He eyed them with quiet caution, tempered by last autumn’s events. “I do.”
They waited, but no more came.
Catherine straightened her spine. “I trust you are well, My Lord?”
“Very well. I was seized by the desire to hunt in these good woodlands,” Henry continued, brightening up and indicating the greenness behind him with the spread of his arm. “So we rode apace for the pleasure.”
“We are most happy to welcome you to Windsor,” replied Catherine, bowing low, speaking formally. “Your presence honours us. We have come to wish you a happy day’s hunting and hope that you will accept our invitation to dine at the castle tonight. Your chambers are being prepared.”
Henry inclined his head slightly, as if in agreement, but not speaking to confirm his intentions. “You are gracious and thoughtful, as ever.”
Thomasin looked at the small company of men emerging from the lodge behind the king. She recognised his close companion, the slight, dark-haired William Compton, his Groom of the Stool, who best knew his secrets, and beside him, William Carey, married to Anne Boleyn’s sister, tanned from being in the saddle. Next to emerge was Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, the king’s brother-in-law, an excellent rider and, after Henry himself, the best jouster in the field, always eager for action. Two other young men followed, unknown to Thomasin, but then she caught her breath at the sight of a third emerging: an easy-going, well-built man with a shock of very fair hair. She had not thought to see Sir William Hatton again so soon, and could have wished against such an encounter, had she the choice. His bright smile faded a little as he recognised her among the queen’s ladies.
It was barely four months since it had happened. No, not even so many as that. The Marwood family had come up to London for the wedding of Cecilia, the eldest daughter, to Sir Henry Kytson, a worthy man with estates not too far from their own home of Eastwell, just over the Suffolk border. The match had been arranged by the mothers, in correspondence, and received the blessing of the king. The families had met in London, and Cecilia had found her worthy husband to be a little more plain than she had wished, but this would have been of no account, had her head not been turned by the charms of Hatton.
He had wooed the impressionable girl, won her, had his fun with her, all in the space of a mere two weeks, and then denied her, when she wished to elope with him. Cecilia had returned to her family, broken-hearted and resigned to the match with Kytson, but by that time, it was too late. The whispering tongues at court had done their worst. Kytson did not want a tainted bride. And so she’d returned to Suffolk with Lord and Lady Marwood, unmarried and disgraced, when she should have been starting her life as the wife of a worthy knight.
It had been a bitter episode for them all. And now here, amid the sunshine of the forest, returned to the king’s side, was the author of their woes. Hatton grinned, running his hand through his hair, looking for all the world as if nothing ailed him.
Thomasin looked away, unable to bring herself to lay eyes upon him a moment longer.
“Will you walk inside?” invited Henry. “You may partake of the banquet and watch from the gallery as we hunt.”
Thomasin followed Catherine, her stomach churning with fury. Hatton, here, so soon returned to favour while her sister’s life lay in ruins. She had to pause and catch her breath halfway up the winding staircase.
“Are you well?” asked Ellen, who was behind her.
“You saw who it was?” Thomasin whispered back, clawing onto the stone step before her.
“I did. The cheek of him! But hold in your anger.”
On the first floor, a table was spread with cakes and pastries, wafers and marchpane, oranges, apples and quinces, and dishes of comfits. Jugs of Hippocras wine stood waiting to be poured. But Catherine threw a cursory eye over it and went straight out onto the open gallery. From there, the view stretched away in glorious colour, with the castle turrets visible beyond the trees and, just below them, the men’s horses were tethered, in their bright trappings.
“It is a good day for it,” said Will Compton, squinting as he looked out, “a good, dry, bright day, with little wind. I hear the hunting is currently good in the park.”
“The forest has not been disturbed for months,” agreed Catherine. “There will be plenty of deer for you.”
“And I trust Your Highness is in good health?” asked Compton.
Catherine shot him a look. Compton had been known in the past to facilitate the king’s romances, although his question seemed genuine enough. “I am quite well, thank you.”
William Hatton was heading for the banquet, his eyes greedy. Thomasin made a start towards him but Ellen’s hand fell upon her arm.
“Do not say anything troublesome.”
“I cannot say nothing.”
“But choose your words with wisdom. He will get what he deserves in time.”
Thomasin felt her hands shaking. She approached slowly and stood behind him as he picked at a dish of fruit. And those evenings came back to her, when he had sat at the table in her uncle Russell’s house and eaten his food, making merry, smiling and drinking, whilst all the time he was a serpent in the garden.
He felt her eyes upon his broad back and turned. “Pardon me, Mistress, I did not see you there.”
“I am surprised to see you at all, William Hatton. Surprised that you dare show your face here. You have not forgotten who I am; to whom I am related?”
He dropped his amicable air, and attempted to pass by her. “Of course I know you, Thomasin Marwood.”
“And that is all you have to say to me? To my family? To my sister, whom you ruined?”
