The king turned, his eyes shot through with tension. “You would be better praying for guidance, Madam, but I will be out riding.”
Without another word, Henry swept out of the room. The door banged behind him and the flaming brackets on the wall nearby flickered in the draught.
Catherine let out a sigh. One hand upon the back of her chair, she seemed to collapse before their eyes, shrinking and drawing into herself. Her knuckles whitened. Her shoulders shook.
After a moment, she turned to her women. “I will retire. Prepare my bed, prepare my clothes.”
Thomasin and Ellen jumped up at once, hurrying to smooth down the sheets and plump up the satin pillows on the large bed. The great white and gold curtains were tied in loops at each of the four corners, in knots that had not been touched in weeks, maybe months.
Brandon moved close to Catherine, speaking in soft tones. “He is troubled. He lashes out at you because he cannot see a solution and he is afraid.”
“I know it,” Catherine replied. “But he is both my familiar husband and a stranger. You saw how he was when he arrived; the oranges and walnuts, just like his old self.”
“He is torn in two directions. I pray that God will guide him.”
“As will I. Sometimes I still think there is hope. If only we can use these weeks to reconnect, to remind ourselves of how things used to be, and what God’s plan is for us. But the hour advances, I must to bed. I am almost asleep on my feet.”
Brandon took his leave. Thomasin and the others helped Catherine to undress and climb into her bed, although none of them believed she would rest easy.
It was late when Thomasin and Ellen finally lay down on the truckle beds on the floor. The embers were dying in the grate and the palace was silent. Even more silent than Windsor, where the sounds of feet and voices had permeated the darkness.
The air in the chamber was thick, from having been closed up so long, and with the presence of sleepers. Catherine’s breathing was erratic and Thomasin heard her bed creak as she turned onto her side. Ellen was still, as were Maria Willoughby and Gertrude, who had joined them. Lying on the end bed, under the window, Thomasin caught a little of the light behind the curtains, with that strange luminous silver tone that suggested a full moon. She thought of the oranges and walnuts lying untouched on the table.
In the darkness, her mind drifted back home to Suffolk, among the apple blossom, then to the little chamber where she had slept as a child, with its view over the sheep fields. She wondered if Cecilia was walking in the woods again, finding the first flowers, watching the new lambs. Then she pictured them all at table, in the great hall in the evening, the crackling fire and the slow creep up the winding stairs to the little bedroom. The view over the treetops…
Suddenly, she was wide awake again. Back at Hampton Court, listening keenly to the still night. There was the noise. A sob, light and muffled, followed by another, then a third.
“What is that?”
The sound had woken Ellen too. They listened and it came again.
“The queen,” Thomasin realised. “She is crying in her sleep.”
TEN
The morning hung heavily upon them. White clouds banked up behind the twisted chimney stacks as Catherine and her ladies made their way back from the little chapel towards the gardens. Catherine looked regal as ever, Thomasin noted, in a gown of grey velvet slashed with carmine and strings of pearls about her throat. No one else would guess she had woken late, after a troubled night of tossing and turning, and had taken no food to break her fast yet.
Thomasin followed her slow progress, grateful to be outdoors. There was no mistaking the change in the season: a real hope of spring in the air, fresh with the scents of greenery and burgeoning life. The world was waking, but it was still waiting, tentative, wondering whether it was safe to bloom again.
As they crossed the courtyard with its dazzling brickwork, there was not a soul to be seen. Thomasin ran her eyes along the first-floor windows of the great hall, searching the doorways and corridors where servants should be scuttling with baskets and brooms. It seemed strange that such a large, impressive palace should be so devoid of people and activity, so still and quiet. Thomasin thought back to the masque she had once attended at Wolsey’s magnificent York Place on the river Thames, with its renaissance statues and its cabinet of gold. Such a place as Hampton Court was built for revelry on a grand scale, not for crying at night or whispering behind doors.
The sundial in the middle of the court showed that it was almost midday.
“My Lady?”
Someone was hurrying behind them across the cobbles.
Catherine paused and turned under sufferance.
They had already recognised the voice but the sight of Thomas Cromwell, sweaty and rasping out his breath, was less than welcome.
Catherine held her dignity as the secretary approached, the sun glinting off his gold chains and jewelled rings. He bowed low.
“Why do you seek me out in my quiet hour?” Catherine’s voice had a hint of warning.
“My Lady, I am come to take my leave of you.”
Catherine waited, offering him nothing.
