Chapter Eleven #2
“That didn’t stop Bishop Bonner from inflicting it upon Anne Askew.”
How could he have overlooked his mother’s championship of the Protestant martyr?
Bonner had had Anne Askew tortured to the point that she’d had to be carried to her own burning in a chair, unable to even walk to her death.
His mother had a most active conscience, and she had never forgiven the Catholic bishop for his torment of Askew.
But even so, there was no way Robert could let her anywhere near the raw brutality of Bonner’s death.
If for no other reason than that his father would kill him if he didn’t stop her.
“Mother, be reasonable. If you won’t be swayed by propriety, then at least consider the matter politically.
If the Duchess of Northumberland were to be found at the execution of a recalcitrant Catholic bishop, it would be seen as gloating.
His death may be necessary, but inflaming the religious divide is not. ”
“And how would it be seen if one of the duchess’s younger sons were to be found at the execution?”
Robert pressed his lips tight to keep from swearing.
Had he just been neatly maneuvered into attending Bonner’s burning?
He wouldn’t put it past his astute mother to have orchestrated the entire thing—including even his argument with William—just to get him to London and to the execution.
It was true that he would not be a controversial spectator—in the midst of the crowds avid to watch the spectacle, he could much more easily blend in than his mother.
And even if he were noticed, he was, as Rochford kept telling him, not important enough to cause more than a ripple of interest.
“Fine,” he answered. “I will watch Bonner burn and tell you all about it, but then you must leave London. No doubt Father is missing you.” Unlike too many marriages—his own, for example—that was not mere politeness. His parents were fiercely devoted to each other.
With his acquiescence, his mother’s stern expression softened. “I miss your father,” she agreed. “But Bonner is not the only thing that keeps me in London. I have one son here who is not at liberty to leave. You have not forgotten Guildford, have you?”
“I have not. But just because the king is on progress doesn’t mean you’re going to get into the Tower to see Guildford.
Rochford has returned to Whitehall, and I promise that the guards’ orders are strict.
None of us will see Guildford until the king is ready to let us do so.
And the worst way to get the king’s permission is to maneuver behind his back. ”
She favoured him with a smile of approval.
It made her look much younger than any mother of thirteen had the right to look, Robert thought.
“It is easy to overlook your intelligence in the midst of your charm,” his mother said.
“After Bonner’s death, I will return to Dudley Castle and await word from the princess on our invitation. Do you suppose she will come?”
Robert shrugged. “I suppose Elizabeth will do precisely what she pleases.”
Having placated his mother, he did as she’d asked and attended the execution of Edmund Bonner, Bishop of London.
It took place at West Smithfield, a large grassy space just outside the city walls.
Robert had seen men die by hanging—and of course on the battlefield—but this was something else entirely.
Bonner stood in an empty tar barrel, bound to a stake, and faggots were heaped high about him.
Sometimes, Robert knew, those condemned to burning were strangled first but there was no such mercy for heretics.
There was a priest to pray for Bonner, but no one tried to plead with him to recant.
Only the Catholics cared enough to save a man’s soul at the end, Robert thought cynically, or perhaps they were enamoured of their own righteousness.
The Protestants were more pragmatic and there were no wasted words or time; the faggots were simply lit.
As long as he lived, Robert hoped to never see anything half so terrible again. It took Bonner a long time to fall unconscious from the smoke, long enough for him to scream from the pain of the flames. It was a sickening death, and so Robert reported to his mother when he returned to Ely Place.
“That is why Mary must never be allowed near the throne,” his mother said firmly, looking up from her needlework, her face very pale. “How long do you think it would take the Catholics to import the Inquisition to England?”
“And so we fight fire with fire,” Robert answered ironically.
“And so we do what we must.”
She left for Dudley Castle the following morning.
As Robert waved farewell, he kept thinking that his mother had sounded awfully like Lord Rochford.
He was beginning to be wary of people who were so inflexibly certain.
It made him wonder what his father was doing at Dudley Castle this summer.
He was pretty sure it was more than just wait for Elizabeth’s answer to their invitation.
He was also pretty sure that he didn’t want to know about it.
After almost a month at Fontainebleau, Dominic was more than ready to leave the French court behind.
It was even worse than England, where at least he knew the courtiers and politicians and lawyers, and where the peculiarly English character was familiar.
The French court made England’s look like child’s play.
Everything here was byzantine and circular so that one step led not to the next but to an entirely different path that bore no relation to where you actually thought you were going.
He had not spoken directly to the Spanish ambassador, as would have been his choice.
The man had a French servant deliver a message from a Spanish servant to the effect that discretion was in order.
I will send you word of time and place, the ambassador had written.
Be prepared to disguise yourself sufficiently not to be followed.
Who would want to follow me? was Dominic’s first thought.
But he was not stupid enough to fail to recognize that as William’s friend and now a duke in his own right he would indeed be followed and watched.
Friendship with kings is always one-sided, he thought sourly, and Renaud seemed to see the same thing in him.
“Still playing diplomatic games against your nature?” the Frenchman asked as the two of them sparred comfortably in an empty practice yard. “I think it keeps you sleepless, mon ami … or perhaps there is a more pleasant reason for your look of tiredness?”
Dominic met the insinuation with less grace. “There is no woman, Renaud, so keep your thoughts to yourself.”
Renaud laughed. “I was not implying what you think. If you are sleepless over a woman—and let us not pretend, we both know that I have met this most particular woman—it is because she is not in your bed at night. Why not marry the très belle fille and remedy the situation?”
“If you mean Mistress Wyatt, she is the especial friend of the king and his sister and was raised a royal ward. Her marriage will not be a simple matter. And also,” Dominic struck furiously at Renaud’s blade, forcing him to step back a pace, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Renaud parried. “Bon. Of course. But if you did know what I was talking about … are you not also an especial friend of your king? I would think a marriage would not be that complicated.”
“No more, Renaud,” Dominic said sharply, disengaging his sword at the same moment. “I will discuss many things with you, but marriage is personal.”
Renaud regarded him thoughtfully. “Acknowledged. But you should remember, Dominic, that matters of life and death can depend on a marriage. Such as that of your king and my royal princess. That, you will want to remember.”
“I remember it every day,” Dominic retorted. “And I desire the peace it ensures between our countries. I have no wish to clash with you in the field again.”
“Nor I. After all, the last time I ended up your prisoner.”
Dominic could not shake the suspicion that there had been more than one point to Renaud’s conversation; he just wasn’t sure he had followed them all.
It worried him, even as he watched Minuette charm the French right and left.
She was as lovely here as in England, but her spontaneity and freshness were even more noticeable in the mannered court.
Of course, next to some of the Frenchwomen, even Elizabeth looked positively impulsive.
But Elizabeth was here for a political purpose, and her position kept her to a strict round of carefully orchestrated public events: hawking with King Henri and the dauphin, afternoon visits to nearby noble homes, attending a Catholic mass with Queen Catherine de Medici and the young Princess Elisabeth.
Minuette could move more freely. One morning might be spent walking in the classical gardens with Elisabeth and Mary of Scotland, the two royal girls chattering with Minuette as though they had known her all their lives while dogs of various sizes played around them.
Another day Minuette received a private tour of Saint Denis, the magnificent church raised by Abbot Suger in the twelfth century and burial place of French kings.
As Dominic made it his business to always know her whereabouts (and ensure Harrington was with her if he could not be), he received many assurances of her interest in and enthusiasm for France.
The promised word from the Spanish ambassador came just three days before their scheduled departure from Fontainebleau.
It was smuggled to Dominic in code, amidst a sheaf of innocuous dispatches from home.
Deciphered, it gave him directions to a meeting place at midnight (why is it always midnight?
Dominic wondered) and instructed him, Come alone and do not dress the gentleman.