Thomasin approached gingerly. “My Lord? Are you quite well?”
He turned, a little startled to see her, trying to read her face in the gloom.
“It’s Thomasin Marwood, the queen’s gentlewoman.”
“Ah,” he nodded, “yes.”
“Can I bring you anything, my Lord?”
“Not unless you have a new pair of legs to swap for these old ones. I am a martyr to the gout.”
Thomasin saw he had arranged himself on gold cushions.
“Are you not more comfortable in bed, my Lord?”
“I will be, shortly. It is getting there that is the problem.”
“Shall I send for some assistance? Two of the men for you to lean upon?”
He put out a hand. “Perhaps, in a moment. This country will be the death of me. Some days I fear I will never get home to my native Castile, to feel the sun on my face again.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“You know it is only my second winter here? I was imprisoned by the French and held under house arrest in London last year, with guards standing outside the front door, refusing to let me send or receive letters. It was only fear of the emperor that finally made the king order my release. Can you believe it?”
Thomasin fidgeted from one foot to the other. “I am truly sorry for it, my Lord.”
“I grow too old and too tired for these troublesome politics. Now I hear that heretic Tyndale is being discussed at the English court, with his ungodly translation of the Bible, because he is favoured by the harlot.”
Thomasin realised he was speaking of Anne Boleyn and blushed.
Mendoza shook his head. “I will write to the emperor and ask to be recalled.”
“I shall fetch two gentlemen, my Lord, to assist you to your chamber, with as much haste as I can.”
Thomasin headed towards the kitchen, which was the best place to find someone still awake to assist the bishop. Servants were running final errands, fetching wine and snuffing candles. Some of the stable lads were hanging about the kitchen door, begging for scraps and drinking ale, sitting on the steps. Thomasin recognised one or two she knew by name.
“Ned, Martin, Bishop Mendoza is in the hall, in need of assistance. He suffers from the gout and needs to be supported to his chamber. Can you go to him?”
Ned, a tall boy with long limbs, jumped up. “We’ll go at once. In the hall, you say?”
“In the alcove, thank you.”
The lads hurried away and Thomasin turned back to the kitchen. Odours from the meal still lingered in the air, but they were coupled with the clean freshness of soapy water and the night air.
Cook nodded when Thomasin asked for something to quench her thirst, handing over a cup of small beer, weak and sweet, but most welcome. She wiped her mouth and prepared to head back to the queen’s chamber.
“My Lady?”
She recognised the soft voice. He had been standing with a group in the doorway but broke away from them now to join her in the corridor. Moonlight glinted on his golden laces and silver buttons.
He was a guest of the queen. Courtesy dictated that she stop. He came towards her, lithe yet strong, golden eyes fixed on her.
“You never told me your name, mistress.”
Should she? He would be gone tomorrow. Did it matter?
“Otherwise to whom am I to send my gifts?”
