Renaud would not answer him until they had returned to the court. They did not go to Dominic’s more public guest chamber, but to Renaud’s own small room attached to the barracks. It was a soldier’s room: ordered, precise, and, if not quite bare, certainly not domestic. Here, Renaud brought water and a cloth and began to clean the blood from Dominic’s hair.
He winced at the pressure, gentle as it was. The blow had caught him above the right ear and felt as though it had left a small crater behind.
“It is clean,” Renaud assured him. “It was not meant to kill.”
Dominic was forced to agree. He’d been distracted enough—more shame to him—that even with his last-second movement a killing blow would have done far more damage to his skull. “Why try only to knock me out?” he wondered aloud. “Robbery?”
Renaud rinsed the cloth in the water, red bleeding into the bowl, then sighed and took a seat across the small table from Dominic. “He followed you from the tavern. A tavern well-known as a gathering place for men of the Spanish embassy.”
“Which returns us to the pressing question—why wereyoufollowing me?”
“Isn’t the pressing question why a Spaniard would strike you down after you’d met with his ambassador?”
Dominic debated denying the charge, but what was the point? Renaud had clearly figured it out. “We can both guess the answer to that: the ambassador wanted my meeting to become public without spreading the news himself. Hit me, leave me unconscious, and have me ‘discovered’ in the streets, leading the French to wonder why I was found in a notorious meeting place of the Spanish.”
“Someone does not trust England’s intentions.” Renaud shook his head, his expression deeply wary. “Dominic, what is it your king has asked of you?”
Dominic chose to meet the question with silence, knowing Renaud did not expect him to answer. Indeed, the Frenchman went on almost immediately.
“I know, you cannot answer. And I will not force your secrets into the open. But if I can be suspicious, then others are ten times more so. Even here, I have heard rumours that your king is enamoured of a young woman. There is…disquiet at the news. If only you English were not so prudish! I suppose he will not make her his mistress, and so means to upset all of Europe just as his father did.”
Dominic stood up a little more forcefully than intended, dizziness reminding him of his head wound. “Thank you for your aid tonight. I must go.”
Renaud also stood, and gripped Dominic’s arm. “Let us speak for a moment not as adversaries, but as friends. The name of this young woman has also been spoken in some circles, and it is she whom I have seen you watching at our court. You are correct—a marriage between you would be extremely complicated. But if she truly is your Nicole, my friend—”
“What?” Dominic said roughly. “What if she is?”
He almost hoped that the older man would tell him what to do, or at least point a path. Instead, Renaud said, “If she is, then you have my understanding and my sympathy. And as much reason as I to wish your king well married to my own princess. Perhaps he will listen to you.”
“William hears what he wants to hear.” It was the most damning statement Dominic could make, and as close to treasonous as he’d ever been.
“If he will not hear, then you must. I am your friend, Dominic, but my country comes first. Always. I do not want war, but where France goes, I must follow. Do you understand?”
France is suspicious and we will not let ourselves be taken by surprise.“I understand perfectly.”
He pulled out of Renaud’s grip and walked out, sick from much more than being struck in the head.
23 July 1555
Fontainebleau Palace
After just more than five weeks at the French court, tomorrow is our final day. I cannot decide if I am more excited about returning home or about tomorrow night’s closing festivities. Probably tomorrow, since returning to England means more than just home—it means a return to secrecy on all sides and my lingering doubts about Alyce’s death and the plots behind it.
Not that there aren’t secrets and plots aplenty in France! After my initial introduction to Diane de Poitiers, I thought her merely being polite when she hinted that she would speak to me at more length during our stay. But I begin to believe she never does anything for mere politeness. Three days ago I received a gold-edged invitation to a private meeting in La Duchesse’s chambers at Fontainebleau. With more than a little trepidation, I went. Even Elizabeth was surprised—she herself has not been so favoured. But then, she is here to represent England officially and it would not do to offend Queen Catherine by meeting in private with her rival.
It was a most…disconcerting encounter. Like Queen Anne, Madame de Poitiers has the trick of looking through one as though she knows all one’s secrets and is privately amused by them. I was not surprised that she asked me about William—everyone here knows I am close to both the Tudor siblings—but I was surprised when she next turned her inquisitiveness to the subject of Dominic.
What does the new duke make of his estates? she asked. Does he continue to prefer the soldier’s life to that of the court? How does he deal with the ambitious females who flatter him for his rank and his person? That last question was asked in a most impertinent manner, and with a flick of her eyes, Madame de Poitiers indicated one of her women who sat nearby ostensibly reading but mostly just listening to us.
“Aimée was quite inconsolable with his coldness. I tried to tell her that the English are not like our men—that refusing to enjoy a woman’s particular… skills… does not mean the woman herself is not worth it.”
I did not at all like the look of Aimée. She is dark and voluptuous, and the smug air of experience about her reminds me of Eleanor. And I remembered what Madame de Poitiers had said to Dominic at the beginning of our stay—that he should beware Aimée.
Looking at the woman, who met my gaze with a knowing smile, I do not believe this Aimée possesses a heart. If Dominic injured her at all, it can only have been to her pride. And I do not feel sorry for her.
Minuette stayed awake long after Carrie left her that night in her elaborate, overornamented bedchamber. Some hours after midnight, still sleepless, she considered rising and writing more in her diary simply for something to do, but at last she found herself drifting into a pleasant state of half daydreams that revolved around Dominic and the abandoned church near Wynfield and, in the distance, the glimpse of two children, one fair and one dark. She had nearly put names to those shadowy children when a creak broke her focus.
It was very soft, so that she almost thought she’d imagined it, but Minuette was not imagining the slight change in the blackness where the door to her room opened. Before she could decide what to do, the door was pulled closed carefully and all was once more black. For a moment she panicked at the thought of someone shut in the room with her, but there was no feeling of another human, no change in breath or silence. But that moment held her frozen just long enough so when she did get out of bed and threw open her door, she saw nothing but an empty corridor.
