“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“Go back to London. I will not need you again on this progress.”
His temper lasted through Rochford’s obedient if resentful departure the next morning, up until a courier brought letters from France. When William saw Minuette’s distinctive handwriting, he dismissed his attendants with a sullen wave. Tossing the other dozen letters the courier had brought onto a table, he broke the seal of Minuette’s and read.
25 June 1555
Fontainebleau Palace
William,
Are you enjoying Wales? Dominic, for one, is envious of your travels there. He cannot stop speaking of the wild beauty of the mountains. I think he is just trying to forget how much he despises having to flatter the French.
And then you will go on to Kenninghall! I have always heard it spoken of as one of the finest manors in northern England. To be sure, I believe it was the Howards who spoke of it as such, so perhaps I should not give too much credence to the praise.
I fear I am not missing England as much as I should. It has been such sweet pleasure to not have to guard every word and gesture, knowing that I am not being watched at every moment. You must feel something of the same relief.
Elizabeth is, naturally, a wonderful success. I have heard only the highest praises for her beauty and her learning and her wit. She is extremely good at representing England—you would be so proud of her. Dominic is the same as ever—watchful and serious and so much fun to tease. And your little French princess is quite sweet. She has asked me to tell her stories of you as a boy. Do not worry—I have kept your reputation as a glorious king intact. It would not do to disillusion her.
The days are passing away rapidly. It will not be long before we return. Until then,
Minuette
William smiled as he read, for he could almost hear Minuette’s lilting voice speaking the words she had written. Brief as the letter was, its effect was enough to ease the pain in his shoulders and neck and remind him that he had at least one pleasant thing in a life otherwise burdened by duty and treachery.
He stretched his long legs out before him and stared unseeing at the tapestry draped across the far wall. This summer progress had not been nearly as relaxing as earlier ones. These few months were supposed to be a time of relief for a king, with nothing more pressing than the next day’s hunt or the next night’s feast.
The truth was, his council was becoming more recalcitrant with every week that passed. Not Dominic, of course, but many of those who composed the privy council thought nothing of opposing even his slightest plan. And it was impossible to get through anything these days without being reminded of England’s rising debt. If he had hoped this progress would help him escape from the pressures of ruling, William had been disappointed. Those councilors who were not with him in person wrote lengthy letters detailing plague in London and flooding in Anglia. And, with unrelenting regularity, protests and clashes over religion.
He thanked God daily for Minuette. If he had not her image with him always—perfect and uncomplicated—he’d have run mad before now.
Slipping her letter inside his doublet, William briefly considered the unread messages confronting him critically from where he’d tossed them. He’d deal with them later. What he needed now was a change of scene. Pausing long enough for a cup of wine, he escaped to the quiet garden that had been set aside for his use. There, he spied Robert Dudley slouching elegantly against a tree and waved him over. He had allowed him on this progress, despite his brother’s disgrace, because the man was an excellent rider, a superb dice player, and an amusing wit. Without anyone else around to entertain him, he might as well have Robert.
“Looking forward to Kenninghall? You’ve not been there before, I believe,” William said, knowing very well he hadn’t.
Robert’s smile was full of mischief. “The Howards and Dudleys are civil in public, but civility does not extend to inviting the enemy into your home.”
“Enemies?” William said repressively. “I dislike any of my people finding enemies amongst our own.”
“The word was ill-chosen, Your Majesty.” Robert Dudley was nothing if not smooth. “Enmity amongst the nobles is far more a matter of words than deeds. We will always hold together where our own interests are concerned.”
“Your own interests being the same as England’s, of course.”
Robert didn’t miss a beat. “Of course.”
Wondering if the man could ever be thrown off-balance, William abruptly changed the subject. “Does not your wife miss you? You are so often gone from home.”
A twitch of the eye was the only sign that Robert had his points of weakness. “I serve at your pleasure. Amy knows that. She bears with it as any wife must.”
William nearly snorted at his audacity. Everyone knew that Robert had long been investigating the possibility of a divorce. Perhaps it was time to point out that, divorced or not, he would never be a suitable husband for Elizabeth. Might as well take out some of his restlessness and irritation on Robert.
“Politically speaking, who do you think is the wisest choice for my sister’s husband—another French match, to further cement the ties of the treaty, or a Protestant lord at home to appease the rabid anti-Papists?”
“Being Protestant myself, you cannot expect me to recommend the princess marry a Catholic. I’m hardly an objective judge.”
“Not objective at all.” William infused the words with meaning.
There was a long pause, and when Robert spoke again, his voice had lost its aloof amusement. “I fear I cannot consider your sister’s marriage solely in a political light, Your Majesty. I have known her too long and liked her too well to think of her only as a means of extracting you from your own folly.” In a voice lowered to a whisper, he continued, “She will do whatever you ask, without demur. But you’ll be sacrificing her happiness for your own.”
