Laura Andersen - [Ann Boleyn 01]

by The Boleyn King

  It had been in January 1547, when William was nine. He’d been staying at Hever with his Boleyn grandmother, and he’d dared Dominic to sneak out of their room before the sun rose. It was the coldest winter in decades and he’d wanted to see if it were true, as a maid said, that it was cold enough to freeze running water.

  Any other time and place and they never would have gotten as far as the river. But his father was dying at Windsor Castle, and in the disruption of a smaller household, they were able to slip away with vague lies about watching the sun rise for an astronomy lesson.

  William had been disappointed to find the river still running, though tendrils of ice snaked out from the banks, winding white fingers through the black water. Dominic, fourteen years old and cautious by nature, wanted to go straight back. William might have listened if Dominic hadn’t made the mistake of calling him a foolish boy who took too much pleasure in flouting the advice of his elders.

  William hit him. Well, almost hit him, but Dominic was bigger and well able to predict his moods. He saw William’s arm move and stepped back to avoid it.

  He had forgotten that his back was to the river.

  Before he knew it, William was in the water after him, screaming his name. The water was running high, but Dominic was able to hook an arm round the limb of a fallen tree. He was quick enough to grab William’s hand and awkwardly shove him into the crook of the limb, William’s body as far out of the water as possible.

  Even nine years later, William could feel the ache of the cold that seemed to come from inside his bones and spread outward. Dominic kept talking to him while his legs, in water up to the knees, grew numb. He didn’t know how long it was before he realized Dominic was not talking anymore. Shaken out of himself, he saw that though Dominic’s arm remained twisted around the branch, his eyes were closed and a rim of frost iced his wet hair.

  It was the next part that still gave William nightmares, the memory of his own desperate pleading: Dom? Dom, wake up. Don’t do this to me. Don’t leave me alone. Everyone wants something from me but you. My father’s dying and I have to be king and I’m afraid. I can’t do it without you.

  They’d been plucked out of the river in time, but William had never forgotten his fear of being left by the only friend he knew he could count on. But this wasn’t Hever and he was no longer a child king. Prepared for battle, William heard the surge of the French line before he saw it—the brief last hush, broken by a rumble of hooves that vibrated through the earth, making his own horse pick up his feet in recognition. He risked one more look behind the French to the trees. There wasn’t even a glimmer of steel—not that he had expected there to be. Dominic knew what he was doing. And so did William.

  The archers set about their work with deadly accuracy. Hole after hole opened in the French line, men and horses going down in a tangle of flesh and blood, with the worst damage done to those who could not rise quickly enough and were trampled by their own forces.

  It might be as long as an hour before the archers could be bypassed, but William stayed mounted so as to view the field clearly. Although he was aware of the entire battlefield, with its individual swirls and eddies, he kept his attention fixed on the bright scarlet and gray banner that floated constantly above the driving wedge of the French.

  Renaud LeClerc was a formidable fighter. He kept his men ordered and methodical, and soon William could see that the archers wouldn’t be able to hold off this man as long as an hour. Already he was advancing—not carelessly or without thought to his own losses, but with precision and accuracy.

  Northumberland saw it as well, for he called sharply to his men to be mounted and ready. The chaplain made a brief benediction before withdrawing behind the line. The English army readied itself, squires doing their office to mounted knights, un-mounted men-at-arms sturdily gripping pikes. William drew in a cleansing breath as he saw the tip of the French army wedge itself into a point decidedly to the right of middle. They were heading for Robert Dudley. Dom had been right. LeClerc had set himself straight for the foe he most wanted to meet in battle.

  Robert was ready for them. As his father brought the vanguard into movement, Robert surged ahead of his own men, with a yell that set William’s heart alight with pleasure and a wish to do the same. But William’s job was not to dive into the heat of the fighting. He was the distraction—the royal prize that would keep most of the French occupied in attempting to reach him and draw their attention away from what might be happening behind.

  Northumberland and his son bore the brunt of this battle, and they met it well. Though William was busy enough keeping the fight turned inward so that no one slipped behind their lines, he could track Northumberland’s figure, ferocious and commanding in his armour. He kept his men tight about him, and even his banner looked disciplined.

  In contrast, Robert Dudley romped through the field, fighting with a careless joy that William well understood. He wheeled and circled on Daybreak, Dominic’s own favoured charger, and the horse followed his movements perfectly. No one could touch them.

  Two things happened almost at once—in a moment of time that seemed to slow until it nearly stopped. As William pulled his sword free of some unlucky squire who’d been wearing only leather armour, he looked to his left, where he saw Northumberland erect on his horse, sword raised high.

  He seemed to hold that position forever, until William wondered just what enemy he was trying to intimidate. The sword fell first, out of a hand that William could see was suddenly senseless. Before he could even think what that meant, Northumberland himself fell, his armoured body hitting the ground hard and his horse shying away. A French arrow stuck out of the shoulder joint where his armour plates met.

  The French had seen Northumberland’s fall as well, and they took it as a sign and a motivation to press harder. Even as he was swept into this new and more dangerous fight, William saw what he had been waiting for: Renaud LeClerc, achingly close to the plain gold banner and the man who fought beneath it, checked and hesitated.

  Though William was not near enough to distinguish individual sounds, he thought LeClerc might have given a shout of laughter. Without a second look at Robert Dudley, LeClerc wheeled his horse around and called his men to him. In that turning motion, he looked straight at William.

  For half a second it seemed LeClerc might forget the threat to Rouen and his own rear guard and make a dash for William instead. Capturing the king certainly would undo any advances the English made today. But after that one brief look, LeClerc decided. With what might have been a salute to William, he led his men back the way they’d come, not in retreat, but to meet the covert force that he now knew lay behind him to cut him off from Rouen. Between facing William and facing Dominic, it seemed there was no choice.

  William fought his way through to where Northumberland lay stunned and swearing. Standing tall in his stirrups, William let out a great yell of command. “St. George! St. George!”

  His squire was as quick as he was. “To the king!” he called.

  From all around, the men caught the phrase and threw it back in an echo that grew in size and intensity with each utterance.

  “To the king! The king! The king!”

  His blood pounding in his ears and singing through his veins, William dove into the heart of the fray, ignoring the little voice that whispered, Dominic will be angry.

  Over the heads of the French army, he could see at last a great reflection of sunlight on steel as men and horses swept into sight in a movement that meant England’s victory. Above the glitter of arms, William’s eyes went straight to Dominic’s banner—the colours of Exeter, floating free and defiant and heading straight for Renaud LeClerc.

  The worst part for Dominic was the waiting. He had led his men into position after midnight, then sent them to what rest they could find. It had been a long march through late summer darkness, a thousand men and two hundred horses moving as swiftly and silently as possible. They had picked their way with care through
the thick trees, blessing the clear skies and full moon that made this night movement possible. They traveled light, with only their weapons and what was needed for a morning battle, and most men rolled themselves up in their cloaks and slept without murmur on the ground.

  Dominic made no pretense of sleep. He set scouts around the camp and walked its perimeter himself. These were Courtenay men—knights and squires who had long followed his father and his uncle, and his grandfather before that. They were unquestioningly loyal to the banner of Exeter, and it left Dominic even more careful than he was wont to be.

  An hour or so before dawn, Dominic checked through his armour one last time with Harrington’s help. Then there was nothing to do but sit. So he sat on the edge of the camp, staring straight ahead, as though he could see through the trees that cut off the field of battle from his eyes. He knew the ground by heart, and in his mind he was imagining what would come in the next few hours.

  A quiet figure seated itself next to him. Dominic glanced briefly at Jonathan Percy before concentrating once more ahead.

  William had been right—Percy could fight. He had carried himself well through the brief, sharp encounter outside Harfleur. He had not faltered at either sight or smell, and he had never been more than five feet away from Dominic, which wasn’t as easy as it sounded when one considered the weight of holding a banner aloft while maneuvering a horse through the chaos of battle.

  At last Percy drew a deep breath and said softly, “Is it always like this?”

  “The waiting?” Dominic replied. “Yes.”

  “I’d rather fight than think about fighting.”

  “So would I.”

  There was another silence, broken once again by Percy. “My lord, thank you for giving me a decent chance. I shall never be a career soldier, but this experience will pour itself out into the music I write. I’ll never forget it.”

  And then, swiftly, as if afraid he’d stop himself if he had a chance to think about it, Percy rushed on. “You were right. When I came here, I was thinking of impressing … someone. You obviously know that I had asked Mistress Wyatt to be my wife.”

  Dominic sat perfectly still, not certain if he wanted the boy to keep talking or not. He had no idea if Percy knew that Minuette had written to him. Or why.

  But Percy did not elaborate, merely stood up and looked to the east. “The sky is beginning to lighten. Shall I wake the men?”

  Dominic kept his voice even. “The chaplain first. Give the men another quarter hour. Then we’ll hear service and move into position.”

  Percy nodded. And then, completely unexpectedly, he looked straight at Dominic with penetrating eyes. “She said no.”

  Dominic was caught in Percy’s gaze, the younger man studying him intently as though trying to divine something. Then he turned on his heel and set off for camp.

  By the time the sun had risen fully and the men had been shriven clean, Dominic moved them into position with his mind cleared of everything but the coming battle. He sent a single scout north along the tree line to where he could see the battle plainly. As soon as the French broke through the archers, Dominic’s force would begin to move, pouring silently out of the trees beyond sight of the armies and coming up behind.

  The scout alerted them before they had time to grow impatient. Dominic had known Renaud would break the Welsh line fast, but this was faster than even he’d expected. All the better. He was aching to fight, and so, to judge by their expressions, were his men.

  The road and surrounding fields were empty as they formed up and began marching west. Dominic kept his horse reined in, setting a deliberate pace that would not tire any of them before reaching the field. Behind the mounted knights, Harrington commanded the foot soldiers. In light armour and carrying a two-handed sword, Harrington was even larger than usual, and Dominic pitied any man who got in his way.

  They heard the battle before they saw it. That was the purest agony—to hear the cries of men and horses, the clash of arms and the ring of steel. To hear and not see was a purgatory. Dominic urged his borrowed horse forward, his tension communicating itself to his mount until the horse was as ready to run as he was. He did not look behind him as he went—his men knew their work.

  With a cry of pure pleasure, he burst onto the field. This was the moment he loved, when all was clean and the body and mind worked as one without troubling itself over past and future.

  He took in several sights at once: William, fighting far deeper in the middle than he should have been; Robert Dudley’s borrowed gold flashing as he pursued those of the French who had turned back toward Rouen; and, right where he’d expected, Renaud coming straight at him. Dominic ignored everything but the flash of scarlet and gray that marked his man. Renaud seemed just as anxious to meet, and they cleared their respective paths with ruthless efficiency.

  They drove at each other as though they were in the lists, and the first clang of sword on sword rang through Dominic’s head in answering vibration. They were past each other in an instant, both moving too quickly for more than that one blow, but already Dominic was checking his horse, turning it sharply to wheel round and meet Renaud again. But this borrowed horse was not as swift as Daybreak, and in the precious seconds it took him to get the animal to do what he wanted, Renaud was upon him, striking from his undefended side.

  Dominic managed to get his sword up and deflect the blow, but his arm was at an awkward angle and the force of Renaud’s strike set him off-balance. He kicked his foot free and let himself fall from the saddle so that his not-quite-good-enough horse was between him and Renaud.

  Renaud sprang down from his own horse in response, and now the two of them were truly in their element, aware of nothing but each other, bringing swords together in a dance of constant attack, neither one giving way to the other, both using the force of the other’s thrusts to power their own movements. Dominic felt his blood singing through him as he twisted and turned and sidestepped in harmony with Renaud, not slowing his reflexes with plans or tactics. His body knew what to do.

  It might have gone on much longer—to a draw that could only have been broken with the utter defeat of one army or another—but for a lucky blow from an English foot soldier who couldn’t have duplicated it if he’d tried. The man was inexpertly swinging an old-fashioned mace, and he wasn’t even aiming for Renaud. But his clumsy swing swiped Renaud across the head, staving in the back of his helmet.

  Dominic shoved the man out of his way and grabbed Renaud as he went down.

  “Help me!” he commanded.

  It was Percy who responded, lighting down from his horse and dropping the Exeter banner into the mud before helping Dominic dismantle the dented helmet so that Renaud’s pale face lay free to the sun. Dominic ran his hands over Renaud’s head and gradually his pulse slowed as his fingers found no evidence of a broken skull.

  Renaud’s eyes flickered open and, incredibly, he laughed. “You’ve surprised me twice, Dominic. I had not thought that possible.”

  With an answering laugh born of relief, Dominic said, “Good thing your French head is so hard.”

  Renaud’s right hand moved slightly in the grass, fingers searching until they found the hilt of his sword. His voice, though hoarse, was steady. “To none else would I surrender.”

  Dominic hesitated, feeling an unaccountable reluctance to accept this surrender. Renaud’s defeat owed more to chance than to any skill on Dominic’s part, and though he knew fairness was a luxury he could not afford in battle, he disliked beating his friend in this way.

  As though he could read Dominic’s mind, Renaud gave what might have been a snort of disdain. “Take your victory as you find it, Dominic. There is no dishonour in seizing upon good fortune. Do you think I would not do the same?”

  With a nod, Dominic accepted Renaud’s sword, knowing as he did so that the battle was won. Renaud was the heart and spirit of his men, and his fall and surrender spread defeat quickly. Within half an hour, all that was left was the clearin
g away of the wounded and dead. Leaving Renaud in the custody of Harrington and several Tiverton squires, Dominic mounted once more and rode out to meet William. Even from a distance, he could see the flush of victory setting a sheen of gold on that bright face. Closer up, William was dirty and his hair curled damply from sweat. He was obviously untouched and as shining as a victorious king should be.

  He shouted his congratulations while Dominic was still twenty paces off. “Perfect, Dom. This will make Henri sit up and take notice.”

  Yes, Dominic thought, so it will. And fair enough, too, since Dominic was certain that the original threat to Calais had never been more than a feint designed to draw William to the field of battle. Henri had wanted to test this young king. Well, he had got his test, and Dominic wondered if he would count the loss of lives and cities worth the knowledge he had gained of William’s nature.

  Dominic waved a salute to Robert Dudley, grinning broadly in his borrowed tunic. He was about to head over to thank him for his part in the victory, and to ensure Daybreak was in good condition under his borrowed rider, when the sound of a galloping horse caught his ears.

  A running horse in the aftermath of battle was odd enough—even odder was the sight of the royal chaplain riding it. He pulled up to William and made a hasty bow in his saddle.

  “Forgive me, Your Majesty. There’s a rider just come from Le Havre.” He handed over a sealed letter. “From Her Highness, the Princess Elizabeth.”

  The sun was still an hour from setting when William gathered what he had of his council in the great hall of Rouen’s castle. Northumberland was absent, lying on a bed in the infirmary with a sword wound in the shoulder. Looking at the handful of men around him, William spoke with quick authority—the best way, he had found, of giving orders and conveying unwelcome information. “A ship weighs anchor from Le Havre tomorrow. I will be on it.”