The Boleyn Reckoning (23 page)

Jane Boleyn was not penitent. She was also not entirely coherent. Dominic twitched through her mercifully brief appearance before the judges, skin crawling at her unmistakable imbalance. How much of it was inherent in her nature and how much forced into being by her time in the Tower and relentless interrogations was hard to say, but he could not believe they were being asked to judge her. She should be locked up, perhaps for her own good, but to execute her seemed hardly necessary.

The star witness against the Duchess of Rochford was Eleanor Percy. Surprisingly, Eleanor testified in person rather than through
a written statement. Dominic almost didn’t recognize her, dressed as soberly as a nun in black and gray, her straw-blonde hair coiled sedately around her head and covered by a gauzy veil. Her personality was as subdued as her attire. Despite his dislike and distrust of the woman, he couldn’t help but be impressed by her apparently straightforward account.

She wove in words an image of Jane Boleyn as a cunning and manipulative woman who had used Eleanor’s love for her daughter to ensure her aid in persecuting Minuette. Tricks, at first, like the adder in the bedchamber. And the spreading of rumours, of course. But Eleanor claimed she had been shocked when she realized Jane had used her as a distraction in order to attempt murder.

“I did not know of Lady Rochford’s intent,” Eleanor stated plainly, and she was such a practiced liar that Dominic almost didn’t know himself whether to believe her. “I was horrified to realize what she had done.”

“Then why,” Lord Burghley asked, “did you not inform someone in authority?”

“Lady Rochford threatened me. She knew that I had been … that her husband and I had …” Eleanor paused delicately. “I did say something to Lord Rochford, and who could be a higher authority than the chancellor? But he wished to protect his wife’s name and assured me the young lady would be kept safe. What else could I do, with my daughter to protect on my own?”

Nicely played, Dominic realized. Eleanor had managed to not only provide a strong witness against Lady Rochford, but to balance perfectly her words about Lord Rochford himself. If William decided to let his uncle remain free, then Eleanor had not condemned him. But if the king chose to disbelieve that his aunt had acted of her own accord, then Eleanor could be pressed to say more about Lord Rochford’s guilt.

And somehow Eleanor had kept herself above the tawdriness of it all, for who could not be moved by a young widow trying to protect her child? The king’s child, in point of fact, a detail made all the clearer to the men in the hall by Eleanor’s refusal to highlight it.

“I was in the power of a woman who meant murder,” confessed Eleanor, “and a man who could ruin my entire family with a word. And I did offer what warning I could, to Mistress Wyatt herself. Ask her if I did not caution her against trusting anyone, on the very day she so blessedly survived the attempt on her life.”

Jane Boleyn, Duchess of Rochford, was found guilty of attempted murder and treason for acting against the interests of the king and sentenced to death. She spit words of fury and venom as the guards took her out, to return to the Tower and await William’s pleasure.

With his aunt’s fate set, William could no longer avoid dealing directly with Eleanor Percy. At least he didn’t have to return to the Tower; William had sent her weeks ago to Ely Place, the London home still belonging to the Dudley family. It had been something of a conundrum where to send her: nowhere the Howard family could get to her, obviously, and Charterhouse, which he might once have considered, belonged to Rochford. And although William had forgiven his uncle the affair with Eleanor, he did not mean to facilitate its continuation.

Not that he was jealous. So he’d convinced himself, right up until the moment a guard escorted Eleanor into the solarium where William waited. She sank into an immediate and graceful curtsey when she entered, and he stared mutely at the top of her blonde head, remembering the silk of her hair brushing against his face and chest. For a blinding moment he wanted nothing more
than to strip the prim silk gown from her and bury himself in her curves and generosity and forget forever that she had been in his uncle’s bed.

He was no saint; since his months of devotional celibacy to Minuette had ended in Eleanor’s bed a year ago, William had enjoyed many nights in a woman’s arms. Though “enjoyed” might be a bit strong; no woman had ever given him the pure abandon that Eleanor had. And as much as he worshipped Minuette, William could not deny that his body very much wanted Eleanor every single time he encountered her.

“You may go,” he told the guard, and let Eleanor remain in her submissive position for several long moments—schooling his expression to indifference—before sharply gesturing her to stand.

They faced each other head on, as he realized now they had always done. At seventeen, William had thought her the perfect companion for him. So she may have been, but perhaps not solely for the youthful lust he’d assumed. Eleanor was as practical as he was. She had never looked at him with disappointment or wanted him to be different than he was and, though he knew that did not make for a wise paramour, it was restful in its way.

Besides, he had used Eleanor for his own pleasure (and still would, if he let himself), and though she had used him in the same manner, it did not change what he owed her. Especially for the little girl, now named Nora and living with her uncle, two years old and his acknowledged daughter. William had only seen the child once, but it had been enough to seal her care upon his heart.

“You are free to go,” he told her abruptly, because if he was not abrupt he might stop thinking altogether and do something stupid. “I’ve allowed you to retain control of the estate in Cumbria I gifted your late husband. If you continue to prove that you can be trusted, then I will consider allowing Nora to join you there in time.”

“I can always be trusted to look to your interests, Your Majesty.” Eleanor said it without irony or inflection, her wide blue eyes and fair skin lending her an illusion of innocence.

“Then you must allow me to decide what is in my own interest, and that means accepting Lady Somerset as my wife. We are planning a Christmas wedding. I expect your gracious acquiescence and support in the matter.”

Why did he care? he wondered. Eleanor herself was not powerful, and though her late husband had been an uncle to the current Duke of Norfolk, the Howard family had not embraced Eleanor as one of their own. What matter if this cunning, beautiful, seductive woman acquiesced in his choice of bride?

Eleanor was silent, an unusual state, and seemed to be considering what to say, or perhaps how to say it. “William,” she at last ventured, and he did not protest at the familiarity of his name for she made no attempt to touch him. “I have been and always will be your devoted servant. Your position is a difficult one, surrounded by so many who will take what they can get without thought to whether it’s in your interest. I have only ever wanted to ensure that you are not taken advantage of, for even those closest to you—such as Lady Rochford—have too often betrayed your generosity.”

“And you have not? Since when is sleeping with my uncle and chancellor not a betrayal?”

She bit her lip, a gesture so evocative of past intimacies that William felt an instant, unbidden arousal. He very nearly groaned aloud and would have admitted at that moment that he did not blame Rochford for taking Eleanor to bed. Any man who could resist her when she looked like that—all promised passion and skill—was beyond a saint.

“I cannot apologize sufficiently for my part in that, though I assure you it was not I who instigated the affair. But I was angry
with you at the time, and so I behaved foolishly.” Eleanor sighed, her expression softening to affection. “I regret the secrets I kept from you, and I promise that I shall never do so again. Those who lie to you do not deserve your trust, and I swear that I shall give you cause to trust me once more.”

It took her three steps to reach William, her oval face tipped up in appeal. “Perhaps one day we can again be friends.”

As she leaned in and kissed him lightly on his unscarred cheek, William thought, But we were never friends. And what he wanted from her just now was what he had always wanted: passion unburdened by love, release without responsibility, refuge from thought.

When he seized her by the arms and pulled her into a more reckless kiss, he could almost feel the smile as her mouth opened beneath his. Guilt stood no chance against Eleanor’s hands and his own hungry body.

“Minuette?” Elizabeth spoke softly, but even so Minuette startled badly. Elizabeth waited while her friend closed her diary and turned in her seat. Dressed for bed, with her dark honey curls bound in a single plait, she looked about fifteen years old.

Elizabeth had rehearsed what she might say to Minuette, how
to delicately broach the subject of Dominic and their evident affair, and had not yet found the nerve. Minuette always seemed so fragile, should she not wait until her friend was well?

Smoothing a tiny crease on her gold damask overskirt, the only outward sign of her uncertainty, Elizabeth said, “You were missed at dinner. William and Dominic are both highly worried. I told them you needed only rest, and time. Prove me right, Minuette, and heal quickly.”

She hesitated, knowing that time was slipping away, that a world of hurt was waiting for her brother, that something had to be said sooner rather than later … and in that hesitation, Minuette spoke.

“Elizabeth.” Her voice, so soft it hardly touched the air of the chamber, made Elizabeth blink.

She crossed to the bed and sat down, taking Minuette’s hands in her own, and waited in silence.

“Elizabeth … I’m in trouble.”

Those first words were like the breaking of a dam. She poured out everything to Elizabeth, in a jumble of words and chronology that threatened to be unintelligible. But having had weeks to consider Dominic as Minuette’s lover, Elizabeth was quick to grasp the fact of their marriage. If anything, it was the detail of the Catholic priest that surprised her most. Who would have thought Dominic would do something so heretical?

But if the use of a priest surprised Elizabeth, the revelation of Minuette negotiating with Rochford positively astonished her. “How very devious of you,” she said with admiration. “And wise. You say that my uncle’s preparations are complete?”

“Dominic is to meet with him tomorrow. For instructions and papers, I suppose.”

“Carrie and Dominic’s man—Harrington, is it?—have been informed?”

Colour had returned to Minuette’s face the more she’d unburdened herself. “Yes. They will travel with us.”

“You were really going to leave me without saying goodbye?” Elizabeth tried not to sound critical, but the hurt was real.

Minuette’s breath caught, a prelude to tears. “Not for lack of love, Elizabeth. It seemed safer.”

“Because you did not trust me to help?”

“Safer for you as well. William—” Minuette broke off, perhaps swallowing the urge to cry. “William will need you. I would not take that last relationship away from him.”

For all her belief that she was not sentimental, Elizabeth had to force her voice to evenness. “Will there ever be a day when you are not looking out for us, Minuette?” She hugged her friend, hoping that Minuette would feel the same comfort that she had so often given to Elizabeth. “You are right, leaving England is the safest course for now. Let my uncle aid you, go to the Netherlands, and I shall do all in my power to soften William’s anger and bring him to forgiveness. However long the breach takes to mend, I trust you and Dominic will be part of England’s court for many years to come.”

When Dominic arrived at Charterhouse on September 14, he noted new lines on George Boleyn’s previously ageless face, sharply engraved around his mouth and eyes. These months of royal displeasure—as well, perhaps, as his wife’s violent end—had marred the elegance of the king’s uncle. But the power was still in full evidence, checked though it might be. Indeed, Rochford behaved precisely as though he were still sitting at the center of power in Whitehall rather than at his own private residence at Charterhouse.