“The king has granted me his gracious leave to return to my family today, in Chelsea. The area appears clear of pestilence, as am I. I wish to be with them during these difficult times, but I shall remain in correspondence with the cardinal and the king, if this suits you, My Lady. I wish you the very best of health and humbly ask your leave.”
Catherine eyed him coolly, knowing that this was a mere formality. This man would not obey any command she might give to stay. His question was for the sake of an empty protocol, with no kindness, no respect, no real regard in it. Purely the courtly game. They knew it; he knew it.
As always, Catherine was more dignified, her thoughts on higher concerns.
“I was not aware that you were a family man.”
He kept his head bowed.
“You have children?”
“Yes, My Lady, I thank you. I have a son and two daughters.”
“What ages?”
“Anne is twelve, Grace is ten and my boy Gregory is turning eight soon.”
“They are well?”
“Very well, I thank you, My Lady.”
“And your wife? What is her name?”
“Her name is Elizabeth.”
Thomasin tried to picture him with a wife at his side, children at his knee, playing games with them or whispering private jokes, as her father had done. No image came to her.
“And you have concluded your business here, Master Secretary?”
Cromwell paused, as his thoughts ticked over. “The king’s business never concludes, but I will continue to serve him from my home. Accounts, advice, letters, whatever needs to be done.”
Catherine’s eyes darkened. “Do you have letters to dispatch now? Letters the king wrote last night?”
The man’s ruddy face did not so much as flicker. “I am delivering the king’s correspondence and his orders. There is much to be done to secure the realm amidst this pestilence.”
“To secure the realm,” Catherine echoed. “Indeed. Do you have the letters? I wish to check them.” She held out a gloved hand.
Cromwell’s mind was swift. “Regrettably, they are not on my person, My Lady.”
Catherine waited, judging how far she might push the man.
“They are among my bags, where my horse waits saddled on the road.”
Catherine nodded, as if this was the answer she had expected. It would not be seemly to pursue the matter. “Consider that you have my leave. God speed you from this place.”
It was a warmer parting than he deserved.
Thomasin watched him until he passed through the gates, striding in his awkward way, his body somehow both rolling and also tight.
They had left the palace behind and sought the freshness of the gardens where the birds were making melody. The ends of their skirts swished upon the gravel path and their shadows were cast long, in shades of grey and green. As they rounded the corner, three men were visible, shooting at the butts. Down at the far end of the walk, beyond the rose bushes, the coloured rounds were bright in the sun, with their concentric rings. Black, blue, red, yellow. Catherine led her ladies forwards out of curiosity.
Sir Hugh Truegood was standing with his bow drawn, ready to loosen his arrow. There was something in his aspect that was majestic, sculptural even, as he was caught in the act of stretching back. Cotton and Hatton stood by, mere mortals in comparison with Hugh’s beauty, leaning on their bows in readiness. Thomasin felt distaste rise in her throat as she saw the latter again, but had no choice other than to follow Catherine as she made her way across the grass to them.
Truegood slackened his grip and bowed as soon as he caught their movement. The other men followed suit, vying to outdo each other by swooping their hats lower.
“Resume your sport,” Catherine insisted. “We will take pleasure in watching you compete. Who leads?”
“Truegood leads, My Lady,” spoke up Hatton at once, with his usual confidence. “He has hit three bulls’ eyes out of five already, compared with my two and Cotton’s one.”
