it will not be to some child I’ve never laid eyes on. I’ll not bed a girl of fourteen, willing or not.”

  In that brief pause that followed his outburst, hope flared in Dominic that maybe it would be all right. Maybe this time she had heard and understood him and would treat him as any other indulgent mother, laughing off his unpardonable manners and retreating to a safer subject.

  Her voice, when it came, was brittle and cracked, like ice rotting from beneath. “You prefer a reluctant wife? But of course. You are a Courtenay, after all.”

  Dominic could not answer, his throat tight with self-disgust. It was Michael who saved them, by the simple expedient of taking Philippa by the arm and raising her from the chair. Like a docile child, she let him lead her from the room. With a shake of her head, Grace followed.

  He never should have come here. It was too late to leave for Hampton Court now, but at first light he would be on his way.

  Provided that his mother didn’t burn the house down around them in the night.

  When Grace returned to the room an hour later he was still sitting at the table, pondering the unpleasantness of filial duty, while the servants cleared up around him.

  With the gentleness of long affection, Grace said, “You make things worse, you know. The tone of your voice, the turn of your countenance—it’s no wonder she sees him in you.”

  “Pity I wasn’t born a girl,” Dominic said lightly.

  Grace continued to gaze at him, eyes wide and mild. For some reason, the very lack of judgment in her face made Dominic want to defend himself. “I can’t help how I look.”

  “It’s not only that. You are your father’s son, Dominic. You have his ideals and his ambitions and his passion. Such intensity frightens your mother, for it made her own life a misery.”

  “Then why is she pushing the Haywood daughter on me? I’d expect her sympathies to be entirely on the girl’s side.”

  “They are. According to Margaret Haywood’s letters, her daughter is willing and eager to marry. No doubt she’s been fed romantic stories of your looks and your skill at arms, not to mention your friendship with kings. It’s enough to turn any girl’s head.”

  Dominic snorted. “So it’s all right to marry me off to a stranger as long as the bride is convinced she herself wishes it?”

  “Odd as it may seem, your mother wishes this marriage for your sake. She would not have you marry after your heart as your father did. She did not love him, but there were moments when she could pity him. His life was no less bitter than hers, loving a woman who flinched every time he touched her. Better, she thinks, to leave your heart out of it altogether, for then you cannot be hurt.”

  She rose and kissed him on the forehead. When she had gone, Dominic could not bear the closeness of the house another minute. The half-moon gave enough light for him to wander across the lawn to the perimeter of the kitchen garden. He could hear the lowing of cattle from a distant field, and he tried to lose himself in the pastoral serenity.

  As he leaned against the trunk of a knobby oak tree, random images tumbled before his eyes: his father showing him how to hold a sword, his large hand swallowing up five-year-old Dominic’s fingers; his mother standing before his father’s tomb with dry eyes and compressed lips; a girl of fourteen somewhere in Devon, her features soft and unformed, waiting in a church for a husband she’d never met.

  Dominic kicked at a clump of grass and swore. Why was this so difficult? Men married every day for reasons far from romantic—for land, for family, for connections. When he’d troubled to think about it, he had assumed he would do the same. After all, his heart had never entered into his affairs before, only considerations of pleasure and good company.

  He had followed his own strict ethics—no virgins, no wives, and no force—and had thought his detachment a point of honour, a means of avoiding entanglement. Now, as the summer darkness closed around him, with the seductive smell of warm grass and sleeping flowers almost tangible against his skin, Dominic forced himself to dive into
the icy center of his heart and admit the truth.

  He was afraid of being his father. He feared falling so desperately in love that he would ride roughshod over anyone, even the woman herself, to get what he wanted. By that measure, his mother’s suggestion was sensible—if Dominic was going to marry for reasons of logic and practicality, the Haywood daughter was as good as any other. And it wouldn’t be so terrible for the girl. He would be kind.

  But Dominic choked at the thought. He didn’t want to marry Katherine Haywood. He didn’t want a biddable girl or a needy widow or a calculating mistress.

  He closed his eyes and allowed thoughts of Minuette to creep through the barriers in his memory. The unexpected feel of her in his arms when she’d jumped to him at Hampton Court. Her pale face, turned to him in appeal the night he’d pulled Giles Howard off her. The lilt of her laughter as she’d flirted with another man.

  In the darkness of his mind, he let his control slip. He imagined her before him, trembling a little as he ran his fingers down her cheek to her throat. He imagined her eyes closing and her chin tilting up, bringing her mouth closer to his own, her lips parting as they kissed …

  His eyes snapped open. God in heaven, he was in trouble.

  William slipped out of bed and shivered once at the night air on his bare skin before he slipped a robe over his shoulders. Moonlight poured across the floor and he padded silently to the window, looking over the shadowy courtyard and the moon-bleached gardens to the silver glint of the river beyond the walls.

  Hampton Court slumbered below him, though he knew many were still awake at this hour—laundry maids scrubbing, cooks working through the night to ensure that the court and its many guests were well fed. And surely more than one couple engaged in breathless intimacy.

  Hitching himself onto the window ledge, he stared absently back at his empty bed. Eleanor had returned to court this week with her husband and had not missed a chance to remind William of her charms. But her charms came with a price, and he hadn’t felt like listening to her subtle persuasions that he increase her allowance or acknowledge her daughter. He wasn’t married yet—he should be allowed some peace.

  Of course, the council would change all that if they had their way. William’s marriage had been a topic of every council meeting for the last six months, with opinions on an appropriate mate ranging across the map of Europe, plus several serious contenders here at home.

  Jane Grey was the nearly unanimous choice of the Protestant faction, with more than just religion in her favor. Royal blood, for one: Jane’s grandmother had been his father’s beloved youngest sister, and it was always wise to co-opt any future threats to the crown. Her age, for another: at sixteen, she was ready to take her place as England’s queen without delay. The only Protestants who disliked her were those who had fallen foul of her difficult mother, the Duchess of Suffolk, and didn’t want their king in his cousin’s debt.

  The most serious Catholic candidate was the French princess Elisabeth. As King Henri’s oldest daughter, she was quite valuable, and a marriage to her would enhance William’s standing in Europe. The largest drawback, though by no means insurmountable, was her age. Elisabeth de France was only nine years old, and her father likely would not permit her to solemnize a marriage before she was twelve. Though once word got out that French soldiers were loose in Scotland, the girl’s age wouldn’t matter at all. There could be no betrothal without peace.

  Throughout the long and contentious debates, only two men had kept their opinions quiet—William himself and his uncle Rochford. Although they had not discussed the matter openly, William was certain that they were thinking the same thing.

  Mary Stuart, Queen of Scotland.

  She was perfect. Like Jane, the granddaughter of a Tudor princess. Like Elisabeth de France, a Catholic. And as a queen in her own right since she was six days old, Mary had a stature that no other woman could match. That she was Scotland’s queen only enhanced the temptation. To be the English king who united the island was an inducement far greater than Mary’s personal charms, which were many.

  William had been betrothed to Mary Stuart at one point—when he was seven and she was an infant queen. But Marie de Guise had smuggled her daughter away to France five years later and the English betrothal had been succeeded by a French one. Now eleven years old, Mary was only a few years from becoming the wife of the dauphin, Francis. The Scots themselves seemed content, no doubt trusting that the future Queen of France would spend her time in Paris, leaving her religiously independent subjects to their own devices. An English marriage would be far too close to home.

  The only way to secure Mary Stuart was on the battlefield. But William could feel it in his bones—his chance was coming. He would know the moment and he would seize it. And then he would have what he wanted.

  He sighed and ran his hands through his hair. Sometimes he envied his people—not the nobles and courtiers who surrounded him at all times, but the staunch, worthy everyday Englishmen who worked the land and served in the background and never had to trouble themselves about politics or treaties. They married for love—or at least for choice—rather than assessing every possibility without consideration for personal feeling.

  Not that William’s personal feelings had ever moved him to want more than what he had with Eleanor. He supposed, if he had not been king, he might have married Eleanor last year for desire alone. Just as well I am king, he thought wryly. A marriage based solely on desire was certain to be a disaster.

  Minuette rode out of the forecourt the next morning conscious of the pleasures inherent in being once more amongst friends. She rode Winterfall, the white palfrey that William had given her a year ago. William himself rode next to her, with Elizabeth and Robert and a dozen others behind. She felt a petty satisfaction that Eleanor had not been invited, and tried not to dwell on what she wanted it to mean. After all, it was natural that a woman who’d given birth two months before would not be prepared to ride.

  Jonathan Percy’s was another face missing from this morning’s hunt. He did not care for blood sport, and he’d needed to rehearse with the choir for tomorrow’s service in any case. But he had not seemed to mind her going, only kissed her hand and bade her be safe.

  Winterfall was aching to run this morning, and Minuette could feel her own blood pulsing in response.

  Calling over her shoulder to William, she issued a challenge. “I’ll wager I can reach the river before you can.”

  She didn’t wait for a response, but let Winterfall have her head. Some might think it cheating to begin the race while William was still talking to Elizabeth, but as Minuette was handicapped by a sidesaddle and long skirts, she thought it only fair. She knew the path by instinct, having ridden it for years. Winterfall was responsive to her slightest touch, and soon Minuette could see the main road to London running alongside the Thames.

  It was as well that she slowed before pounding onto the road, for a lone horseman had just come round the bend. It took all Minuette’s strength to pull Winterfall’s head round to the right and even then she felt the whoosh of the large black horse passing so close that her blue skirts billowed up.

  “Good girl,” Minuette said shakily, patting Winterfall’s neck as she slowed the horse to a walk and then a stop. Being mangled in a riding accident was not what she’d meant when she’d thought of an exciting morning. Perhaps she should be a little less careless in her enthusiasms.

  It seemed the other rider thought so as well. She heard him pull his own horse around and canter back to her. Even the horse sounded displeased. Minuette adjusted herself in the saddle, prepared to apologize prettily.

  She never got the chance.

  As Dominic drew near Hampton Court, he moved his palfrey into a gallop. He was looking up at the turrets, just visible above the parkland trees, when he heard an approaching horse. Because he knew the lanes of the park well, he was able to swing aside in time to avoid being hit by the careless rider. But it spooked his horse thorough
ly, and he had to struggle to get the black Barbary under control.

  He wheeled round in the road, prepared to deliver a scathing criticism, when he realized the rider was a woman. That was enough to make him pause and look her over more closely.

  For the space of a fleeting thought, he hesitated, and so he barely had time to dismount before Minuette was upon him. Then she was in his arms and he was aware of nothing but the feel of her against him.

  He was home.

  CHAPTER TEN

  28 June 1554

  Hampton Court

  The sun has just risen on my eighteenth birthday. This is likely to be the only time of the entire day when even I remember that. This day is for William—and England.

  When I was young, I thought of eighteen as a mystical age, a time when I would know my future and myself. But I find this morning that I am sure of nothing. I know that Jonathan spoke to William yesterday. I know what Jonathan will ask me today. I thought I knew what I would answer him.

  I will say yes. Of course I will say yes. There is no reason I should not. But why, then, did I avoid him at last night’s banquet? For I took care that Jonathan could not catch me alone. I spent my evening flirting discreetly with the Spanish ambassador, feeling him out as to a possible marriage for Elizabeth with Prince Philip.

  I avoided Dominic last night as well, though I was aware of his every movement. From the moment he pulled me against him on the road yesterday, I have felt almost shy. It’s ridiculous—me, shy of Dominic? Might as well be frightened of William. But the fact remains that Dominic seems all at once a stranger to me. Perhaps it is only his appearance. He has let his hair grow while in France, until it brushes against his chin. And a thin mustache and the hint of a beard, which make him look … older. Darker.

  I’m being silly. Dominic is the same as ever he was. All I need do is speak to him and I will feel myself again.