The Boleyn Deceit (43 page)

His hand, when he grasped hers, was warm and reassuring. In a clear, sonorous Latin that made Minuette feel as though her mother were just over her shoulder somewhere, watching, Father Michael began.

“Lo, brethren, we are come here before God and His angels, in the face and presence of our mother Holy Church, for to couple and unite these two bodies together, that is to say, of this man and of this woman, that they be from this time forth but one body and two souls in the faith and law of God and Holy Church, for to deserve everlasting life, whatsoever that they have done here before.”

If Dominic hadn’t known better, he’d have thought he was drunk. It wasn’t the single glass of wine he had with dinner, either, because he’d been feeling this way for hours—since the moment he’d seen Minuette in that silvery dress, standing in the shell of a church like a statue come to life. With coloured sunlight pouring through the windows and lighting her hair like a votive candle, he had made his vows in a state of pleasant intoxication that had not left him since.

She wore the gown at dinner. The old housekeeper commented on it innocently enough, and how much Minuette looked like her mother, but she seemed too simple to suspect anything so far-fetched as a clandestine marriage. Or perhaps, he thought, she is like all the Wynfield folk—prepared to believe that whatever Minuette does must be right. He imagined that if they told Mistress Holly of their marriage, her only response would be, “How nice. Have some more pudding.”

They ate alone (Michael had generously asked to be served in his room) but were careful to sit far enough apart that touching
was impossible. Dominic did not mind. Now that she was his, he could wait.

As soon as the table was cleared, Minuette dismissed the housekeeper and Carrie for the night. She beat Dominic twice at chess while they waited for the household to settle into quietness around them.

Minuette took a candle in hand and, in a voice that was almost steady, said, “I shall be in my chamber.”

Dominic rose and kissed her on the top of her head. “I’ll give you a few minutes.”

When she had gone, he paced the length of the hall, refusing to let his mind wander past the sound of his feet on the flagstones, trying to match his breathing to his even steps.

He traversed the hall back and forth a dozen times before making his way through darkened corridors to Minuette’s chamber. There was no answer when he knocked.

“Minuette?” he called softly.

Her voice came from just the other side of the door, sounding half exasperated. “I sent Carrie to bed.”

Dominic paused, attempting to decipher that unexpected sentence. “I hadn’t really expected her to be part of this.”

“No,” she sighed. Opening the door just enough for him to see her face peering around it, she said, “I can’t get out of my dress.”

Dominic struggled to keep a straight face, but he could not entirely suppress his laughter. She answered with a rueful laugh of her own. “It’s ridiculous, I know.”

“I’ll fetch Carrie for you.”

He was half turned away when she said, in a curiously altered voice, “You could … would you do it?”

All at once he could not breathe.
One body and two souls.

His hands were not entirely steady as he unlaced the two
curving seams that ran down her back from shoulders to waist. He helped her remove the overdress, followed by the full-skirted kirtle, petticoat, and finally the stiff corset. Minuette herself seemed to gain in confidence with each item removed, until she faced him in only a linen smock that made his mouth go dry at how little it concealed even by candlelight.

“My turn,” she murmured, and began to undo the laces of his sleeveless doublet. He had removed the close-fitting, long-sleeved jerkin before dinner but wished now that he hadn’t, if only for the pleasure of letting her undress him. Minuette’s hands moved gracefully down the black velvet until Dominic shrugged the doublet off. With only a moment’s hesitation, she untied the neckline of his shirt and Dominic obliged her, pulling the linen over his head, wanting to feel her hands on his skin. But it was her mouth that touched him first, bestowing a butterfly-light kiss in the hollow at the base of his throat.

When she moved into his arms at last, he had a flash of memory—Minuette jumping to him at Hampton Court more than two years ago. The sharp awareness he’d had then of a girl grown into a woman mixed now with the vivid sweetness of holding his wife for the first time.
My wife.
She smelled of clean earth and dusky roses, and Dominic felt as he had once before when holding Minuette—that he had come home.

There was a moment when he drew back—the last moment that he could—and said breathlessly, “I don’t want to hurt you, love.”

Her hazel eyes were enormous and trusting. “I’m not afraid,” she whispered. “I could never be afraid of you.”

Hours later, in the still hush before dawn, Minuette lay in his arms and asked the question he had been both expecting and dreading since yesterday.

“What has William done?”

He told her as he’d always meant to, knowing they could not expect to have more than one night’s peace at a time. He told her of Scotland and of William’s lies and of an arrow in the back. When he had finished, he waited for her to defend William in her gentle, tolerant way.

She did not defend him. She did not say anything. She moved against Dominic and kissed him until he forgot everything but the moment.

Between them, William and the Duke of Norfolk scorched the border counties, burning everything in their reach from crops to abbeys. Renaud LeClerc pulled back his French troops almost as if they had never been there, and the Scots were
decimated. William relished the rout, for as long as he was fighting he knew that he had been right. It was only when the fighting was done and autumn turned toward an early winter in the North that he was forced to remember the look on Dominic’s face when he’d realized how he’d been used.

William’s justification of
I was right
veered in the long hours of night to
Tell me I was right
. He wasn’t sure whom he was pleading with. Dominic—or himself? He had been sure when he’d ordered LeClerc’s assassination and the subsequent battles, but in the aftermath doubts crept in. Surely it had been too good an opportunity to miss—but what about the spring when battle season rolled back around? Was England ready to face the French in war once again? The restlessness of his mind kept him sleepless, and by the time he finally returned to London at the end of November he was achy and irritable. But kings don’t have time for illness, so he faced his privy council the morning after his return.

In all his considerations he had come up with two positive items, points he was swift to hammer home when he met with Rochford and the council.

First, economics. “With Northumberland’s attainder, his lands and wealth belong to the Crown,” he pointed out. “He wasn’t the richest duke,” that would be Rochford, “but nearly so. His wealth is a substantial addition to the royal coffers. Enough to strengthen the navy and prepare our forces if need be for retaliation by the French in the spring.”

“So you will wait for retaliation?” William Cecil asked.

And thus William’s second point. He inclined his head. “There is a reason my troops withdrew from Scotland. We were not the aggressors; we merely responded in kind. I will not be manipulated by Henri into breaking our treaty. If he wants out of it, then he can bloody well say so.”

“What are the odds he will?” The Earl of Arundel looked grim.

William turned to his uncle in unspoken query. Rochford shrugged and said, “Who can tell with the French? No doubt their own councils are meeting as we are to decide what they will risk in the spring. But the king is wise—we have the funds; let us use them to build up our forces and be as prepared as possible for a campaign next year. Until then, it waits only what Henri will do in response.”

Cecil nodded thoughtfully. “As for the question of Northumberland?”

William looked briefly at his uncle, then said bluntly, “There will be no trial for John Dudley. I am calling a session of Parliament to pass an Act of Attainder against him.”

Thus avoiding a trial by the duke’s peers, and the messy complications that might ensue. Not only could Parliament convict Northumberland, they could also set the legal seal upon William’s confiscation of his lands. And giving his people a say in the fall of this unpopular noble would help satisfy some of the pent-up Catholic protests.

No one protested, or looked more than vaguely uncomfortable. Northumberland had been too strong a personality, too successful and driven and openly ambitious, to be greatly mourned. But he had been a senior peer of the realm and his coming execution was a warning that, as William could raise a man, so could he end him.

“And his sons?” Lord Burghley wanted to know.

All four of Northumberland’s living sons were in the Tower, held separately from their father and from one another: John, Ambrose, Henry, and Robert. “Let them rot for now,” William answered sharply. “I will deal with them in my own time.” He
might even send one or two of them to hell after their father. Robert, probably—he was the one who had distracted Minuette while his father’s lackey attempted murder. Robert claimed to not have known about the poison—and Minuette claimed to believe him—but William was not persuaded.

“Your Majesty.” It was Cecil once again; Lord Burghley must be feeling blunt this morning, William thought wryly. “Might I raise the delicate matter of marriage? If the French do retaliate in the spring and we go to war, have you given thought to who will replace Elisabeth de France as your intended bride?”

“I have given it a great deal of thought.” William avoided his uncle’s eyes. “As well as I have given thought to the matrimonial future of my dear sister, the Princess Elizabeth. I have sent a private embassy to the Emperor, asking for the favour of his son, Prince Philip’s, company in our court next summer. I believe the request will be looked on favourably.”

It was what the newly restored Spanish ambassador to his court had intimated just yesterday. Frankly, the timing was perfect. Elizabeth was so disillusioned and bitter after her experiences at Dudley Castle that she had never been more receptive to the idea of Prince Philip.
She will make a wonderful Queen of Spain,
he thought.
And won’t that bother my sister Mary no end: a Protestant queen in the heart of Catholic Europe.

His answer hadn’t entirely satisfied Burghley. “May we dare to hope, Your Majesty, that if Elisabeth de France is not in your future, that you will give serious consideration to an English bride?”