After bidding farewell to his sister and Minuette in Dover, William had set off on his annual summer progress. This year’s carefully calculated itinerary included stays with both the Earl of Pembroke and William Cecil, Lord Burghley, as well as a tour of royal castles in Wales. The timing of the various visits and delegations and embassies meant that, for the first time in his life, he celebrated his birthday alone. He was not even at Hampton Court, but at Conwy Castle in North Wales, an imposing but cheerless military structure that made him all the more restless for missing Minuette. And not just her—Elizabeth was as much a part of his life as breathing, and Dominic was always and ever his most trusted voice. William had plenty of hangers-on for this progress, but no one he trusted half as much as Dominic.
Except, from time to time, his uncle.
Today he needed to trust someone, for he had before him a royal execution warrant awaiting his signature. William studied the single sheet, though he knew it by heart. It ordered the death by burning of Edmund Bonner, once Bishop of London, convicted now of heresy and treason.
“Why not the axe?” William asked his uncle once more. “The heresy charge only matters because of the treason attached to it. I am no pedant, insisting on the uniformity of private conscience.”
“But many of your people do so insist, including some of your chief advisors,” Rochford answered grimly. “At least insofar as such private conscience is expressed in words. The axe is not as fearsome as the fire, Your Majesty. You should begin as you mean to go on, and Bonner’s death at the stake will set a bar for dissent that the Catholics will know they cannot cross.”
William stared at the signatures already on the warrant—every member of the privy council except one. He was glad Dominic was in France, for he was not absolutely certain that his friend would have signed. But Dom is not king, he thought, and with that he scrawledHenry Rexin bold letters at the bottom of the warrant.
“See to it,” he told his uncle, handing it over. “And while you are burning Bonner, I will head east and visit my sister, Mary, at Beaulieu. I would not have her hear of this by report, but from my own conviction.”
“That is wise, Your Majesty. Afterward, you will continue on to Kenninghall?”
“Might as well get all the Catholic wrath over with at once. And remind the Howards that I continue to hold their fortunes in my hand.”
“And…the child?” Rochford asked delicately.
For all of the Howards were at Kenninghall awaiting the royal visit, including Eleanor and the little girl born last year who was almost certainly his child. William was uneasy about seeing Eleanor again after the unresolved incident with the adder in Minuette’s room, but it seemed only right to at least set eyes on the child. He wondered who she looked like, and if he would feel anything for her.
But his uncle didn’t need to know that. “I’m going to Kenninghall to intimidate the new Duke of Norfolk. My personal affairs are not part of it.”
“So you say. Perhaps one day you will learn better.”
“Don’t,” William warned.
“It is my duty to advise you, and I will do so no matter how unpleasant the task. A king has no personal affairs. Everything you do affects England.”
“I never forget that. Nor do I ever forget that, by God’s will, Iamking.”
“By God’s will, and your grandfather’s battles.”
“Choose your words carefully, Uncle.”
“Edward IV thought it God’s will that he be king, and so did his bloody brother, Richard. But their personal affairs undid them, allowing your grandfather the opportunity to claim the throne.”
“The throne that was his by right.”
“Rights do not always enter into it, William.” Rochford rarely called him by name. “Thrones are won and held by many means. The Catholics believe your throne is Mary’s by right. By our rights, the Scots throne is legally yours, but has thus far required more force than we can muster to hold it. Ireland you hold by force alone. Those with power will always trump those with mere right on their side.”
“I know this, Uncle. I have listened to you over the years, despite what you may think. Just because I don’t always take your advice—”
“This isn’t all about you!”
William rocked back in his seat, staring at Rochford’s furious face. Part of him was instantly ten years old, cowed and desperate to please. That part wanted Elizabeth or Dominic to stand up for him, wanted to run away with Minuette to make him laugh and remind him he was king.
That part vanished in a wave of icy rage.
“Do tell, Lord Rochford: if being king isn’t about me, then whom is it about?”
“Do you have any idea what your mother went through to get you where you are today? What it cost her in pride and security? The price my family paid?” His uncle did not back down, pressing his point, and William wondered how long he’d been wanting to say these things.
“The price you paid to be the most powerful family in England?” William let his voice cut through in the very way he’d learned from Rochford. “Tell me, Uncle, what exactly is it you think the King of England owes you?”
Something not fear, not surprise, not anything he could name, flashed in his uncle’s eyes. “To remember who you are and who you have always been meant to be. Your Majesty.”
“My father’s son,” William answered, biting off each word.
