“My Lady, a case of the sweat, in the kitchens at Windsor.”
“At Windsor?” asked Mountjoy, behind him.
“A maid, complaining of illness last night, was taken much worse this morning. The doctor has been with her and confirmed it as a case.”
Catherine became very still, understanding Henry’s response at once. It had been the dreaded sweating sickness which claimed his elder brother Arthur, Catherine’s own first husband, who had been destined for the throne. Outbreaks of the illness were common in the summer months, but the king had always been careful to avoid it, making up medicines, fleeing to the countryside and limiting contact with his court. But this was early. It was merely spring. The dangerous heat of summer had not yet arrived.
Henry had given up all thoughts of hunting. Now he strode into the room, fast after the messenger. Thomasin was shocked by the change in him. He seemed as a man with the devil at his heels. His face was white as a sheet.
“You heard?” He did not wait for Catherine to answer but continued at once. “You cannot return to Windsor. No one can. The risk is too great. All there must be quarantined.” He thought for a moment. “We are within easy ride of Hampton Court. Wolsey will shelter us. There is a straight road and we will be there before nightfall. Take these ladies, no one else, and have only necessary items sent on.”
“At once?” asked Catherine.
“At once, without delay.”
Catherine was very quiet.
“What is it?” he asked, agitated. “We must be on the road.”
“Will the cardinal be ready for us?”
His brows knit. He was a huge figure, in comparison with the diminutive Catherine. “The cardinal will do whatever I command.”
But Catherine would not relinquish her concern. “I fear that the cardinal is no friend of mine.”
“The cardinal will do his duty. He has no business doing otherwise. He will show you every respect or else he will vacate his palace and I shall lower him as far as I have raised him. Now, make ready to depart at once.”
Henry strode away and, as Catherine turned, Thomasin saw that her face was strangely content.
“My Lady?” The messenger had not yet delivered all his news.
“What is it?”
“The Venetians have left Windsor. They were told to remain, and wait for Your Highness’s permission, but they departed in haste, as soon as they heard the news.”
Nico’s golden eyes flashed in Thomasin’s mind again.
“So be it,” Catherine replied. “At least they went away unsatisfied. They will not be admitted to my presence again.”
“Very good, My Lady.”
“Now, send word back to the castle. Pack up only my necessaries and let them be dispatched for Hampton with three or four men who are in good health. Mountjoy,” she added, seeking her minister, “question them closely. Look into their eyes, feel their brows and the palms of their hands and see that their breath is sweet. Take no chances. And God be with you.”
“As you request, My Lady. And also with you.”
Below them, outside the gallery, they heard the horses whinnying and the clatter of hooves. Thomasin walked towards the viewing place, only to see the king and his men riding away.
EIGHT
Hampton Court. Even at a distance it was magnificent: red brick, turreted, sun gleaming in its rows of windows, glancing off its twisted chimney stacks. Small details on the rooftops were picked out in gold, and smoke streamed upwards from a dozen locations. A thread of burning wood reached them through the air.
Henry had ridden ahead with his men, their horses’ hooves kicking up the dust. The queen’s company followed at a slower pace, taking the path along the riverbank to avoid the villages. Despite the ribbons and bells that adorned the horses, the party made a dejected line of fears and doubts, consumed by the news of illness and this unexpected change to their plans. Thomasin struggled to believe that they would not be returning to Windsor as planned: what had started as a simple ride into the park, for a banquet in the hunting lodge, had resulted in this long, tiring journey. In an hour or so, the sun would be setting and Windsor was far away. She pictured it encircled by a miasma of illness, cloudy, opaque and penetrating.
Then, as she was lost in thought, Hampton Court had suddenly appeared on the opposite bank. Thomasin had never seen anything so entrancing, so like the ideal of her dreams, and found she could not tear her eyes away from it. Now she understood why people whispered behind their hands about Wolsey, repeating that little poem. The one written by the court poet John Skelton:
Why come ye not to court?
To which court?
