She was admirable, thought Thomasin; regal, authoritative and yet considerate, even under such duress.
“My Lady, you have my word. All here is clean and wholesome; at the slightest murmur of any illness, you will be the first I inform.”
She inclined her head gracefully, and they followed Wolsey into dinner.
The great hall was more elegant than that at Windsor or Westminster. Both were older buildings, designed with defence in mind, their inhabitants existing inside thick stone walls which the sunlight hardly penetrated. Hampton Court was a new creation, not yet twenty years old, drawn up from renaissance chateaux Wolsey had seen on the continent. The hall was spacious, and light streamed down from the lines of windows above. Below them hung tapestries depicting hunting scenes, all below a carved wooden hammerbeam ceiling. To the right of the dais ahead, a long oriel window was set back in a recess, flooding the top table with multicoloured light. Henry sat in the centre, while his men had placed themselves on one side of a lower trestle table.
The king rose when he saw Catherine approach. His gentlemen hurried to their feet and bowed in deference.
“We give thanks to the Lord that you have arrived safe and well. Come, sit and eat. You must be tired after the long journey. We will be safe here, until this pestilence passes.”
Thomasin was surprised by the warmth of his welcome. Catherine also seemed to be appreciative of his words. The sweat always brought out his insecurities.
“Thank you, My Lord, my good husband, for your kind attentions.”
If Henry noticed her inclusion of their relationship, he chose to ignore it and beckoned her forward to a seat on the dais. Thomasin, Ellen, Gertrude and Maria were faced by a table that already contained the king’s closest friends: his games-master William Compton, Anne Boleyn’s brother-in-law, William Carey, his own sister’s husband, Charles Brandon and the disgraceful William Hatton, grinning under his mop of fair hair. Beside them, the new men: red-haired Hugh Truegood and the slight, soft-haired Charles Cotton.
Mountjoy urged them to be seated, but Ellen knew that Thomasin could not stomach being close to Hatton, so at the last minute she signalled to her cousin to wait, and they swapped places. Thomasin found herself to be opposite Brandon and Compton instead, and thanked Ellen with grateful eyes. Nor could she resist turning them briefly upon the king, still in his riding habit and jewelled cap. Henry’s face was serious, unreadable.
The humble fare which Wolsey had described as having been found at short notice, proved to be a rich side of venison, jugged hare, stewed pork with prunes, chickens in saffron and beef patties. Suddenly, Thomasin found herself hungry. They had departed the hunting lodge without partaking of the banquet that had been prepared for them, so had eaten little but bread and wine on the road. Ellen, too, ate with appetite.
“It’s almost like old times,” said a voice opposite, softly.
Seated opposite, Brandon looked across at her and smiled.
She was disposed to like his broad, handsome face, but recalled the occasion of Cecilia’s failed wedding, when he had swept past her without a word. Still, she reasoned, a dignified silence was better than the mockery they had received at the hands of Thomas Boleyn.
“Old times?” asked Compton beside him, with his laughing eyes.
Brandon nodded towards the top table. “King and queen, husband and wife, dining together in peace. As it was before that woman came along.”
Thomasin was surprised, but knew she had to tread carefully. She bit her tongue.
Compton spoke instead, dismissively, between mouthfuls. “It is well known that you are no admirer of the Lady Anne, Charles.”
Brandon turned his pale blue eyes towards them. Thomasin took in his lined, weather-beaten face with its thick, square beard, a veteran of many military campaigns. “All that men admire in her is mere glitter and masques. I was there when Queen Catherine arrived in England from Spain, a girl of fifteen. She and my Mary were close companions in the old king’s court. I was there when she married Arthur, and when she returned to London as a widow. I was there when she married Henry and when we buried the children she bore him. What is more admirable than two decades of devotion?”
Thomasin was deeply impressed by his loyalty.
“Those are the things that matter,” he continued, “not some young chit with her fancy ways from France. She has changed him. Put ideas into his head that Henry would never have dreamed up alone, not the old Henry, anyway.”
“The king has changed?”
“The world has changed,” said Brandon. “In the last decade. I rode beside Henry when he met King Francis at the Field of Cloth of Gold, when Catherine dined with Queen Claude, God rest her soul, and that pert Boleyn madam was a translator, working for the French to earn her bread.”
Thomasin looked to the top table where Henry was passing a dish to Catherine, helping her most gently.
She dared to ask the question that was in her mind. “Do you think there is a chance for reconciliation?”
Brandon shrugged. “The king has had his head turned. But it is not the first time. What affects him most is the woman’s presence. Keeping her constantly by his side causes the damage. If she was somehow prevented from attending court, he may forget her in time, and the queen could use her gentle good graces to remind him of happier times.”
“You think that would work? Out of sight and out of mind?”
“So long as the king thinks the idea was his own. Some more amenable young woman could be found to slip into his bed and distract him. Remind him of his true calling.”
“Is that all?”
Brandon looked at her sharply. “All? What do you mean?”
