“That is all. Except…”
“Yes, My Lady?”
Catherine sighed. “I do not trust the cardinal. I believe him behind the ambassadors’ visit to Windsor. He wishes to learn my secrets, even to entrap me. We must be vigilant. Share nothing with him.”
“Of course,” Mountjoy nodded.
Catherine turned to her ladies. “That goes for all. Speak to no one but those you trust.”
“Yes, my lady,” said Thomasin, in chorus with Ellen, Gertrude and Maria.
“Good, that is understood. That is all.”
Mountjoy bowed. “Then I shall bid you a goodnight. I go now to meet with Wolsey to discuss our needs over the coming weeks. I shall guard my tongue most carefully and keep my ears open.”
His final words resonated in Thomasin’s mind. Weeks? They could remain here at Hampton Court for weeks, shut away from the world, receiving no visitors due to fears about the pestilence. No ambassadors, no friends. Could this be worse than Windsor?
As Mountjoy was leaving the room, he passed the Duke of Suffolk entering. Brandon strode in boldly, his blue eyes glinting in his tanned face. “My Lady.”
Catherine beckoned him forward. “Be seated,” she invited him. “Drink some wine with me. Where is the king this evening?”
Brandon took the seat opposite her and accepted the glass that Ellen brought him. There was something in his manner, in his ease with his own body, in the air that he projected that spoke of great physical confidence. He was certainly dignified, powerful, even royal, although it did not run in his veins. He was a few years older than the king, in his mid-forties by now.
“The king is writing letters,” he replied.
“Writing?” Catherine was surprised. “Not dictating as usual?”
The king’s usual practice was to dictate his correspondence to a clerk, unless they were personal letters.
Brandon looked uncomfortable and tried to deflect her question. “He is about his letters, I believe.”
Catherine looked thoughtful. She played with her wine glass. “I suppose his usual clerk is not here. And yet I wonder to whom he takes the time to write.”
Brandon stared into the flames and pretended not to hear. “He awaits news from Rome, I know that much. Bishop Foxe is meeting with the Pope to discuss…”
“I know what they will discuss,” replied Catherine, bitterly, “the legality of our marriage. My husband need not send the bishop to Rome, when he knows the answer in his heart.”
“Hopefully Foxe will return with the answers you seek. And that might be an end of it.”
“Foxe is not alone, though. Garrrdiner is with him.” She rolled out the r sound in his name, like a dog growling.
Maria understood her at once. “A pox upon that man. How can a bishop be so ungodly?” She looked at Brandon. “You know I named my dog after him.”
“Ha, did you indeed!” Brandon was genuinely amused.
“Come,” Catherine called, nodding. “Remove my headdress.”
Thomasin and Ellen stepped up behind her chair, and Catherine straightened her spine to help them. Working their deft fingers through her hair, they pulled out the pins and gently lifted the contraption from her head. Underneath, she wore a white cap, hugging close to her skull. The long red hair coiled beneath was tinged with grey. Thomasin had noted, only last week, as she’d brushed out those locks, just how thin and fine they were becoming, and how many hairs were shed upon the brush.
“Oh, I quite forgot.” Brandon reached inside his doublet. “I bring you a letter from Mary.”
“Mary?” Her eyes lit up at once, thinking of her daughter, far away in the Welsh Marches, in her establishment at Ludlow.
“Duchess Mary,” he said softly, holding out the letter, meaning his wife. “She sends you her continuing love and loyalty.”
Catherine took it between finger and thumb. “I am most grateful to receive it.” She dandled the missive in her lap for a moment, her eyes distant. Then, in a low voice, she asked, “Is there any more news?”
“Nothing from court, My Lady. All is quiet at Westminster.”
