Laura Andersen - [Ann Boleyn 01]

by The Boleyn King

  “If the Spanish had it, Rochford would know. It’s got to be at Framlingham. Do you have any idea where?”

  “The family must be keeping it near. In one of their private chambers. I’ve looked where I can—I’ve even been through Mary’s rooms when she’s at service—but I can hardly walk into, say, the duke’s private bedchamber and start tearing things apart.”

  “Think, Minuette.”

  “I’ve done nothing but think!” She caught herself and said more calmly, “Robert, this is too important to be left in our hands. Rochford must intervene. Send for his soldiers, have them lock Framlingham down.”

  “If necessary, those are my orders.” Not unkindly, Robert perched on the uncomfortably narrow edge next to her and took her hands in his. “You are not here because you’re Elizabeth’s friend. Rochford doesn’t work that way. You are here because he believed you could do this. You have been here for a month. You can read people. You know who is keeping secrets and the ways they try to hide them. This affidavit is the most important piece of paper the Catholics could ever lay their hands on. It will be kept safe. Mary would consider it sacred. Where is it?”

  She shut her eyes. Safe. Sacred. The most private of places—a bedchamber would be that. But Mary would know that hers was always under scrutiny. She would not risk keeping it there. The Duke of Norfolk … the most likely, except that he had not survived to his age by being careless. He knew he was under suspicion. He would not want such a document found in his personal possession—he would want to be able to deny knowledge.

  Giles, then? Even as Minuette shuddered at the thought of invading Giles’s bedchamber, she dismissed it. Giles could not be trusted—not even by his father. Nothing so critical would be left to him.

  Where is it? Safe, sacred, private …

  A thought teased at the edge of her vision.

  Sacred.

  Her eyes flew open, and she looked at Robert with wonder. “I know where it is.”

  “Good girl. Where?”

  “The chapel. Well, no, not the chapel itself—too many people going in and out. But there’s a lady chapel to the side, small and beautiful. And always locked. Lady Mary uses it for her private worship. Indeed, she has spent a great deal of time there these last ten days. Praying, I supposed.”

  “Probably she is. Mary will not take lightly to her brother’s disposal, righteous though she may deem it.” His eyes narrowed. “How do we get in?”

  “There’s only one key—and only the family have access.”

  “I’m pretty good at getting into places I shouldn’t.”

  “Not this time.” Minuette stood and shook out her skirts, feeling confident and terrified and elated all at once. “Giles Howard is going to let me in.”

  She could play him, do as Lady Rochford had said and use the one power a woman has, seduce him into letting her into the lady chapel, and then …

  And then she could throw herself down a staircase from sheer self-loathing. No, she thought, it won’t go that far. Just far enough to get him close and get him distracted, and then I’ll hit him with something. Hard.

  Dominic would not approve, she thought. But he worked for Rochford; surely even he had to do things of which he did not approve.

  That didn’t make the thought of explaining this to him any more palatable. Good thing she had time to think of how to word it.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  THE TREATY OF Rouen was signed November 1, 1554, in the great hall of Rouen Castle. The timbered hall was crowded with dignitaries, French and English, both royal retinues glittering in silks and velvets and jewels. William was the most soberly dressed, as befitted a son in mourning. He knew full well, though, that he still managed to look effortlessly royal in a plain purple doublet, ermine cloak, and jeweled collar. His head was bare, save for a circlet of beaten gold.

  He looked down the long table to where King Henri of France sat, affixing his signature to the treaty. He was in the prime of life, but despite his richer clothing and the advantage of his years, he seemed to be trying too hard. It couldn’t be easy, William thought, losing to a boy half his age. He tried not to let his triumph show too plainly. After all, he had gotten everything he’d asked for today.

  Knowing how difficult it would be to hold Rouen, William had agreed to cede the city back to the French. However, Henri had not disputed the English plan to hold and garrison Le Havre and Harfleur. The debates had been minor and tedious, as William had guessed they would be. He was certain that Henri was prepared to give way on every lesser point, thus conserving his energy to fight the issue that mattered most: Mary Stuart.

  When Archbishop Cranmer had finally raised the subject of a marriage alliance, William sensed the stiffening of the French across the room. They were prepared to refuse. Politely, no doubt, but a refusal nonetheless.

  So when the archbishop formally asked for his betrothal to Elisabeth de France, Henri’s nine-year-old daughter, William had nearly laughed aloud at the open mouths and bewildered expressions on every side. But he had merely continued to stare straight at Henri, daring him to refuse.

  Henri did not refuse. Indeed, he appeared so relieved not to have to fight about Scotland’s queen that he agreed to his daughter’s betrothal with almost indecent haste. There had been no mention of securing Elisabeth’s approval.

  Her father had summoned her for the treaty signing, that she might at least meet her future husband. The girl stood mute at her father’s shoulder with a single attendant behind her. As William rose to meet Henri in the middle of the chamber and clasp hands, the fragile-looking princess in her stiff court gown raised her head and looked straight at him. Though she had been well schooled, she was still a nine-year-old girl and she could not keep her eyes from shining.

  William smiled and then, when the French king motioned his daughter forward to meet her betrothed, he bowed and kissed her hand gravely. As she sneaked another look at him from beneath lowered lashes, he thought, I might have done worse. A betrothal composed of at least one adoring and uncritical partner is bound to be a success.

  Another thought lingered deeper, with an edge flavoured with Dominic’s critical voice: Are you sure you know what you’re doing?

  But Dominic wasn’t here.

  At the banquet that followed, he found himself speaking to Renaud LeClerc. Dominic had been right—the French king had not demurred at the enormous sum asked for LeClerc’s ransom. Now the commander offered his congratulations to William. “It cheers me to have peace between us, Your Majesty.”

  “And me as well.”

  “I regret only that I cannot bid farewell to Lord Exeter.”

  William smiled. “What would you have me tell him?”

  Before answering, LeClerc studied William with an unusual focus. He said finally, “Bid him remember my words about friendship. Remind him that I would rejoice to see him ever at my home.” And then he smiled and added, “And tell him to claim his Nicole. He has waited long enough.”

  The moment Dominic entered Framlingham’s walls, he was struck by a tangible sense of waiting, as though a brooding priest were hovering over this troublesome flock to see what they might do. Harrington, riding at his side, felt it too, for he grunted and said, “Good spot for an army.”

  Too good a spot, Dominic thought. They were in the heart of Catholic country here and it was all too easy to imagine rebels flocking to Mary in this valley. It must not come to that.

  At Framlingham he and Harrington were greeted politely, but with an underlying unease that alerted all Dominic’s senses. “Lord Exeter, from the king,” he told a boy, who ran ahead.

  Dominic said to Harrington, “Find out where Mistress Wyatt’s maidservant is. Her name is Carrie. Ask her what’s been happening here.”

  Harrington accepted the order with characteristic silence and set off for the kitchens. Dominic was met at the door to the family wing by a steward who bowed. “My lord, we are preparing rooms for you. A bath, a chance to rest after your
ride—”

  “Where’s the family, and the Lady Mary?”

  “At supper, my lord. Do you not wish to …” The steward gestured to Dominic’s creased and worn riding clothes. Dominic and Harrington had done the 140 miles from Hastings in just four days, and they looked, at best, disreputable. That could be useful here.

  “I wish to be taken to Lord Norfolk. At once.”

  The servants might be nervous, but not to the point of outright rudeness. “This way, my lord.”

  The hall was set with many tables, but Dominic focused on the one placed crosswise to the others. There was Norfolk, expression flaring into dislike before settling into neutrality; Mary, who took a minute to place him but seemed unconcerned when she did; Eleanor, gleaming like the hardest of gems. Where was Minuette?

  As he crossed the long hall to the top table, he finally found her near the end, seated between two men: Robert Dudley, which gave Dominic pause, but that surprise was swallowed up by the second man. Giles Howard. Who was leaning into Minuette as though he had been whispering to her.

  Her eyes were enormous and unreadable. He waited for some sign—for her to cry his name in delight or even to come to him in welcome—but she sat frozen.

  “My lord of Exeter,” Norfolk said at last. “What an unexpected … pleasure.”

  Dominic forced himself to attend to the duke, tearing his eyes away from Minuette and Giles. “Lord Norfolk, I apologize for my sudden arrival. I come direct from the king in France. He wished you to be amongst the first to know that the French have agreed to nearly every one of our demands. The treaty was expected to be signed this very day.”

  “Such an important day,” Norfolk said drily. “One wonders that he did not wish you by his side.”

  “A mark of his deep care for you. And for his dear sister.” Dominic bowed to Mary, who looked distinctly displeased. A French treaty, signed and sealed, meant war with the emperor. That thread ran through many in this room—calculation and greed and true belief and rebellion. Oh, yes, it needed but a spark to flame into war.

  The spark Minuette had been meant to find.

  He slid his eyes sideways and found that her eyes were still on him, still wide and … what? Beseeching? Warning?

  “Please, join us,” Norfolk was saying, and Dominic found himself at the end of the table next to Robert Dudley, one remove from Minuette. He was about to ask to change places when she unfroze and let her face light into conversation. He knew every pitch of her voice, every tone of her laughter. It was directed entirely at Giles.

  He sat appalled and silent through the remainder of the meal while Minuette shamelessly flirted—there was no other word for it—with a married man. A married man who had tried to force her just over a year ago. I should have killed him when I had the chance, Dominic thought, but that was only to keep the blackness away.

  Robert tried to engage him, but Dominic was not in the mood for Dudley charm. He only caught a phrase or two, something about Elizabeth (naturally) and asking if the sea had been calm when Dominic crossed. He gave one-word answers when forced, and otherwise ignored Robert.

  He supposed he ate something; he most certainly drank. And all the while Minuette’s teasing voice wound through his memories of a more solemn Minuette in her mother’s rose garden last year: I am trained to reflect back whatever a man expects to see.

  Clearly Giles approved of the reflection—every time Dominic looked that way, he caught the insufferable blaze of Giles’s revenge. And me? his mind whispered. When I touched her at Hampton Court, when she shivered at my touch … was that part of her training, too?

  Finally the group broke up, Mary retiring and the duke following shortly after. In the eddies of goodnights and movement, Dominic managed to get near enough to Minuette to say, “I have a message for you, from the king.”

  Though Giles was not standing overly close to Minuette, his stance was possessive. “How is William?” he asked with an insolence that made Dominic’s fingers twitch.

  “Victorious,” he said shortly. “May I speak with you, Mistress Wyatt? Privately?”

  “Of course.” She seemed nervous, as though she didn’t know how to get out of there, what to say or do.

  “I will bid you farewell,” Giles said smoothly, and though he did not touch her, his gaze was offensively direct. “Until later.”

  He left, striding out in a manner that reminded Dominic that this was the Howards’ home, after all. All the more reason to get Minuette out of here.

  “What did William tell you?” Minuette asked, and Dominic thought it an odd way to ask after his message.

  “That Rochford had sent you here without William’s knowledge or permission. I’m here to take you home.”

  “Is that all he told you?” She searched his face as though trying to read beneath the surface.

  “He said he has missed you.”

  Her cheek twitched, and she shut her eyes. Then she sighed and opened them, this time with something approaching her real smile. “I will be glad when all this is over.”

  “When all what is over? I thought you were here to …” Dominic trailed off as he looked around at the servants and occasional clerk passing through the hall. He chose his words more carefully, and spoke lower. “What does Giles have to do with this?”

  “Do you really have to ask?” she began, then her smile faltered. “You don’t trust me. You believe I am—what? Stupid? Shallow? How could you think … I have not forgotten, and I have certainly not forgiven. I would never be so careless with Giles Howard.”

  “No, Minuette. I am sorry. I was just … I have come into this blind and I let fear override my judgment. You could never be careless in your affections.”

  Somehow, even that was the wrong thing to say, for she was still and pale in the candlelight. “Perhaps you think too highly of me,” she said. “But I promise, I have done nothing with Giles of which I am ashamed. There is a purpose, and I do not forget that.”

  “Well, whatever that purpose is, it’s no longer yours. I have direct orders from William to get you out of here. We ride in the morning. This is not your fight.”

  She studied him with grave intent, and for nearly the first time in his life, Dominic was not sure what she was thinking. “The morning,” she repeated. “Then I should retire, in order to prepare. There aren’t many hours left.”

  She smiled once more, but it was her brilliant court smile, which shut him out absolutely. “I will see you in the morning, Dominic.”

  He stared after her as she walked away, and might have stayed there if he hadn’t caught sight of Harrington. Dominic strode over to him and asked, “What did Carrie have to say?”

  “That the sooner you get Mistress Wyatt away from here, the better. She says Framlingham has had a bad effect on her lady, but that was all. Said she had to get to packing now that you were here to set things right.”

  How can I set things right when I’m not entirely sure what’s going on? Dominic wondered.

  Harrington went so far as to almost offer a suggestion. “Shall I keep a watch on her tonight?”

  “No,” Dominic said. “I’ll do that. I want you watching the gates. Don’t let anyone leave tonight. Rochford sent men with Mistress Wyatt; use them if you cannot find me. Whatever’s going to happen, I think it will be tonight.”

  And Minuette would be in the middle of it. What are you up to, he wondered, that you do not want me to know?

  I will not think of Dominic, I will not think of Dominic, I will not think … Minuette gulped the wine Carrie had begrudgingly brought her and wondered if she could get close enough to drunk to dull her senses without tipping into insensibility.

  Half an hour later—as she tripped for the third time and had to tighten her hand on Giles’s arm to keep from stumbling—she thought she hadn’t quite got the balance right.

  Giles chuckled roughly as she swayed. “Sure you want to keep going? There are any number of quiet corners closer than the chapel.”

&nbs
p; She widened her eyes innocently. “But the whole point is to give me a private tour of the lady chapel. Isn’t it?”

  “Whatever you wish to call it,” he murmured.

  The lady chapel could be entered only from inside the larger chapel. It was a relief to finally reach the door with its pointed arch, because Giles removed his arm to use the key.

  Don’t let me be wrong, she prayed silently. Please don’t let all of this be for nothing.

  Giles shoved the door open, wrapped his arm around Minuette’s waist this time, and pulled her against his side as they entered. Her left hand and the candle flame wavered.

  “Let’s get this out of the way, shall we?” He plucked the candle from her hand, lit two of the tapers that waited on the altar (Popish chapel or not, Minuette thought that sacrilegious), and set down her own flame between them.

  In the time it took him, Minuette felt a whisper threading through her whole body—as if something, or someone, was calling to her. It’s here, she thought. I was right.

  And then Giles was on her and her only thought was how to judge the balance between eagerness and hesitation.

  She made herself relax, told her muscles to remain pliable. It was nothing like William or Dominic, nothing like the melting of bones and the instinct to merge. This was calculated and an imitation—but good enough for Giles. His breath was rough and his mouth insistent, his hands grasping at her bodice, fumbling for the laces …

  She made a slight sound of protest and stiffened, just enough to penetrate Giles’s awareness. This was the tricky moment. She had to make him believe she was willing, not give him a reason to force her.

  “This is … I’m …” She made her eyelashes flutter, looked down demurely.

  “What?”

  She bit her lip and decided Giles was arrogant enough to believe in her capitulation. “I just think …” She looked shyly around the lady chapel. “It’s private, but not very comfortable.”

  Would he take the hint?

  “Comfortable? Well, I can remedy that. You won’t leave?”