It seemed to him that he could read the different silences in the hall. Gleeful, yes, for Northumberland was often abrasive and his arrogance and ambition had earned him many enemies. But there was pity, too, for a handsome young man, and something less easy to define. Wariness, perhaps.
He had to hand it to Guildford, he made a wonderful obeisance. If the boy (Guildford was actually a year older than William but he seemed a boy in every way) hadn’t been so staunchly Protestant, he’d likely have prostrated himself wholly. As it was, Guildford knelt on both knees and bowed his head almost low enough to touch the floor.
William let him remain in that position. “Offering your neck so readily? I thought for certain a Dudley would have some fight in him.”
“Your Majesty, I crave pardon for my error.”
“Error?” William echoed softly. “Is that what you call it?”
He thought Northumberland flinched—no doubt the duke recognized the silken tone of fury that William knew was so like his father’s.
Guildford prudently did not rise, but his head came up enough for him to meet William’s gaze. “I call it love, Your Majesty. A sin, to be sure, but motivated by love alone.”
“If you love Margaret Clifford so much, why did you hide away and let her be taken to the Tower in your stead?”
Was it his imagination that Guildford’s eyes flicked to the side, toward his father? “I am young. Perhaps I listened to counselors I should not have.”
William rose and gestured impatiently for Guildford to do the same. Warily, the boy stood and waited while William stepped near enough that he might have whispered if he’d wanted. Instead, he let his voice carry to every avid listener in the throne room. “I too am young, and I know what it is to have competing counsel. Do you know what the difference is between us, Dudley? I am not stupid enough to follow evil counsel straight to my own destruction.”
Northumberland moved in protest as guards stepped through to seize his son by the arms.
“You will have time to ponder on the difference between youth and stupidity while I ponder what to do with you,” William said coldly.
He gestured to the guards. “Take him to the Tower—and on no account is he to see his wife.” He almost spat the last word, and everyone in the room averted their eyes. Except Dominic, who watched William with that familiar hooded expression that disapproved without ever having to say a word.
William remained in the throne room after Guildford was taken away—his father went after him, to try to pick up the pieces, no doubt—mingling with the crowd to show that he was not shaken, to show that he knew what he was doing, to show that he had the pulse of his court and knew his people well. Dominic also remained, but he did not so much mingle as stand in one place and reply briefly to whoever attempted to speak with him. It would have exasperated William if he hadn’t found it so amusing. Dominic had to be the most reluctant duke in English history. Where any other man would be avidly building his power base and making alliances with every breath, Dominic appeared indifferent. Was there nothing that could move that aloof temperament? William wondered. He might have to get serious about finding Dominic a woman.
And yet, as different as they were, it was a relief to leave the throne room behind and walk out with Dominic. However frustrating his friend might be as a political player, at least with Dominic one always knew exactly where one stood.
CHAPTER EIGHT
On the last day of April the English court removed from Richmond to Hampton Court just a few miles west. And on a May Day of clear but chilly blue skies, the French delegation arrived. They came in a procession of barges that stretched more than a quarter mile along the Thames, a breeze just sufficient to play out the blue banner of France with its three gold fleur-de-lis. Charles de Valois—duc d’Orléans and younger brother of King Henri—was greeted by the privy council, Lord Rochford doing the honours of first welcome. Minuette, standing with the women of Elizabeth’s household, watched the Lord Chancellor and his wife step forward to greetle ducwith a salute on each cheek and speaking fluent French.
Minuette pointedly ignored Dominic, who spent more time watching her than he did the French. Did he really think someone was going to attack her in daylight, with dozens of courtiers pressing round? When she was sure no one else was watching, she rolled her eyes at him. His lips almost quirked into a smile, but then he was swept up into the small group that would accompany Charles to greet William and Elizabeth personally. The king and princess had waited in the throne room together, manipulating the moment to give the best impression of royal protocol and position.
That was an encounter Minuette would have dearly loved to see. Just two years ago Elizabeth had been meant to marry Charles, but he had married a relative of the Holy Roman Emperor instead, and that first disintegration of an English/French marriage treaty had led irrevocably to open war. Minuette was certain Elizabeth would not regret the lost marriage—though only thirty-three, Charles’s penchant for adventurous living had aged him prematurely, and even draped with all the gold and silver and expensive fabrics a French prince could command, as a man he could never compare to Robert Dudley. Not that Elizabeth had had much to do with Robert the last while. She claimed to be keeping her distance out of political necessity, what with Guildford in the Tower and his father teetering on disgrace, but Minuette knew better. Elizabeth was hurt that Robert had not warned her of Guildford’s rash marriage, and she also hated being reminded that, like all his brothers now, Robert was a married man. Not that Robert was a man to give up easily. He alone of his family remained at court, wisely keeping a low profile, but present all the same.
Was there any way their love could ever come to a good end? Minuette wondered. And just for a moment she imagined pressing William for a favour, attempting to persuade him that if he meant to marry for love, he should allow his sister the same…
It would never work. For one thing, Minuette was not comfortable with imagining just what sort of persuasion she would have to employ, and for another, William was not likely to allow himself to be persuaded. He needed Elizabeth to make a politically smart marriage for England’s sake.
“Going to remain at the river all day, Mistress Wyatt?” Lady Rochford inquired. Minuette wondered why she had not continued inside with her husband and the French. Probably she had not been invited—Jane Boleyn was prickly at best, not at all the sort of woman to put men at ease.
“Good day to you, Your Grace,” Minuette replied impersonally. “You are looking quite well.”If one likes a woman who’s all brittleness and venom.Even attired in a wine-coloured bodice and cloth-of-gold underskirt, no amount of gilding could smooth away the sharp angles of Jane Boleyn’s face or the suspicious sharpness of her gaze. And yet, Minuette knew there were men who found their way to the duchess’s cold bed—either they liked the pale, thin, spiteful sort of woman or else they wanted to disconcert Rochford by bedding his wife. Minuette was fairly certain Lord Rochford didn’t care.
In her precise, imperious voice, Lady Rochford answered, “I am glad that I still look well, despite the loss to my household. Eleanor Percy has long been such a favorite of mine, I found it difficult to have her sent away.”
Minuette knew she was being baited and steadfastly held her tongue.
With a grudging respect, Lady Rochford added, “It appears you have taken my advice to heart and learned to use your power to persuade a man, else the king would never have sent Eleanor away. I wonder how precisely you persuaded William—and how the French would feel about it if they knew?”
That was rich, this woman who was all subterfuge and deviousness, accusing her of scheming. But because Lady Rochford had hinted at things best left unsaid, Minuette forced a civil answer. “I can’t believe the French have ever thought twice about me. I am not nearly interesting enough for such notice.”
Lady Rochford all but hissed her final piece of advice. “See that you keep it that way. Consider that counsel from my husband as well as myself.”
1 May 1555
Hampton Court
