The Boleyn Deceit (9 page)

“I am suggesting that it might be wise to remove ourselves from court whenever possible. If I am not here, neither can you be here. Perhaps we will visit Mary. My sister has been left in solitude long enough—no doubt she would welcome visitors from court. Or, at least, endure them.”

Minuette thought of facing Lady Mary after that last, disastrous stay at Framlingham. It didn’t excite her, but Elizabeth was right. It would be better for everyone if she and William were separated.

She tried not to dwell on the fact that leaving court behind meant leaving Dominic as well.

Once thought of, Elizabeth wasted no time in arranging to visit Mary. It worked out rather well for her, since her half sister was currently a reluctant “guest” at Syon House. Just ten miles west of London, Syon House belonged to the strongly Protestant Duke of Northumberland, and his eldest son John, the Earl of Warwick, was Mary’s court-appointed guardian. If Robert chose to visit his brother at Syon House while Elizabeth was also there, who would remark on it?

William had not been enthusiastic about the temporary separation from Minuette, but Dominic had backed Elizabeth up, and so her brother agreed to let her and Minuette travel to Syon House at the beginning of March. Richmond Palace was only a little farther west; William planned to catch up to them there after two weeks.

Elizabeth thought she had everything under control, up until the day before her departure. As she was sorting through the books she wished to take with her, Kat Ashley interrupted.

“Lord Northumberland and Lord Robert to see you, Your Highness,” Kat said warily. Kat was always wary where Robert was concerned. Alone among Elizabeth’s women—except possibly Minuette—Kat Ashley had the privilege of speaking her mind freely to the princess, whose governess she had been since Elizabeth was four years old.

Elizabeth looked up and marked the lines of disapproval on Kat’s round-cheeked face. “What does he want?” Robert she would always welcome, but the duke? Perhaps he wished her to convey a message to the Earl of Warwick, or perhaps he himself planned to visit Syon House while she was in residence there.

Kat sniffed, looking very maternal in her blue wool gown and the old-fashioned gabled hood covering her silver-streaked hair. “The duke asked for a private audience. Will you see them?”

“Very well.”

Elizabeth’s immediate impression was that Robert would have rather been anywhere else than her presence. He stood two paces behind his father, and his normally expressive face was shuttered as though he were trying to distance himself from whatever his father had to say.

Northumberland, shorter and rougher-edged than the elegant Robert, spoke with unusual diffidence. “Your Highness, thank
you for seeing us. There’s a matter of some delicacy … obviously the king will have to know but I thought that you … perhaps you will speak to him for my son?”

Involuntarily, she looked to Robert, who met her eyes and gave a slight shake of his head.
Not me.
Well, that was something.

“Which son and why does he require my intervention with the king?” Elizabeth asked the duke.

“Guildford, Your Highness.”

She should have guessed—of Northumberland’s five living sons, Guildford was his favorite for no discernible reason. He was the youngest—two years younger than Robert—and his only talent appeared to be getting into scrapes.

“And what has Guildford done?” Fighting, drinking, gambling above his means … all were distinct possibilities with the Dudley sons.

“He has unexpectedly married.”

“Rather young,” Elizabeth remarked drily. “He’s just twenty, isn’t he?” She turned her steady gaze to Robert, who had once again dropped his eyes. “Though that is not the youngest age at which a son of yours has married. And is the young woman—I suppose someone of whom the king will not approve?”

“Lady Margaret Clifford.”

If she had been a man, Elizabeth would have whistled at that name, or sworn aloud. No, her brother would most certainly not approve. Margaret Clifford was their cousin, a granddaughter of Henry VIII’s favorite sister, and as such she held a place in the royal line of succession. Elizabeth did not mince words. “It is against the law for a member of the royal family to marry without the sovereign’s permission. The penalty is death.”

If anything could bring Northumberland to humility, it was love for his family. Ashen-faced, he became voluble. “They are
young, Your Highness, as you said, and in love. I told Guildford to wait, that I would discuss the matter with the king, but youth is impatient. And the girl—”

“Already with child?”

He nodded.

“That will displease the king even more,” she said sharply. “And I do not see why I should be the one to bear his first anger rather than you. Or better yet, Guildford himself. If he is man enough to marry and be a father, then he should be able to stand up and admit what he has done. Where are they?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t know—or won’t say?”

For a second, she saw the canny flicker in his eyes and was reminded that, anguished or not, Northumberland always played the game to his advantage. But what advantage could he gain from a willful son getting a royal girl with child and then having the gall to wed her in open defiance of the law?

Elizabeth turned her attention to Robert. “Why are you here?” she demanded. “To speak up for your brother?”

He hesitated, then squared his shoulders. “My father thought I might gentle your temper. I told him he was mistaken; that you would not welcome any words having to do with a young and hasty marriage coming from me.”

Her laugh was immediate, and bitter. She said to Northumberland, “At least one of your sons is wiser than you. I will speak to the king of this matter and persuade him to kindness—to the girl, at least. As for your son, he has made his marital bed. Now he must lie in it.”

As they bowed themselves out, Robert eyed her gravely and she wished—oh, how she wished!—that she had not been speaking as much about him as about Guildford.

Three days after the women’s departure for Richmond, William endured a privy council meeting that was more than usually tense. In addition to the Duke of Northumberland, who sat
brooding and watchful as if waiting for someone to badger him about Guildford’s folly, the Earl of Surrey was in attendance for the first time. The king had met less resistance than he’d expected from his uncle at naming Surrey to the privy council; Rochford had gone so far as to admit William’s wisdom in balancing England’s divided religious interests. Still, William kept his eye on the young man, wary for any sign of his grandfather’s arrogance or belligerence. Surrey looked unassuming enough; his clothing balanced nicely between the Earl of Oxford’s peacock extravagance and Dominic’s restrained simplicity.

Both Northumberland and Surrey sat quietly while other council members discussed the early items, which centered on the treasury and the unpleasant fact that William was rapidly running out of money. Though not himself so much as England, a point he was quick to make when William Cecil, Lord Burghley, began listing personal expenses as examples of items that might be scaled back.

Burghley’s voice was as inflectionless as his numbers. “In the last year, Your Majesty, you have spent two hundred pounds on books, five hundred pounds on fabrics, and more than eight thousand pounds on property …”

“All of which came from my own purse, not England’s coffers,” William interrupted, allowing a hint of displeasure to creep in. He was not going to permit Burghley to accuse him of plundering England’s treasury for his own pleasures.

But Burghley was not easily cowed. “And none of which would matter if your spending confined itself to such trifles. But the treasury is nearly depleted after the French campaign. There have been too many years of drought and bad harvests. Retrenchments will have to be made in public expenditures.”

“Then why are you troubling me with figures about books and fabric?”

Rochford intervened, his steady voice still holding more than a trace of authority. “Because your personal life should set the example for the people. You cannot cut back government posts and servants, not to mention increase taxes, while flaunting private wealth in a most public manner.”

Piqued by his uncle’s intervention, let alone the fact that he was correct, William ignored him and said to Burghley, “What is it you recommend?”

The treasurer’s answer was prompt. “A commission to study court expenditures and make recommendations for eliminating unnecessary spending. Now that we are at peace with France, there are certainly cuts that can be made. The sooner the better.”

“Fine.” William bit the word off to underscore his reluctance, though he knew it was a sensible plan and he was already turning over possible commission members in his mind. His father and Cromwell had proposed the Eltham Ordinances years ago and been lauded for their good sense. This was a chance to show himself as practical and civic-minded as they had been.

After finances, they arrived at the most common, and most rancorous, subject—religious discontent. Although it had been muted for the last four months by his betrothal to Elisabeth de France, Catholic resentment at Norfolk’s death and Mary’s house arrest ran deep, and they never knew when it might flare into something ugly.

Two weeks earlier, a prosperous family in York had been burned out of their home by a mob claiming they had sheltered a Jesuit priest some months before. If that were all, it would never have come to William’s attention, but the mob had been less than careful and, in their haste, neglected to ensure that the house was completely empty before they fired it. A twelve-year-old housemaid had died in the blaze—a girl with no ties to the Catholic
Church, save working for a family who possibly sympathized with Rome.

Tensions had been running high in the North ever since—from the justifiably angry Catholics, who accused the mob of not caring whom they hurt, to the local cleric who had preached a sermon that as good as said the dead girl got what she deserved and anyone even speaking to Catholics was damned by association.

“The Lady Mary’s household has remained quiet on the matter?” William asked. The last thing he needed in this overheated climate was any kind of public statement from the half sister who most of Europe still considered England’s rightful ruler.

“It has,” Rochford said. “Your Majesty, do you mean to continue her house arrest indefinitely? Or is the Princess Elizabeth’s visit to her a sign that you will soon restore her some measure of autonomy?”

William looked at the Earl of Surrey, sitting stiffly where once his grandfather had sat and entirely mute until now. “What think you, Surrey?” he asked curtly.

“I think her imprisonment is a mistake, Your Majesty.” He had a strong, clear voice that was more remarkable than his other, somewhat forgettable, features.

William indicated that he should continue. Surrey’s voice strengthened as he spoke. “Your Catholic subjects are still that—your subjects. Including the Lady Mary. It is my understanding that you have no certain evidence to doubt her loyalty. When you punish where there is no fault, resentment breeds. And you cannot afford resentment.”

William raised a single eyebrow. Despite his own recent imprisonment, Surrey was not afraid to be direct, even offensive. But he was honest, and William had ever respected honesty. “What would you do?”

“Continue your course of moderation. Don’t confuse matters of state with matters of conscience. There will always be agitators on both sides, Your Majesty, but the bulk of your people understand and admire your tolerance.”

Northumberland grunted and finally broke his silence. “Tolerance is earned. And it isn’t Protestants threatening the throne.”

“It isn’t me, either,” Surrey retorted. “By all means, punish treason wherever it threatens. But don’t confuse the security of the state with personal prejudice.”

“Says the man not long out of the Tower,” Northumberland muttered, almost but not quite under his breath.

“I would think you would agree with Surrey’s call for tolerance, my lord duke,” William said with deceptive mildness. “After all, there’s more than one way to undermine the throne.”

It was the first time William had publicly touched upon the matter of the still-absent Guildford since the day he’d sent Margaret Clifford into Lady Suffolk’s care. He felt everyone’s attention sharpen—except Dominic, whose attention was always pitched to an extreme. Oxford and Pembroke looked almost greedy as they leaned into the table, eager to watch the arrogant Northumberland be taken down a notch. William wondered if there was a single man at that table who truly cared for anything more than his own position. Other than Dominic, of course.