Harfleur?”
“I have no intention of defending those cities. I only took them two years ago to force Henri to negotiations. We will hold fast to Calais and let the others go.”
Sussex, one of the most experienced military commanders now that Northumberland was dead, spoke up. “And if France sends an invasion fleet?” His dour expression was habitual; almost fifty years old, the Earl of Sussex used his age and noble bloodlines as an excuse for bad temper.
With a chilly nod, William replied, “That is the real danger, Iconcur. Which is why this council’s primary business today is to name a new Warden of the Cinque Ports.”
One man to take charge of the defenses in southeast England, with all authority to summon men and arms and ships and to command troops against the threat of foreign landings on the coast. George Boleyn himself had once held that post, as had Henry VIII’s illegitimate son decades earlier, Henry FitzRoy. Now it should be Sussex, for experience, or Rochford again, for position. But Dominic knew his friend and so it was only a slight surprise—accompanied by a grave sinking in his heart—when William said, without even looking at him, “Lord Exeter will be Lord Warden of the Cinque Ports.”
No one seemed any more surprised than Dominic, although some few were displeased. Only Burghley nodded thoughtfully. “The French have good cause to remember Lord Exeter. They will be wary of facing him once again.”
Dominic wished he could believe that. The French might have to send ships to reach England, but there would be an army on those ships ready to land and march and only one man would be in command of that army—Renaud LeClerc. Who had been beaten once by having his own tactics turned against him by Dominic. Who had nearly been assassinated by an English arrow last autumn while under promise of safe conduct. Renaud wouldn’t be wary. Renaud would be spoiling for a fight.
For the first time since entering the council chamber, William looked directly at Dominic. “What say you, Lord Exeter? Will you lead England’s defenses for your king?”
In sardonic silence, Dominic thought, Well done, Will. How can I possibly say no when you put it like that? Aloud, he said, “I serve at your pleasure, Your Majesty.”
“That is well done,” Rochford cut in, his voice with a ragged edge of temper. “But we must discuss the precipitating event, Your Majesty. We must speak about Mistress Wyatt.”
“There is nothing to discuss.”
“There is everything to discuss! You cannot throw a common girl into the public eye in that inflammatory colour and then refuse to speak.”
“I cannot?”
The temperature dropped instantly. Every man seemed momentarily joined in awareness that they could argue and bluster and rage all they wanted—but the youngest man in the room was the one with all the power. It was almost as though the Duke of Northumberland’s headless body lurked in the corner as a reminder of what the king could do.
Bless Lord Burghley for his temperate instincts. Once again he moderated Rochford’s words. “Your Majesty, we wish only to serve you and England well. It is difficult to do so if we are kept in the dark about your intentions.”
Grudgingly, William said, “My intentions have never been more clear. I need a wife, and I will have none but Mistress Wyatt. There is nothing of substance can be said against her, and it is past time England has a royal marriage untainted by politics. It is not open for discussion.”
The hell it isn’t, Dominic thought. Because that’s
my
wife you’re talking about.
When the council meeting adjourned, Dominic was among the first to escape. Once, William would have expected him to remain behind. Now the king didn’t even notice when Dominic walked out with Rochford, who seemed glad of the chance to speak with him alone.
“What can we do to persuade William of the folly of dismissing the French so lightly?” Rochford asked urgently.
“I
“I have no intention of defending those cities. I only took them two years ago to force Henri to negotiations. We will hold fast to Calais and let the others go.”
Sussex, one of the most experienced military commanders now that Northumberland was dead, spoke up. “And if France sends an invasion fleet?” His dour expression was habitual; almost fifty years old, the Earl of Sussex used his age and noble bloodlines as an excuse for bad temper.
With a chilly nod, William replied, “That is the real danger, Iconcur. Which is why this council’s primary business today is to name a new Warden of the Cinque Ports.”
One man to take charge of the defenses in southeast England, with all authority to summon men and arms and ships and to command troops against the threat of foreign landings on the coast. George Boleyn himself had once held that post, as had Henry VIII’s illegitimate son decades earlier, Henry FitzRoy. Now it should be Sussex, for experience, or Rochford again, for position. But Dominic knew his friend and so it was only a slight surprise—accompanied by a grave sinking in his heart—when William said, without even looking at him, “Lord Exeter will be Lord Warden of the Cinque Ports.”
No one seemed any more surprised than Dominic, although some few were displeased. Only Burghley nodded thoughtfully. “The French have good cause to remember Lord Exeter. They will be wary of facing him once again.”
Dominic wished he could believe that. The French might have to send ships to reach England, but there would be an army on those ships ready to land and march and only one man would be in command of that army—Renaud LeClerc. Who had been beaten once by having his own tactics turned against him by Dominic. Who had nearly been assassinated by an English arrow last autumn while under promise of safe conduct. Renaud wouldn’t be wary. Renaud would be spoiling for a fight.
For the first time since entering the council chamber, William looked directly at Dominic. “What say you, Lord Exeter? Will you lead England’s defenses for your king?”
In sardonic silence, Dominic thought, Well done, Will. How can I possibly say no when you put it like that? Aloud, he said, “I serve at your pleasure, Your Majesty.”
“That is well done,” Rochford cut in, his voice with a ragged edge of temper. “But we must discuss the precipitating event, Your Majesty. We must speak about Mistress Wyatt.”
“There is nothing to discuss.”
“There is everything to discuss! You cannot throw a common girl into the public eye in that inflammatory colour and then refuse to speak.”
“I cannot?”
The temperature dropped instantly. Every man seemed momentarily joined in awareness that they could argue and bluster and rage all they wanted—but the youngest man in the room was the one with all the power. It was almost as though the Duke of Northumberland’s headless body lurked in the corner as a reminder of what the king could do.
Bless Lord Burghley for his temperate instincts. Once again he moderated Rochford’s words. “Your Majesty, we wish only to serve you and England well. It is difficult to do so if we are kept in the dark about your intentions.”
Grudgingly, William said, “My intentions have never been more clear. I need a wife, and I will have none but Mistress Wyatt. There is nothing of substance can be said against her, and it is past time England has a royal marriage untainted by politics. It is not open for discussion.”
The hell it isn’t, Dominic thought. Because that’s
my
wife you’re talking about.
When the council meeting adjourned, Dominic was among the first to escape. Once, William would have expected him to remain behind. Now the king didn’t even notice when Dominic walked out with Rochford, who seemed glad of the chance to speak with him alone.
“What can we do to persuade William of the folly of dismissing the French so lightly?” Rochford asked urgently.
“I
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