ONE
1528
The sun fell warmly upon Thomasin Marwood’s back. She paused on the path, curving her lips into a smile, feeling those welcome rays blossom through the dark silk of her bodice. Spring was coming. Glorious, green, warm spring. It had to arrive eventually, but how long it had taken. How good it felt now, how hopeful, like the first spring ever.
It was four months since Thomasin’s arrival at Windsor. At the age of seventeen, she had been accepted into the household of Queen Catherine of Aragon, to help wait upon the lady who had shown her family such kindness.
It was certainly a change from what she was used to. The ancient grey castle was a stark contrast to the rolling green fields and orchards of Suffolk, where she had spent almost all her youth. The rest of her family had returned there, after a brief visit to court last November, when her sister’s intended marriage had failed.
Sometimes Thomasin envied them, sitting before the fire in the great hall or seeing the snow lightly dust the roof and chimneys of her beloved Eastwell Hall. Their letters were frequent, and had brought her great comfort. Her mother Elizabeth’s health was improving and her father Richard had been newly elected as a Justice of the Peace, and was busy presiding over the local courts. The younger children were thriving and her elder sister Cecilia, Mother wrote, was healing her broken heart by taking long walks and plying her needle in embroidery. Thomasin had smiled at that. It hardly sounded like the Cecilia she had known, but the last few months had changed them all.
Thomasin turned to face the sun. It was a harsh, unforgiving sort of light. She screwed up her brown eyes, lifted her pert little chin. Queen Catherine had once described her beauty as earthy, like that of a milkmaid, brown as a nut or berry. Thomasin did not object to such backhanded compliments. It was pleasant to be noticed by the queen, and such words were often accompanied by a request to come and play cards, or to sing, or brush out Catherine’s long hair, to help the long days pass.
Shadows moved before Thomasin’s eyes, making her blink with the sudden contrast. Dark then light, dazzlingly so. She shaded her eyes with her hand, looking up to see her cousin, Ellen.
“Look, look here.” Ellen was holding out a tiny flower, its creamy yellow petals crumpled between her fingers. “The first primrose!”
Thomasin smiled, but despite the sunshine, she shivered.
Windsor could hardly be described as warm. Or exciting. Neither she nor Ellen had known what it was going to be like when they accepted the placement with such enthusiasm. All they had in comparison was the king’s court, the glittering, heady, intoxicating whirl of life that centred around Henry VIII and his beloved, the controversial Anne Boleyn.
Thomasin could not deny that she had felt at her most alive in those weeks, dressed in gold, dancing by candlelight, with Sir Henry Norris’s arm around her waist. Yet there had been things said and done, such cruelty and games played, that the thought of them turned her stomach. There had been too many secrets, too much heartbreak, and such painful revelations, which stung her to the core. By the end of the Marwoods’ stay in London in October, Thomasin had been questioning everything: her family, her past, her very self, her nature.
Catherine’s court was a world away from Anne Boleyn’s. Quiet, modest, dignified. Yet sometimes, it was a little lifeless, barren even, although Thomasin would never dare voice such a thought.
During the long winter months, they had been cooped up inside the castle like cattle, stifling at the fireside or shivering in the corridor, the sun rising late and slinking away before the afternoon had taken hold. Huddled in their furs, they had played cards, read aloud together, sung songs of happier times. They’d hurried across the courtyard into the chapel at early morning or evensong, the darkness lit by tapers.
The season had bitten deep. Snow had piled in drifts against the walls and icicles hung off the castle stones. Ponds and puddles froze solid. But now, at last, there was a sweetness in the air. Even in this little half-moon garden, in the lea of the Round Tower, the warm light spilled over the clipped hedges, paths and flowerbeds.
“This way,” called Ellen. “They’re here.”
Thomasin seized her blue velvet and tawny silk skirts and picked her way along the path towards her cousin. She passed between the topiary birds, looking rather threadbare now, and turned sharp right to hug the inside of the castle wall, which offered a little shelter from the wind.
Ellen was pointing down at the ground. Following her gaze, Thomasin saw the shy faces of primroses starting to unfold, making pale yellow stars against the soil. The newly gravelled path was hard under her soft-soled shoes; shoes which had been new when she’d arrived at court last autumn, and were now worn down by stone steps and wooden boards, with barely any outside use. The silk dress had been new too, a gift from Queen Catherine, and far better quality than any she had owned before. The hint of warm orange-brown tawny was welcome, although Catherine generally liked her ladies to wear sombre tones.
“Ah, the primroses are about to open.”
“Look, there, see their little faces.” Ellen pointed to the soil, with something like a smile.
It lifted Thomasin’s heart, knowing the heaviness her cousin carried in her breast. Poor young Ellen, with her round, innocent face, had been so enchanted with court life, with the king and queen, ribbons and weddings. She had been five years married to Thomasin’s cousin, Barnaby Russell, with a considerable estate outside Buxton, but last November, her world had come crashing down. Now Barnaby had returned north in disgrace, while Ellen’s own sister, Dorothy, was set to deliver his child.
Thomasin placed a gentle hand upon her arm. “You found them. Spring is almost here and then the queen will travel. We shall have such adventures, meet new people.”
“I hope you are right,” Ellen whispered, managing a brief smile. “I need new company, new friends.”
“You know I am right,” replied Thomasin, with optimism. “We are all in need of new company.” And they came again: the deep, rich, brown eyes with their tapering lashes. She quickly shrugged off the memory. It was no good thinking of Rafe Danvers, the man who had captivated her last autumn. He was gone now. Gone for good.
Ellen laced her arm through Thomasin’s. “Come, let’s walk.”
Small birds rose up from the bushes ahead, flying to safety on top of the thick surrounding walls. Sparrows, perhaps, or dunnocks, maybe a pair of wrens. Thomasin wished she had some crumbs to throw to them. Instead, her eye lighted on a patch of colour.
“Oh, look there, under the vine, is that a bluebell?”
They hurried forward together. The small, shy bells with curling edges were just braving the air.
“Yes, bluebells!” Thomasin smiled to see her old favourites again. They would be lining the paths at Eastwell right now, their delicate shapes swaying in the soft Suffolk air.
“The vines will be in bud again within weeks,” Ellen noted, following the sturdy trunk upwards with her eyes.
