Cecilia nodded but made no reply. Suddenly Thomasin realised what she really wanted to know, but dared not ask.
“I did see him, once or twice. He was in the king’s company, but I made sure our paths crossed as little as possible. The queen was cold to him in her manner, so he kept away.” She did not mention the conversation between Hatton and their father. “Do you think you would ever like to return?”
Cecilia lifted her arm so that her sister might walk underneath. “I might. When the time is right.”
The group then formed a large circle and the tempo of the song changed to a lively beat as they stepped to the side. Some were singing along, others almost galloping until they were pulled around the circle, and ended up collapsing in laughter.
“I dare you to dance like that back at court,” laughed Ellen, looking on.
With a flush of heat, July arrived. In the fields around Eastwell, the crops grew tall and sheep nibbled lazily at grass. The sun beamed down on the pond where Digby sailed his boats, filling it with lily pads like floating islands, and the odd treasure of a spiky lily. It warmed the hard little apples and pears growing in rows in the orchard, so that they swelled and began to soften, ready for the table.
Day after day, the heat began to climb, so that the best times were the fresh early hours and the cool evenings. Accustomed to the habit and the light, Thomasin would often wake at dawn and lie listening to the birds in the park, calling, cooing and saluting the sun. On the third or fourth day of the month, she stretched and yawned, as a blackbird summoned his mate in the bushes outside, thinking how glad she was not to have to rise and tie the queen’s laces or kneel behind her in the chapel.
She must have dozed again, for the next thing she was aware of was a knocking at the door and Ellen calling her name.
“What is it?” She propped herself up on one elbow and squinted into the room.
“Can I come in?”
“Yes, yes.”
Ellen was wearing a simple smock and cap, her sleeves rolled up where she had been playing with the children or helping in the kitchens. She had developed a friendship with the family’s old cook, and was often scurrying about seeking herbs or begging to knead bread. Just yesterday, she and Lady Elizabeth had bottled up the first crop of strawberries.
Today, though, Ellen’s face was serious.
“Letters for us, from Gertrude.”
Thomasin was awake at once.
“Two came together. They must have been held up, I think.”
“Come, come, open them.”
Ellen sat on the edge of Thomasin’s bed and cracked the seals. She quickly read the first line of each then chose one. “Yes, this is the first. It is dated two weeks back, though.” She scanned it quickly. “I will give you the gist, then we can both take our time to read them fully. So, the queen and all her ladies are well. They are currently staying in an abbey in the country. The king is well, but no news of Wolsey. Oh, Thomasin, Anne Boleyn and her father have the sweat!”
She looked up in surprise, then quickly returned. “They both have it, and are ill at their home at Hever in Kent, but the king has sent his physician to do what he can for them. My goodness, what if she is taken by the illness? What a change there would be then. All the others there are well. Oh, there is something more. Oh, Charles Collins has died.” Her breath caught. “We knew he had it, from Hugh’s last letter, but Gertrude writes that they heard at court this morning that he worsened and then died, just after John the Baptist’s day. Almost two weeks since. Oh, poor Charles.”
She put down the letter. “There is only more about the abbey and the queen. Oh, that is sad news.”
“It is very sad,” agreed Thomasin, thinking of the young man’s happy manners and easy smile. “He was a man who gave no trouble, a gentleman, quiet but sincere.”
“I must write to Hugh. I wonder if he knows. He must, I think, but he will be greatly saddened. They had become good friends these past months.”
“Where was he, when he passed?”
“Hold on.” Ellen consulted the letter again, then read aloud. “Charles had remained at Hampton when the king moved away, as he was already showing signs of illness, and we heard by letter this morning that God has called him to His side.”
“It is hard to understand,” said Thomasin, “why some succumb and others survive. I am eternally grateful to you, and to God, for having pulled through my illness, but it is a mystery.”
“And Anne?” said Ellen. “I should read the second letter and see what Gertrude has to say next. It was written only three days ago, so most recent news.”
Her eyes ran down the page. As Thomasin watched, her expression seemed to change.
“What is it? What? You must tell me.”
“Anne has recovered. She has risen from her bed and is much stronger. Her father, though, is still weak but appears to be past the worst. And, you will never believe it, Wolsey is also coming through it. So all seems well there, although I just cannot fathom why it should be so. Gertrude writes that they are to move on to a priory tomorrow and that the queen has been in good spirits, although she received the news about Anne in silence.”
Ellen looked up. “I don’t doubt it. Poor Catherine, it must have felt as if God was answering her prayers. How easily it might have gone the other way, had it been Anne not Charles who was taken. It certainly is beyond my understanding. She writes more about Catherine; she is always at prayer and has endowed a new shrine to Our Lady, and she has been off her food a little and troubled by headaches. She speaks of returning to Windsor after the summer and hopes that Cardinal Campeggio will prove amenable to her cause. Now she breaks off, because they are to pack up the queen’s belongings, ready for departure.”
