“Thank you, kindly,” More replied, “but we have secured lodgings in the town.”
“At much trouble,” added Dudley. “I had no idea Windsor would be so busy at this time of year.”
“You must come to our house in Chelsea,” said Margaret Roper, enclosing Thomasin in her arm. “And see our books, and let me take you round our garden. We had our friend, Herr Holbein stay with us last year; he is an artist, visiting from Germany, and he painted a portrait of us all. It would interest you greatly to see it.”
“He is quite a master, our Holbein,” smiled More. “He captures people, just so. I saw the portrait he made of Tom Elyot, and it was such a likeness it was as if you could reach out and touch him. Those dour cheeks he has, and the hair, just like Tom.”
“Dr Elyot?” asked Thomasin, recalling the man who had attended her mother during her illness last autumn. He had also been the one to make her the gift of a little scent bag, filled with mixed flowers and herbs, to wear beneath her clothes. She smiled to think of it now, believing that it might help her ensnare a wealthy husband.
“The same,” nodded More, leaning upon his daughter. “Such a distinctive face, such meat for Holbein. I hear he is going for Archbishop Warham next, and that will be a challenge.”
Thomasin had never seen the archbishop they mentioned, but their tone led her to believe he must be a character.
“He is quite ancient!” added More, by way of explanation. “Born before the conflicts of York and Lancaster, and almost eighty, so Hans will have to paint the whole of history in his face.”
“We should depart,” replied Margaret, “or else the whole of history will be apparent in my face on the morrow.”
“Never,” replied her husband, William. “You must rise fresh and new as a girl, because I cannot afford to summon Mister Holbein for another sitting.”
The company laughed.
“And you have letters to write tomorrow,” added More. “Now that the queen has agreed to write on our behalf, we cannot renege on our side of the bargain.” He turned to Thomasin. “We are trying to encourage Erasmus to return to England, so we can benefit again from his wisdom. We are all writing our pleas to try and entice him to leave Freiburg and cross the sea again. My motives are purely selfish, of course. I long to debate with him on the topic of free will.”
“Free will?”
“The ability of souls to make their own choices, but that will have to be for another occasion, I am afraid, as the hour advances and we must bid you goodnight.”
“Yes, goodnight,” smiled Thomasin, “it was a pleasure to see you all again,” but the words resonated with her. Free will, the choice to direct your own life, was a subject she had given much thought to previously. A subject she found both exciting and dangerous.
“We hope you will visit, when the queen allows you,” smiled Dudley from behind.
“Shh! You will get me into trouble. You must not even hint at any reluctance. I am lucky to be here.”
More and the young people exchanged glances.
“The queen is a good mistress,” More replied, “so long as you are content.”
“I am,” replied Thomasin, truthfully. Even though she sometimes felt constrained, she was not ready to leave Catherine’s employment. “I know how fortunate I am to be here.”
“You miss your family? They are well, I trust? Especially your mother?”
Thomasin nodded. “I do. I miss Suffolk too. This is the longest I have been away from them all, but my sister Cecilia writes that they are all well and that Mother’s health improves daily.”
“That is good news indeed,” More smiled. “Please send them our fond love in your next letter.”
“Thank you, I will do so.”
“And more good news to come, I think,” added Margaret, “when we hear of Giles’s betrothal being announced.”
The name gave Thomasin pause.
“Giles?”
“Yes, you remember Sir Giles Waterson? It is rumoured at court that he is soon to become betrothed in marriage. It only wants the bride’s acceptance.”
Of course Thomasin remembered her friend, with his easy laugh and the kindness and attention he had shown her and her family last autumn. She remembered the meals when she had sat beside him and they’d fired their wit against each other, and their walk in the garden at Monk’s Place, when he had confided in her about his sad past, the loss of his wife in childbed. It had been Sir Giles who helped them when Cecilia’s marriage fell through, after her liaison with Will Hatton was exposed, and Giles who rode with Thomasin to Windsor, bidding her farewell in the great hall, on a dark November day. And suddenly, she felt a pang of loss for his chatter.
“Yes,” she replied softly, “I remember him. Who is his chosen bride?”
