The Boleyn Reckoning (5 page)

Minuette closed her diary, a worn velvet ribbon her marker, and replaced it in the jewelry casket that held more pieces now than ever before. William had gifted her nearly every piece of jewelry she owned, save the two most meaningful: her mother’s rosary, which Minuette kept concealed beneath the false bottom of the casket, and the sapphire and pearl necklace that Dominic had given her for her seventeenth birthday. She let her fingers run over the coolness of the cabochon-cut sapphires, wishing she could wear it today, but William would be expecting rather more glamour even in church. It would have to be one of his more elaborate pieces—the rubies, perhaps, or the opals. It would depend on the dress.

She looked around the bedchamber for her maid, Carrie, and was momentarily disoriented. When they’d arrived in London three days ago, Minuette had attended Elizabeth to her chambers expecting to be quartered nearby, only to find that, as Elizabeth had phrased it, “William has assigned you elsewhere.” Her tone made clear it had been without the princess’s consent.

Minuette’s heart had quailed as she examined her own miniature presence chamber, privy chamber, and bedchamber, the weight of her secret position pressing in upon her and making it hard to breathe. These were not the chambers one assigned to a lady of the privy chamber, nor even to a royal ward who had been raised with king and princess. The only court women who had
these sorts of suites were Elizabeth herself and Lady Rochford, as wife of the Lord Chancellor.

But there had been another woman in recent memory who’d had chambers like these, from which to exercise her personal influence with the king—William’s former mistress and the mother of his young daughter, Eleanor Percy Howard. Minuette might once have feared that these chambers meant William pressing her for greater intimacy, but since the smallpox he was more physically careful with her than ever before. Indeed, at times his restraint resembled Dominic’s habitual control.

She found the king’s control far more disturbing than his passion. She had once believed William’s desire for her was transitory and that when it faded she and Dominic would easily obtain his blessing for their own marriage. But in the wake of the nearly fatal smallpox, William’s desire seemed less about her body and more about what she represented: a symbol of peace and possession that could not be tarnished by the winds of politics or religion.

What would William do when that symbol turned to ash?

Carrie entered the bedchamber with an expression that mirrored Minuette’s own disquiet at her surroundings, but she said only, “I thought perhaps the silver-edged damask gown for service this morning.”

“Good.” Minuette smiled at the woman who had once served her mother and had known Minuette since birth. Carrie was more than a maid—she was the keeper of all Minuette’s secrets and as loyal a friend as could be hoped. Always neat in appearance and manner, Carrie’s round cheeks and glossy brown hair gave her something of the aspect of a cheerful bird.

Minuette continued on the safe subject of her gown. “The blue-gray is a good colour for church, suitably demure. I think the rubies to go with it.”

As Carrie finished fitting the headdress and veil on Minuette,
two pages appeared in the outer presence chamber bearing a fluid, heavy object wrapped in plain linen. It could only be a gown.

“From the king,” one announced, and handed her a note.

She broke William’s personal seal, the crowned Tudor rose favoured by his grandfather, and read.

Minuette unfolded the covering linen with Carrie’s help. She guessed the gown would be costly and fashionable, and would make every woman look at her twice with envy and every man look more than twice with adoration.

The moment the linen fell away enough to see what lay beneath, she felt the colour drain from her face as Carrie gave a small gasp. I should have known, she thought bleakly. William is superb at sending wordless messages.

And tonight, I am to be the message
.

“Your Highness.” Simon Renard, newly restored Spanish ambassador to England, bowed deeply. “It is a great honour to be with you.”

Mary Tudor was not so pure-minded as to not appreciate being treated with the devotion she deserved. Just hearing her rightful title made her blood sing in recognition:
This is who I am, whatever the heretics may say
.

She extended her hand from her appropriately decorated seat and allowed Renard to kiss it. “My heart overflows with joy to know I am not forgotten by His Majesty.”

Renard straightened. “Never forgotten, Your Highness. His Majesty is ever watchful of your state and all Spain prays for your health and welfare.”

The question was, did they pray for more than just her welfare? It was one thing to uphold Mary’s right to the English throne in words—but were those words mere lip service? Or did they conceal hearts and wills ready to fight?

More critically, was Mary’s own heart and will prepared to fight? For years she had bided her time, respecting her father’s wishes as indeed she was bound to do. If only Henry had not left a son! If she’d had only Elizabeth to contend with, she would have asserted her right to the throne immediately upon her father’s death. But was not a king’s son a sign of God’s will? Even a son conceived before the death of Mary’s own mother … that was the conundrum. William had always had the support of the people, who rejoiced that Henry’s long obsession had finally borne male fruit. But William had been conceived months before Catherine of Aragon’s death. If, as Catherine and Mary herself believed—not to mention the Church and most of Europe—Henry’s marriage to Catherine had ended only with her death and not through any proclamations issued by wicked men, then William could not possibly be Henry’s legitimate son and heir.

Which left only Mary herself.

“Your Highness,” Renard said, “in what way may I aid you? Though I am sent here to deal with the king, I gladly offer myself and my household to be at your service.”

Mary had given the matter a great deal of thought, from the moment she’d been informed that a Spanish ambassador would be returning to England. She was no fool—no child of Henry Tudor could be—and she had her correspondents at home and abroad. Censored as her letters might be by Rochford and his ilk, Mary
knew that Renard’s presence betokened only one thing: William wished to negotiate Elizabeth’s marriage to King Philip.

Which argued some interesting theories about William’s matrimonial intentions and the current French treaty, but Mary’s primary concern, as always, was interpreting signs from Heaven. And what else could this be but a most definite sign? A Spanish ambassador offering his services to the only legitimate heir to Henry Tudor’s throne … 
Mother, grant me the courage of my convictions
.

“Ambassador,” she replied in fluent Spanish, “I thank God for your presence here. And yes, there are ways in which you can serve me and, by serving me, serve the only true and living God. England has much need of us.”

Renard’s eyes sparked, and Mary knew this was a man whose conscience would align with hers. She smiled, allowing the righteous certainty of her path to settle in her heart. It was time to call England to repentance.

“Not those,” Elizabeth snapped, waving away the heavy chains of intricately worked gold offered by one of her ladies-in-waiting. “It’s springtime, bring me something …” She searched for the right description and failed. “Something else.”

The woman curtsied and backed away with the offending jewels. Kat Ashley sniffed. “Could you not be more specific?”

Elizabeth gave her former governess a baleful glare. “Minuette would not need me to specify. She would know precisely which jewels I need, without me having to hold her hand.”

Kat had lived with her tempers since Elizabeth was a tiny girl. Undeterred, she retorted, “It’s no use complaining to me. I’m not the one who swept her away from your household.”

“Are you saying I should complain to the king?”

“Are you saying you have not considered it?”

Elizabeth sighed and rubbed her temples. Of course she’d considered protesting. She was territorial about her household and her women, and William had not even consulted her about the change in Minuette’s status. He had simply installed her in what had once been their mother’s suite at Whitehall Palace and left Elizabeth unsure of what came next. And uncertainty was ever her greatest frustration.

Since her confinement at Dudley Castle last autumn, Elizabeth felt as though she were split in two. One part of her was the impeccable princess who regretted the necessity of Northumberland’s execution without being personally moved by it. But the more vulnerable part of her had punishing headaches and spent hours in a darkened bedchamber, trying to forget Amy Dudley and Alyce de Clare and the thought of Robert locked up in the Tower. After Dudley Castle, she had proclaimed that she was finished pleading for Robert Dudley—and she had meant it. But did she still mean it today?

The offending lady-in-waiting returned bearing pearls and diamonds. Elizabeth nodded curtly and said, “Kat will finish. You may go.”

Kat added the jewels to Elizabeth’s flawless attire of springtime green and delicately embroidered flowers. Then she patted her cheek as though Elizabeth were still a girl of five. “Don’t fret about what you cannot change. All you need do is worry about your own choices.”

“Simple words,” Elizabeth retorted, but kissed Kat affectionately on the cheek. “I will try.”

Because of the stir with the jewels, Elizabeth was later into the hall than she had planned. She saw William, speaking to Mary and to the Spanish ambassador while being balefully observed by the ambassador from France. Mary looked pleased with herself, a sight so rare that Elizabeth had to look closely to be certain that it was
indeed a small smile she saw on her half sister’s face. She had certainly not looked so pleased throughout the Protestant service this morning, although she had behaved with perfect grace. Once, Mary would have retired with dignity after being forced into such a position, but tonight she gave no sign of waiting to assert her righteousness but rather seemed determined to take advantage of being at court.

Dominic stood, as he usually did, on the fringes of the crowd. Always dressed in the sparest fashions and sober colours, he still managed to appear effortlessly attractive, a quality Elizabeth recognized without being at all personally affected. Tonight he wore a jerkin of dark brown wool with the barest decoration of gold cord that had the (no doubt unintended) effect of brightening his green eyes. When she greeted him, he replied with a wordless nod. The surest way to know if Dominic was rattled was that he would speak in more than one word replies.

“Have you seen Minuette?” she asked him, craning to look. On the far side of the hall Rochford and Lord Burghley were in conversation, making an interesting contrast—Rochford dark and lean, Burghley shorter and light-haired—but two great minds and subtle.

“No,” Dominic said.

A rustle went through the crowd at the far end of the hall. Elizabeth saw the crowd orienting themselves to look at someone moving toward William. She caught a flash of honey-coloured hair and knew it was Minuette. Why was everyone staring?

Then the crowd eddied as William took three steps to meet her, and Elizabeth could see all of Minuette, from head to toe. She looked remote and untouchable and breathtakingly stunning. There was a fortune of pearls in her hair and around her neck, and her dress was exquisitely cut from velvet and satin, sleeves bound in ermine that touched the floor.

But none of those details were what drew the eyes and caused the ripples of whispers and Rochford’s face to darken in fury and the French ambassador to stiffen in outrage.

The dress was purple—the colour reserved for royalty. Even Elizabeth didn’t wear purple save for the most solemn occasions in which she needed to be seen as the Princess of Wales rather than simply as William’s sister.

William took Minuette’s hand and kissed it. He knew how to make a striking tableau: the dark head of England’s king bent in near-submission to the golden girl he loved. And not just as a mistress. The colour of that dress meant only one thing—William had thrown caution to the wind. Tonight was his announcement: to his uncle, to his council, to his country and all of Europe.

To hell with treaties and politics: This is the woman I will marry
.

Elizabeth blinked and turned to Dominic to pour out a flurry of questions and fears and “what do we do now” panic.

Dominic had vanished.

William had never felt more alive than when he bent to Minuette, resplendent in royal purple, and kissed her hand in sight of everyone in his kingdom who mattered. It was wonderfully freeing to have come to a decision and then acted upon it. The satisfaction buoyed him even as Elizabeth paled and Rochford glowered and the French ambassador stalked out. Dominic’s absence was slightly troubling, but no doubt his friend was waiting to scold him privately. Let him—William was past caring about the opinions of others.

Minuette behaved impeccably and William could not have been more proud. Both untouchable and warm; a rare combination, one his mother, Anne, had never mastered, nor even Elizabeth. Their own sense of entitlement kept them always a little aloof from others. But Minuette had not been born to this, nor even aspired to it,
and her very humility gave her a common touch of which William approved. Simon Renard, the Spanish ambassador, kissed her hand and murmured to William, “A most charming lady.”

“Perhaps the two of us might speak later this week about a royal visit from your masters.”

Send King Philip,
William was saying without saying it,
and we’ll wrap up this Spanish/English marriage as quickly as possible
.

Renard bowed. “It would be my great pleasure, Your Majesty.”