The Boleyn King (30 page)

“And you? Will your king leave you here to command, or keep you near him to advise?”

Dominic shrugged. He didn’t know what William would do. Dominic had his own preference. Though talent and experience made him a good commander of men, he wanted nothing so much as to return to England and never leave again.

30 September 1554
Hatfield

Hatfield is such a serene house—I think that is why Elizabeth loves it. Arriving here the evening after the queen’s funeral was like burrowing beneath warm covers on a cold morning—a respite from the outside world
.

But the world will not stay outside. Elizabeth leaves tomorrow for London. The king is returning to France and she will be regent once more. And I will go straight from here to Framlingham and Lady Mary. It will be good to be busy
.

The only drawback to the seclusion of Hatfield is that one has too much time in which to think
.

Minuette closed her diary, not daring to confide to paper the nature of her thoughts over the last month. She had always been impulsive by nature, quick to act and quicker to forget, but these last weeks had taught her a degree of introspection she had never thought possible.

During her month of pondering, she had reached two conclusions. First, that what had passed between her and William had been nothing more than grief taking comfort in a convenient manner. He would have reached for any woman that night. That it had been her was a complication, but one that would mend with time and perhaps a hint of humour.

Her second conclusion was that she wanted Dominic in every way she could imagine. In her mind, she could recall perfectly the look in his eyes when he’d pressed his lips to her wrist. If those few minutes with William had done nothing else, they had left Minuette certain of what it was she had seen in Dominic’s eyes. She wanted very much to see it again.

Restless, she rose from her desk and wandered to the window overlooking the gardens. The warmth had lingered through September, but the gardens were beginning to show signs of autumn, with leaves curling in on themselves and the last blooms of summer drooping tiredly to the ground. The sky itself had changed in the last day or so, the blue faded and the clouds a dull pewter.

Matters still needed mending with William, no doubt of that, but with his return to France for negotiations she had another month or so to think of what to say and how to say it to smooth over uncomfortable memories. Another month to remember how to be his friend and to make it easy for him to treat her as such.

Another month until Dominic returned.

As she looked south, a cloud of dust caught her attention. Riders, three or four of them. Elizabeth had not spoken of visitors. Through the haze, Minuette saw the standard carried by one of the riders, and her heart stopped beating at the sight of crimson and blue, lions and lilies.

William.

William was inside Hatfield, halfway through the great hall, before Elizabeth came hastening to meet him. Her face showed her utter surprise.

“Has something gone wrong? Are you not going to France?”

“I am on my way to Dover.”

“By way of Hatfield?”

“I have instructions for you.”

“Instructions you could not commit to paper?” she asked with pardonable skepticism.

“And to see Minuette.”

There was a long, neutral silence. William did not look away from his sister’s probing expression. She was the one who had urged him to deal with Minuette sooner rather than later. She could hardly criticize his wish to do so now.

Her reply, when it came, was amused. “Do you truly have instructions for me, or shall I consider my role as your pretext duly fulfilled by saying hello?”

His lips twitched in spite of himself. “I truly do have instructions.”

She gave orders for fresh horses to be readied for his continued journey and provided refreshments for his men in the kitchen. Then the two of them retreated to her study overlooking the knot garden with its meticulously groomed curves and smooth paths.

Elizabeth had been right—everything William told her now either already had been covered or could have been dealt with by letter. But she did not remind him of it again, merely asked an intelligent question or two about the state of the exchequer and the handling of a land dispute between a local baron and the crown in Suffolk. They were finished in just over a quarter of an hour.

Tidying her desk and papers, Elizabeth rose. “Shall I send for Minuette? She might prefer it if I was with her.”

William knew he should accept Elizabeth’s presence. No doubt Minuette would prefer it. But he wanted to see her alone, if only to prove that he still could. “No, I’ll … I shall be in the gardens. Alone.”

Her face hardened. “Will you tell her about your plans for Mary Stuart?”

“Do you imagine she does not already know?” William shot back.

With a sigh, Elizabeth said, “I’ll send her to the garden. And I will remain here.”
Where I can see you
, she did not have to add.

He paced the raked gravel paths from one end of the knot garden to the other, trying to keep his head clear and his mind on what he had to say. But when he heard Minuette’s light footsteps behind him, his carefully rehearsed words vanished.

He had seen her only twice in the last month—distant and formal at his mother’s funeral events. She had seemed almost a stranger to him then. Today she looked herself, though with a stillness about her like a bird threatened by capture.

That stillness unnerved him. He had prepared himself to face down her anger or scorn—but not silence. He could not begin to guess what it meant.

He said what had to be said first. “I apologize, Minuette, for my behaviour at Hever. I was distraught, or I would never have insulted you in such a fashion.”

Her reply was so quiet he had to strain to hear it. “I know.”

He waited for her to say something more—to look at him, even, for she kept her eyes firmly on the path at her feet. Fumbling for words, and hating himself for it, William said, “I fear I have offended you. I pray you might forgive me.”

At last she lifted her eyes, and William felt the tightness in his chest ease as she said tremulously, “I feared that the offense was mine. I thought you might not wish to remember how shameless I was.”

William nearly laughed aloud from relief. That was her fear—that he had been offended because she had proven that she could render passion for passion? Her response while in his arms had not been an offense. It had been a revelation.

But he could hardly say that to her, not when he was on his way to France with every expectation of a formal betrothal. He must forget what had happened and focus on Mary Stuart. He could not afford to be distracted by sentiment.

You cannot afford to fall in love with her, William
.

He had not intended to see Minuette at all until after he returned from France, safely betrothed. He had thought to leave her a letter, perhaps, an easy method of smoothing things over without the awkwardness of referring to it in person. But yesterday, on impulse, he had opened a coffer taken from his mother’s chambers at Hever: a small, carved chest containing, not jewels but his father’s love letters.

There were three dozen in all, most written before their marriage. They were beautiful, a mingling of passion and tenderness that William had not yet felt for any woman. He had never doubted that his father had wanted his mother, but as he read the letters signed Henry Rex, he realized for the first time that his father’s love had gone beyond desire. With each endearment—
my mistress and friend, mine own darling, wishing myself in my sweetheart’s arms
—William had felt increasingly troubled. He had whispered plenty of sweet words into women’s ears, but they had never matched the fervent simplicity of his father’s declarations.

He dragged his attention back into the Hatfield gardens and said the first thing that came to mind. “When you return to London, you will find that … I have … that is, Eleanor has left court.”

As he saw the flare of surprise in her eyes, he wished he could take back his words. He remembered Elizabeth’s warning about empty apartments and whores and felt the colour rise in his cheeks. Please heaven Minuette would not read into it what Elizabeth had feared.

But she seemed as determined as he to keep the conversation on commonplace ground. “What of France? You expect King Henri to meet your terms?”

“Yes.”

“Including Mary Stuart?”

When William did not answer, Minuette pressed. “She is your principal demand, is she not?”

It was getting harder to speak calmly. “Yes.”

She seemed aware of his discomfort, or perhaps it was her own that prompted her to say, “You have a long ride ahead. Safe journey, William.”

How could he ever have thought he could see her and talk with her and not want her? The long weight of her hair, her slender figure and steady eyes …

France and his future were waiting. He knew what he must do.

“Minuette.”

He found himself staring at the peak of her hair, the point of gold in the perfect center of her forehead. All at once he could see his parents standing before him. He must have been little at the time, but he could recall it clearly—his tall, forbidding father reaching out one hand to smooth his wife’s dark hair in a gesture of infinite tenderness.

Henry had cast off a queen and a daughter and a religion for Anne, and all of Europe had been asking ever since if he had found her worth it in the end. The answer was yes—in that moment, William was sure of it. Henry had loved her, and he had let nothing stand in his way.

He touched his right hand to the silk of Minuette’s hair and said the only honest thing he dared. “I will miss you.”

An hour after William rode away from Hatfield, Elizabeth finally went out to Minuette. She had stayed in the knot garden, perched on a bench and staring at nothing, and she only blinked when Elizabeth laid a cloak around her shoulders.

Elizabeth had determined from that first night not to ask about William. Minuette had always been politely reticent about Robert, and she was owed the same consideration. But the surprise of his visit and the deepening twilight seemed to unlock Minuette’s reserve.

“I had thought,” she said, “that I had lost his regard. I am glad to know my behaviour has not made him despise me.”

Elizabeth bit back her first response—that her brother had enough to despise in his own behaviour—and merely murmured a neutral acknowledgment. But Minuette seemed to know by instinct Elizabeth’s opinion, and she rushed to defend him, as she always had.

“He apologized quite thoroughly, Elizabeth. It was awkward, but now it is past.”

“What else did he say?”

“We spoke a little of France and Mary Stuart.”

How Elizabeth wished she could ask Minuette how she felt about that, and whether she was truly in danger of being hurt by William. For as simple and open as she had always thought her friend, Elizabeth realized, she had no idea what Minuette was feeling.

After a pause, Minuette added, “What happened at Hever was an impulse, born of grief and strain and convenience. It will soon be forgotten, and all the better for us both.”

Elizabeth knew that tone of Minuette’s voice—it meant she was trying to persuade herself as much as her listener. For her part, Elizabeth was entirely unconvinced.
We Tudors are notoriously stubborn where our hearts are concerned
, she wanted to warn.

Leaning her head against Elizabeth’s shoulder, a gesture from childhood, Minuette said, “I must finish preparing for Framlingham.”

“Did you tell William where you are going?” Elizabeth asked.

“No more than you did. He thinks I will be in London with you, and he must go to France thinking of peace, not fretting about things he cannot control here.”

Those are my uncle’s words
, Elizabeth thought. But she could not disagree.

Sensing her concern, as Minuette always seemed able to do, she said, “You must not fret, either. We each of us have our duties. And when they are finished, we will come back together and all will be well.”

Minuette stood in a sudden movement and said into the shadows as she walked away, “When he comes home, all will at last be well.”

There was something about her voice that made Elizabeth wonder whether William was the “he” she meant.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

BY THE FOURTH day out of Cambridge, Minuette was ready to run mad. They had left Hatfield a week earlier, she and Carrie headed for Framlingham while Elizabeth returned to London. They traveled with a dozen royal guards and Rochford had suggested she take a closed carriage as well. Minuette had flatly refused—if she was going to travel for a week, she was going to ride rather than be jolted about like a parcel. Carrie had to ride pillion behind a groom, but she had not complained. Not about the riding, at any rate. But as Framlingham drew nearer, Carrie grew quieter.

It had taken three stormy days to reach Cambridge, but even the rain had not deterred Minuette. If she had to do this, she wanted to get started. The longer it took her to reach Framlingham, the more time she had to think about all the things that could go wrong. Fortunately, the skies had cleared a bit after Cambridge and on this last afternoon, though it was windy and cold, it was dry.