The Boleyn Deceit (22 page)

He stretched his long legs out before him and stared unseeing at the tapestry draped across the far wall. This summer progress had not been nearly as relaxing as earlier ones. These few months were supposed to be a time of relief for a king, with nothing more pressing than the next day’s hunt or the next night’s feast.

The truth was, his council was becoming more recalcitrant with every week that passed. Not Dominic, of course, but many of those who composed the privy council thought nothing of opposing even his slightest plan. And it was impossible to get through anything these days without being reminded of England’s rising debt. If he had hoped this progress would help him escape from the pressures of ruling, William had been disappointed. Those councilors who were not with him in person wrote lengthy letters detailing plague in London and flooding in
Anglia. And, with unrelenting regularity, protests and clashes over religion.

He thanked God daily for Minuette. If he had not her image with him always—perfect and uncomplicated—he’d have run mad before now.

Slipping her letter inside his doublet, William briefly considered the unread messages confronting him critically from where he’d tossed them. He’d deal with them later. What he needed now was a change of scene. Pausing long enough for a cup of wine, he escaped to the quiet garden that had been set aside for his use. There, he spied Robert Dudley slouching elegantly against a tree and waved him over. He had allowed him on this progress, despite his brother’s disgrace, because the man was an excellent rider, a superb dice player, and an amusing wit. Without anyone else around to entertain him, he might as well have Robert.

“Looking forward to Kenninghall? You’ve not been there before, I believe,” William said, knowing very well he hadn’t.

Robert’s smile was full of mischief. “The Howards and Dudleys are civil in public, but civility does not extend to inviting the enemy into your home.”

“Enemies?” William said repressively. “I dislike any of my people finding enemies amongst our own.”

“The word was ill-chosen, Your Majesty.” Robert Dudley was nothing if not smooth. “Enmity amongst the nobles is far more a matter of words than deeds. We will always hold together where our own interests are concerned.”

“Your own interests being the same as England’s, of course.”

Robert didn’t miss a beat. “Of course.”

Wondering if the man could ever be thrown off-balance, William abruptly changed the subject. “Does not your wife miss you? You are so often gone from home.”

A twitch of the eye was the only sign that Robert had his points of weakness. “I serve at your pleasure. Amy knows that. She bears with it as any wife must.”

William nearly snorted at his audacity. Everyone knew that Robert had long been investigating the possibility of a divorce. Perhaps it was time to point out that, divorced or not, he would never be a suitable husband for Elizabeth. Might as well take out some of his restlessness and irritation on Robert.

“Politically speaking, who do you think is the wisest choice for my sister’s husband—another French match, to further cement the ties of the treaty, or a Protestant lord at home to appease the rabid anti-Papists?”

“Being Protestant myself, you cannot expect me to recommend the princess marry a Catholic. I’m hardly an objective judge.”

“Not objective at all.” William infused the words with meaning.

There was a long pause, and when Robert spoke again, his voice had lost its aloof amusement. “I fear I cannot consider your sister’s marriage solely in a political light, Your Majesty. I have known her too long and liked her too well to think of her only as a means of extracting you from your own folly.” In a voice lowered to a whisper, he continued, “She will do whatever you ask, without demur. But you’ll be sacrificing her happiness for your own.”

“I would hold my tongue if I were you.”

“I have no wish to incur your anger, Your Majesty. But you must know your interests have not gone unnoticed. You think me foolish in my hopes. My folly is nothing compared to yours. If you expect to break with France and place a simple girl on England’s throne—”

“You will cease such idle speculation. If relations with France
are damaged by malicious gossip, I will hold you and all Protestants responsible. Take care that you do not bring down disaster on your own head.”

William turned on his heel and stalked away as Robert said softly, “I might counsel you the same.”

“A
MAN TO
see you, Your Highness.”

Elizabeth turned, frowning, from appraising two gowns in decision, and said to Kat, “French? I haven’t forgotten an appointment, have I?”

“As if you ever would,” Kat Ashley sniffed. Even the French court could not shake the woman’s imperturbable calm. “No, this man is English. Francis Walsingham, he says. He has brought a letter of introduction.”

She handed it over, and Elizabeth read swiftly the words of praise and recommendation from Lord Burghley. “I’ll see him in the presence chamber, Kat.”

When she swept into the presence chamber set aside for her use at Fontainebleau, Elizabeth saw a tall man with a pointed beard, younger than she’d expected, dressed in the sober style of an academic. His medium-brown hair dipped into a widow’s peak, accenting his frighteningly intelligent eyes. The kind of eyes ever alert to secrets, she thought. Wherever they occur.

He bowed. “Francis Walsingham, Your Highness. Thank you for seeing me.”

“Lord Burghley, a man I greatly respect, wrote in his
introduction that meeting with you would be worth my time. Why is that?”

“Because of what I can do for you.”

“How presumptuous.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

Despite herself, she laughed out loud and gestured for him to make himself comfortable. They both sat and she said, “So what can a presumptuous man do for me?”

“I can give you knowledge.”

“I have studied many years to gain knowledge for myself.”

“There is knowledge … and
knowledge,
Your Highness.”

“Speak plainly, Master Walsingham.”

“I am an intelligencer. The knowledge I can give you will be that found in dark streets and far-off palaces, whispers and rumours of whispers in places you could never go yourself.”

She arched her eyebrow. “And I suppose such knowledge will cost me dear.”

“Knowledge is never too dear.”

She leaned back in her chair, attempting to intimidate him with her frank appraisal. Walsingham just looked back at her calmly. “You have worked for Lord Burghley?” she asked.

“From time to time.”

“Anyone else? Anyone outside of England?”

“I am loyal, if that is what you are asking, Your Highness. Loyal to England and its tolerance. Loyal to a stable government without the fanaticism of Popery. Loyal, if you allow it, to you personally.”

And that, Elizabeth knew, was the appeal. To have her own intelligencer, a man of secrets and knowledge to work for her alone. William had any number of such men working for his government—why should she not have the same?

“It should not be too difficult to tease out secret knowledge while I am in France. I will see what you can do, Master Walsingham. Impress me, and I will consider your future.”

He bowed once more, but did not seem overly surprised by her challenge. “It will be my honour, Your Highness.”

It was a relief to William to leave Wales behind, even on an unpleasant errand. He nearly changed his mind a dozen times on his way to Beaulieu, but whatever Dominic might claim, he had a sense of duty. Especially where family was concerned.

His own guards saluted as he rode into Beaulieu. Although he had recently allowed Mary to return to her favorite residence, he kept his half sister under guard, still wary after last year’s maneuverings. Rochford might be doubtful of the late Duke of Norfolk’s intention to rebel last autumn, but William could never rest easy while Mary was alive. There would always be unscrupulous, power-hungry men to use her.

He was greeted by John Dudley, Earl of Warwick. Despite Guildford’s arrest and the Duke of Northumberland’s continuing absence from court, William had seen no need to relieve Warwick of his position. Northumberland’s oldest son had done a creditable job overseeing Mary’s house arrest and should not be punished for his father’s arrogance. Six years older than Robert, Warwick was much more like their father—blunt and straightforward and, most importantly, a devout Protestant who took seriously his task of keeping Mary from fomenting further rebellion.

“Your Majesty.” He bowed, not quite as gracefully as Robert would have managed. “The Lady Mary is ready for you in her privy chamber.”

“How is she?” William asked as they walked together through the quadrangular palace. His father had built much of it after
acquiring it from his future father-in-law a decade before Henry even thought of Anne as his wife. Ironic, William often thought, that Beaulieu was Mary’s favorite home. Though likely it had to do with their father’s stamp on the architecture and the many remnants of his seal in various interiors.

“The heat does not agree with the Lady Mary, but then neither does the cold nor the wind nor the rain.” There was a hint of his brother’s humour in Warwick’s voice, but he was far more respectful than Robert. “She has been low in spirits, Your Majesty. I know your visit will cheer her.”

I doubt it, William thought grimly. Not with the news I bring.

He saw at once what Warwick meant when his sister curtsied to him. He raised her up and studied her face. Though she had gained weight in the last few years, her cheeks today were gaunt and her deep-set eyes feverish. “I am sorry you have not been well,” he said, truthfully.

“I will be all the better for your presence,” she answered.

“Please, sit.”

Mary’s privy chamber was a reflection of the woman: richly decorated but somber, almost old-fashioned, in its feel. Even the air felt heavy in here. William did not wonder that his sister was often ill if she spent so much time brooding in this chamber. It was a shrine to crucifixes and representations of martyrdom, and he thought cynically that if all the Reformation had done was remove this depressing décor from England, it had been worth it. They were alone today, at William’s politely worded command, for he wanted only to deliver his news and be done with it.

When they were both seated—Mary in a cushioned chair nicely judged to be almost but not quite the equal of the king’s—William said, “I do apologize that I have not been to see you before. It has been a busy time, particularly with the prolonged visit from the French.”

“And now our sister returns the favour with a tour of France,” Mary replied with a thin smile. “I am certain Elizabeth is enjoying herself.”

“Elizabeth is my personal representative to the French court. She is tasked with ensuring an appropriate respect for England and our current peace treaty.”

“The treaty that will tie you to the French king’s daughter.” Mary spoke neutrally, but that in itself was damning.

“How can you not approve of my betrothal to Elisabeth de France? She is Catholic.”

“And if that was why you chose her, I would rejoice, brother. But the girl is too young to hold out against you. Your council will force her to raise your children in heresy and thus damn their souls before they are even born.”

William drew a breath to steady himself. He did not enjoy fighting with women. “That is not the point of this visit, Mary. I have some news for you, news that I fear you will find unpleasant.”

She tilted her head in query, one hand restlessly fingering the rosary she wore at her waist. The expression on her face might have been patience but was more likely stubbornness.

“Edmund Bonner has been convicted of treason. He will die at the stake two days from now.”

She blinked once, the only betrayal of her feelings. “Burning at the stake is not the penalty for treason.”

“He was also convicted of heresy.”

“Oh, William.” Now there was true emotion in her voice, a plea of anger and sorrow. “How can a follower of the True Church commit heresy? It is not for you to say—”

“It
is
for me to say. I am Supreme Head of the Church, Mary. That is never going to change. We will never return to Rome and their corrupted popes. I allow you to worship as gives you comfort, but do not press me. My leniency is not unlimited.”

“I must speak as my conscience demands—”

“And that is why you are, and will remain, under house arrest. I will not allow your conscience to endanger my people or my throne. I am sorry for you, Mary, but this is the life you have chosen. As long as you cling to the past, you will remain locked away. But remember—that is your choice. I do not make it for you.”

She paused, breathing heavily, and William was smitten by the reminder of her poor health. At last, she said simply, “I will pray for you, brother, as I never cease to do.”

“And I welcome your prayers as coming from my own dear sister. Rest well, Mary.”

William was so anxious to get away from her cloying religious devotion that he did not even stay the night.

After their dispute in Wales, Robert Dudley was not surprised when William told him he was not welcome to accompany him for the rest of the king’s progress. He was not the only one; Rochford, too, had been sent packing. One by one William’s picking us off, Robert thought, and grimaced. He wished uneasily that Dominic were in the country. The new duke might be humourless and inflexible, but those very qualities made him a good ballast for William’s mercurial moods.