“That’s the secret,” Margaret said, raising her eyebrows. “He will neither confirm nor deny the rumours, so the whole court is guessing. He is currently in the north, attending to business there for the king.”
Thomasin realised she had not seen Giles lately. He had attended the queen’s court at Christmas, and once after that, to dine in the hall, but otherwise he had kept away. She hadn’t even thought about it, assuming him to be busy. It seemed there was another reason.
“Come then,” said Dudley, “we are starting to shiver and must proceed to our lodgings. We really must bid you farewell and hope to see you soon.”
As they were climbing into the carriage, Margaret first, helped up by her doting Will, More beckoned Thomasin closer.
“Good Lady Thomasin, I was unsure whether I should speak to you on this before I depart, but the moment has resolved that I must. I saw your father last week, at Westminster, in the company of Thomas Cromwell. He looked in good health. I am sure there is nothing amiss, but from our conversation this evening, I thought you may be unaware. Please forgive me if I have overstepped the mark.”
The news sent Thomasin into confusion. “Father? At court? You are sure it was him?”
“I am. I passed him and he greeted me by name, as I did him. I saw that he wished to speak with me, but Cromwell required him. I am sorry for any confusion I have created.”
“When was this?”
“Two weeks since, maybe more, but as I said, he was in good health.”
“And good spirits?”
More shrugged. “He was with Cromwell. It is enough to make anyone sombre.”
“Are you coming, sir?” Dudley called from the carriage.
More looked over his shoulder. “I must be going. I am sure your father will write to you, unless he visits you in person.” He swiftly took up her hand and kissed it. “You are looking well, dear Thomasin. It is a pleasure to see you, as always. Dwell not upon my news; I am sure it means nothing. Throw yourself into the service of the queen, and we will speak before long.”
Thomasin watched the carriage draw away. Thomas More’s words resounded in her ears. Father, at court, with Cromwell? The thought sat uneasily with her. And Giles remarrying. It was right that he find happiness, after the loss of his first wife. She must push any lingering thoughts of him aside and wish him joy with his new wife. Undoubtedly, he would prove an excellent husband.
Ellen was standing in the doorway as Thomasin returned to the hall.
“The queen is tired. She has withdrawn; come quickly, we are to put her to bed.”
They passed swiftly back through the hall, where the final dance was taking place and the empty plates were being carried out. At the far end, Catherine had deserted the chair of state. It stood empty, save for a pile of golden cushions, the red and yellow drapes behind embroidered with the arms of England, Aragon and Castile.
As she followed Ellen, heading towards the queen’s private chambers, Thomasin noticed Vernier, standing a little to the side. He was staring intently at the chair, inching closer, and at once Thomasin sensed he was minded to sit in it, to try it out, in Catherine’s absence.
He looked up and caught her eye. His gaze betrayed his intention, filling her with indignation at his audacity.
“Do not!” she said with quiet force. “Do not touch it. It is treason to do so.”
The Venetian bowed low and slipped away, without meeting her eyes again.
FIVE
It was not yet midnight. Thomasin paused in Catherine’s antechamber. Moonlight filtered through the carved screen. It fell in patterns across the velvet bed curtains, across the tiled floor and the smouldering grate. The last coals glowed orange, and the scent of snuffed candles still lingered in the air.
After bedding Catherine down, both Mary and Ellen were stretched out on truckle beds, lone ships mid-floor, as the hours of the night slipped by. Thomasin, Catherine and Gertrude had their beds in the adjoining room. They were not uncomfortable, with their wooden frames and knotted ropes, and horse hair mattresses on top, but neither were they soft, and the women often woke stiff and sore.
Sleep would not come. Thomasin found herself thirsty after the heady Spanish wine, her mouth dry, her mind racing on her father. Catherine’s restlessness certainly didn’t help. Through the partition, Catherine could be heard fidgeting and turning, muttering prayers and reliving memories. She had drunk her medicinal draughts, sat patiently as her ladies rubbed her with ointments and brushed out her greying hair, compliant as they unlaced her gown, but with melancholy in her eyes. Once, Catherine would have stayed up into the early hours, dancing and feasting, and it was hard to think of those past times, with a doting husband at her side. Seeing her faded face, hearing her mournful sigh, Thomasin could not help but think how cruel it was that time had slipped away unobserved. One minute a beloved wife, the next a burden, undesired, unsought.
For a while, Thomasin lay awake, listening to the sounds of the castle. Distant horse hoofs reached her, and men’s voices, then the clatter of feet and the scrape of metal in the direction of the kitchen. Windsor was still not quiet, even though the queen was abed. She let thirst guide her and slipped out of the room.
The corridor outside was still. Four guards in livery were stationed here, standing still and alert, turning their eyes upon her.
“I’m thirsty,” she explained.
Knowing her face, none of them challenged her; one nodded her on.
Thomasin was passing through the hall when she noticed a figure sitting in the corner. Bishop Mendoza was wrapped in a cloak, gazing out of the window.
