Minuette was wondering quite the same thing.
In that same infuriatingly remote voice, Dominic said, “Do you wish to return to the dancing?”
“No, I … my chamber will do.”
It was just as well Dominic walked with her, for Minuette still had no clear idea of where she was. But for all the company he gave, she might as well have asked a servant to escort her. He did not so much as take her arm.
When they reached her door, Dominic bowed and turned away. She could not bear it—she could not let him leave without even a word. She took a step forward and laid her hand on his arm.
He turned slowly and she bit her lip, waiting for his eyes to meet hers. But he did not look at her face. He stared at her hand as he lifted it off his sleeve into his own. She shivered as her fingertips went from the velvet of his doublet to the warmth of his skin.
Why was she breathing so hard? She was quite accustomed to having her hand kissed, and it had never roused in her anything but amusement. Certainly not the trembling that had now seized her entire arm.
With exquisite care, Dominic turned her hand so that it rested palm upward, cradled in his. He raised it and Minuette drew in her breath, waiting for the touch of his lips against her palm.
His mouth came to rest, soft and gentle, on the inside of her wrist.
The sensation was so completely unexpected that Minuette thought her heart had stopped. How was it that a touch on her wrist could send waves through parts of her body completely unrelated to either hands or arms?
And now, finally, he was looking at her. Caught in his dark, insistent gaze, she realized how she must look—hair curling damply from the rain, cheeks burning, lips parted. Above her self-consciousness, she felt the tension of opposing wishes—to stay in this moment forever, or to plunge headlong into whatever it was that came next.
The bell’s toll sounded sharp and loud, shattering the silence in which they’d been wrapped. At the first peal, Dominic dropped her hand and jerked away as if he’d been burnt. The bell continued tolling, slowly at first, and then with a rising urgency.
He swore softly. “I have to go.”
She managed a nod. Dominic opened his mouth, then tightened his lips, as if restraining words he wanted to say. She watched him stride firmly away to whatever emergency the bell was signaling. He did not look back.
William paced the length of his privy chamber, the beat of temper in his head matching the rhythm of the sounding bell. Rochford watched him in quiet stillness, his eyes hooded.
Within a quarter hour the gentlemen of the council were assembled, Dominic amongst them. The men were grim-faced and silent as they faced their king, and in spite of the seriousness of what he had to say, William felt a brief shiver of pleasure that not one had looked to Rochford.
He had rehearsed his words while he waited. “I have received a message from the French. Henri’s armies have taken possession of Guînes.”
Guînes was a town long ceded to the English, and, looking from one lord to the next, William could see the same sweep of emotions he’d been through in the past hour. Northumberland was outraged, Norfolk was angry but already calculating what came next, Dominic …
Dominic looked blank, and William wondered if he’d even heard him.
He let his voice rise a notch. “I have expelled Henri’s ambassador. At dawn he will be on his way to France. And so shall we.”
It was an exaggeration, of course, for the kind of expedition William planned could not get under way in less than a month. But he could send a small coterie ahead immediately, and he wasted no time giving orders.
“Lord Northumberland, you have charge of the muster. A thousand knights on horse and ten thousand men-at-arms assembled and ready by mid-July. Lord Sussex is your second.”
He looked next to Dominic. “Lord Exeter, you will command the advance. Choose two dozen men. I want you in Calais in one week.”
There would be further orders, of course, more precise instructions on what he wanted accomplished and when. But William knew by instinct that the best thing was to send them off roused and ready and not to cool their blood with details just yet.
He felt again that rise of triumph as the lords bowed and took their leave. Rochford was amongst the last to go. Bestowing one of his rare smiles on William, his uncle said simply, “Well done, Your Majesty.”
Only Dominic was left, still looking rather stunned. “Dom? I need you moving now.”
His eyes cleared. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Dominic?” William’s voice stopped him at the door. “If you were any older, I’d have given you charge of the entire campaign. I can’t push Northumberland too far—not yet. But yours is the advice I’ll be listening to.”
Once he was alone, William could feel the anger he had leashed beginning to threaten his restraint. If Henri thought he would be cowed by the threat of battle, he was wrong. The blood pounded in his ears, and he felt as though he might jump out a window just to unleash some of his tension.
With a clap of his hands, he summoned a page hovering outside the privy chamber and sent him to tell Mistress Howard that the king wished to see her.
29 June 1554
Hampton Court
It is dawn, and once more I’m writing by the first light of morning. How could I have known that between one sunrise and the next, everything would change?
I didn’t know I could feel like this. I didn’t know anyone could feel like this. I’ve been so superior this last year, wondering how Alyce could have been so weak as to get with child. But if the bells had not rung last night …
I watched Dominic ride out an hour ago. We are at war, it seems, and naturally Dominic will be in the midst of it. He looked up just before leaving and seemed to see straight through the shadows to the window where I stood. It can only have been my imagination that his mouth softened into a smile, for I could not see that clearly in the darkness.
It was not my imagination. I know he smiled.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Dispatches from Dominic Courtenay, Marquis of Exeter, to Henry IX, King of England
5 July 1554
We are keeping to the security of Calais while our numbers are few. The officials here have little more knowledge than do we—that the French took possession of Guînes ten days ago with no warning and meeting only a minimal resistance. I will ride out tomorrow and see for myself. I cannot imagine that the population is happy about the change of control. I know that the citizens of Calais are unhappy about the French armies being only six miles away.
7 July 1554
Calais
The French give every appearance of being firmly entrenched at Guînes, but I suspect their troops are not deep. The banner over the castle is that of Michel St. Pierre, a man of more bluster than skill. I cannot fathom why Henri would entrust such a man with command—unless this occupation was a casual idea that Henri never expected to succeed. If so, he will have been almost as surprised as we were when Guînes fell, and he will be less prepared for war than we expected. All to our advantage, if we can move quickly.
11 July 1554
Calais
I believe Guînes will fall quickly and we should know beforehand what we mean to do after. If you wish to press Henri, you will never have a better opportunity. Guînes has received no reinforcements, which tells me Henri is scrambling for troops. Best weigh your options now, so you can issue commands without delay.
18 July 1554
The first of the light cavalry disembarked yesterday and the heavy cavalry is expected with Northumberland tomorrow. We have left Calais for our preliminary encampment, two miles north of Guînes. We will be ready to lay siege within days. I expect Northumberland will be able to inform me of your intended arrival. Until then …
Dominic
The wind, hot and relentless, tugged fitfully at Dominic as he strode across the encampment. As far as he could see were men and tents and horses, banners whipping bright colours across the ha
rd blue sky of early August—the green and gold of the Dudleys, the sable and silver of Sussex, the gold wings of the Seymours. And above them all, flying proudly from Guînes castle itself, the English royal banner.
St. Pierre had proven himself as incompetent a commander as Dominic had predicted. After ten days of siege, rather than wait and see how far he could test English resolve, the French commander had sent his garrison outside the walls to try to fight their way through to reinforcements. The encounter had been short and sharp, and the townspeople of Guînes had cheered when William rode triumphantly through the gates.
As Dominic walked up the short incline from the outer wall to the castle gate, he could see the signs of undisciplined soldiers all around him—from the smashed glass of looted shops to the wary glances of the populace. Though they had welcomed William, they no doubt feared the English troops as much as the French ones.
The forecourt of the small castle was thick with riders carrying dispatches to the ships that sailed between Calais and Dover. The weather had been with them thus far, and communication had been straightforward. Dominic was escorted to the utilitarian hall where William stood at a table with Northumberland, overlooking maps and discussing terrain. Though they had narrowed the possibilities for attack down to two, William had still to make the final decision.
Dominic joined in the debate, deferring to Northumberland. John Dudley, or “Black Jack,” as he was often known, was a talented field commander, clear-sighted and canny. Also, Dominic happened to agree with Northumberland in this case. One option was to push forward out of Guînes and teach the French a lesson by taking some of their towns along the path to Paris. It was what the English had done for a century in the last war—there were towns within forty miles of Calais that had changed hands a dozen times during the Hundred Years’ War. Which meant it was expected.
The unexpected option was to leave a small force of men to bolster the Guînes garrison, sail away with the rest—not to England, but just far enough off the French coast so as not to be spotted—and head south to the new port city of Le Havre-de-Grâce. It was an extension of Harfleur, a city that Henry V had once famously captured. Besides being unexpected, Le Havre had the great advantage of lying on the Seine. If they could hold that port, they could move upriver to Rouen and thence to Paris.
William liked that option because of the romance and glory of his ancestor’s victory. Dominic liked it because it meant not getting bogged down in sieges, which brought all the dangers of supply lines and disease to their camps. So it wasn’t a huge surprise when, after an hour of dutifully weighing the advantages of each action, William chose Le Havre. Northumberland left with orders to begin the loading of the ships first thing in the morning.
William sat back beneath the hastily arranged cloth of state. Eyeing Dominic, he asked, “Assuming we catch Le Havre off guard and take it quickly, what will we face at Rouen after?”
“Depends on how quickly we move and how quickly the French figure it out. They’ll make a stand at Rouen if at all possible.”
“Under whose command?”
“It has to be Renaud LeClerc. They have no one who can touch him.”
“Have we?”
Dominic shrugged. “I know him, and that helps. A bit.”
William nodded and stood up once more, restless with unspent energy. “I have something for you. Percy brought it with him from Greenwich.”
Dominic thought he had heard wrong. “Jonathan Percy?”
“He arrived an hour ago.”
Dominic chose his words with care, trying not to let personal displeasure colour his arguments. “Why? Your army needs men who can fight, not those who may or may not stand their ground.”
“Percy can fight.” William must have seen the flare of skepticism in Dominic’s eyes, for he said emphatically, “Truly, he can fight. Not as well as you, but then few can. He’s sturdy with a lance and he doesn’t flinch—I made sure of that. He’ll do well enough.”
“I’m surprised Eleanor didn’t beg you to leave her brother behind.” Dominic dared not think of another woman pleading for Percy.
“I would have left him—to be honest, I hadn’t even thought of him—but there he was, laying a sword before me and begging to offer his service. It will be good for him,” William said. “Find a place for him, won’t you, Dom? There must be room amongst your own.”
William had at last located what he was looking for in the pile of letters and maps—a parcel wrapped in plain cloth. “From the girls,” he said, tossing the soft weight into Dominic’s hands.
The first item Dominic pulled out was a tunic, sized loosely to fit over armour, the padded gold silk embroidered with the red discs and blue lions of the Courtenays. The second piece was thinner and longer—a pennon blazoned with the same colours. His father’s colours.
Dominic found it unexpectedly hard to speak. “Thank you, William.”
It took him a moment to realize that something was missing—something he had expected to see. He picked up the tunic once more and inspected it closely. “There’s no crescent.”
William shook his head. “You are no longer the cadet branch of the family, Dom.”
But the cadet branch sprang from the younger sons, such as his father. Even though Dominic’s uncle was dead … “My cousin Edward still lives. He is the oldest heir to the title.”
“And has been granted new arms as Viscount Lisle. You are Marquis of Exeter, and you bear no mark of cadency. Nor will your son, when one day he flies those colours.”
Before Dominic could think of an appropriate reply—any reply—William handed him something else. “A letter, as well. From Minuette.”
With the sealed letter burning in his hand, Dominic left. He nodded as he passed the squires standing guard outside the hall; then his eyes went to a figure, sitting still and braced on a bench in the corridor.
With a curt gesture, Dominic motioned Jonathan Percy up. “The king has placed you in my service, Percy. Walk with me.”
As they passed through the darkening town, Dominic glanced sidelong at the shorter, younger man and said, “What possessed you to come to France? You’re a musician, not a soldier.”
“I ask only to render what service I can.”
“You think to return home covered in glory? Have you ever even seen a battlefield? Precious little glory in mud and death.”
Percy’s voice remained measured. “One wonders, then, why men such as yourself continue to seek it out.”
Dominic stopped walking and faced Percy straight on. “You want to see battle? Fine. You may carry my standard. Wherever I go, you follow. That should cure you of your fantasies.”
“Fantasies, my lord?”
“I’ve no time for a man who thinks only of impressing his betrothed. You want to impress Mistress Wyatt? Return home in one piece.”
Even by firelight, Dominic could see Percy’s jaw tighten. “Is that all, my lord?”
“For now. Find a spot with my men. I’ll see you at dawn.”
Alone in his tent, Dominic rolled his head, easing the knots of tension in his shoulders. He needed to give Harrington orders, to start the process of packing up his men and horses and weapons to take ship once more. But first … He laid the tunic and pennon on his bed, and the single candle picked out shards of colour as he moved—gold, red, and azure. Atop the tunic lay Minuette’s letter, the oval of the silver seal seeming to watch him like a great, unblinking eye.
Since riding out from Hampton Court, he had refused to dwell on what had passed between them, since there was absolutely nothing he could do about it while he was campaigning. And also because he wasn’t sure how much importance he could attach to it. Nothing had been said or done that could not be ignored. Only a moment in time when everything vanished and they two were alone in the world.
Never had Dominic been nearer losing his head completely than while standing in that corridor with Minuette. He had been unable to stop himself kissing her wrist where the f
ine blue veins traced their path beneath the white skin. He had felt her tremble, her hand shivering in his. He had not dared think of it since, partly because it was too precious a memory for everyday handling, and partly because he didn’t know how morning’s light had affected Minuette. He would stake his life that she had seen his desire that night. And he wanted to believe that, in that moment, she had been willing. But when morning came and he was gone, and she was brought up against the promise she had made to Jonathan …
He took up the letter and broke the seal.
The first page contained a drawing, an exquisitely shaded rendering of his entire coat of arms. The gold escutcheon, quartered and bearing the red torteaux of the Courtenays and the azure lions that sprang from his grandmother’s royal blood, surmounted by an earl’s coronet and a rising dolphin. And beneath it all, the motto.
When Dominic read the Latin words, he closed his eyes and smiled. He should have known she would remember.
He could see her face, bright and eager before him—eleven years old and chattering like a magpie after Dominic’s first tournament. He’d been tired and sore and ridiculously disappointed that he hadn’t won. Minuette’s voice had flowed around him in a stream of words he did not bother to decipher.
At last she’d plucked on his sleeve. “I asked you a question,” she said.
“Sorry. What was it?”
“Why do you not use your father’s coat of arms? Why wear plain gold with no decoration?”
“I am not head of the Courtenay family. My cousin Edward is that.”
Minuette let out an impatient breath. “And your father’s arms carried the mark of cadency. This is nothing to do with your cousin. It’s because of your father himself.”
He turned back to his horse as Minuette hurried on. “Nothing was ever proved against him. And even if it had been, you were not at fault.”
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