Ellen looked over the gardens. “There are many women at court who might give him a son. Has he not one already?”
Thomasin had heard word of the young boy, conceived in the heat of passion with one of Catherine’s ladies, some eight or nine years back. “I believe so.”
“But it is nothing without marriage, is it?”
“No. He cannot inherit. The only way the king will have a legitimate son is if he has a new wife.”
At that moment, Catherine rose and stretched with difficulty. From that distance, she appeared small, heavy and old. She was regal, though, there was never any doubt about that, and she was determined, but she seemed suddenly vulnerable.
“Poor Catherine,” said Ellen.
“Hush, do not let her even suspect you of pity; she is not of a character to bear it! Come on.”
TWELVE
William Compton threw his head back and roared with laughter. The fire in the hearth behind him burned bright and pushed the night away, beyond the windows. “And that was when Francis Bryan rode through the streets of Paris at dawn, singing lewd songs and throwing eggs!”
Henry drummed his fingers on the table at the memory. “The damned fool almost caused a major incident. He is lucky that Francis let him go.”
“He has always been more daring than dutiful,” added Compton, with a hint of criticism in his tone. “He has been lucky thus far.”
“Less than lucky in the joust where he lost his eye!”
“That’s true,” Compton conceded. “He should have taken that as a warning while he still has one left.”
They were dining in the main hall after another bright day in the park, and there was a sense of merriment in the air. Servants were clearing the empty plates and refilling glasses of wine. Thomasin sat back and watched as the company began to relax.
“I wonder how the French fare amid this pestilence,” mused Brandon. “They always were more assailed by such illnesses, having many travellers pass through their lands freely.”
“But we have the ports, don’t forget,” piped up Hatton, trying to impress, “with ships arriving daily from all around the world, further than Europe, bringing all kinds of sickness. Perhaps we are in even greater danger.”
“But they have more ships from the new world,” replied Brandon, frowning, “and merchants from the east.”
“It is strange,” mused Henry, taking the topic into his own hands. “I wonder about the constitution of foreigners, and I believe the French have one advantage over the English. We are greater in strength due to our good beef and mutton, our fresh air and our breeding; across the Channel, they sicken and weaken with yet another infection or wound, but still they cling to life somehow. I have heard that Francis himself ails with some new condition, always something new, but never anything fatal.”
From the side, Compton laughed. “Do you remember how he preened and strutted in Guînes eight summers back? How impressed he was by our golden tents and palace, and then the wind blew the roof off his banqueting house?”
Henry roared with laughter. “I do! His face was a picture. His pride had been wounded, but he tried so hard to wear the face of a lion.”
“Not a lion,” Compton continued, “a slimy salamander, don’t you recall?”
The salamander was the French king’s symbol; a strange choice to Thomasin’s mind.
“A salamander!” Henry repeated. “Do you remember, Catherine; do you remember his disappointment?”
Catherine smiled gently. “You were most gracious with him, my esteemed Lord, most noble. It was a time when you distinguished yourself with your valour and generosity.”
Henry sat back in his chair, basking in her words. His small eyes appeared content, his lips slackening into a smile. “I did, didn’t I?”
Thomasin thought how well Catherine knew him; how exactly she knew how to flatter him and lull him to his ease.
Henry turned to his side. “Do you remember, Wolsey? You are a friend of the French even now, are you not? You remember how I outshone him?”
The cardinal inclined his head.
Ellen leaned in, whispering, “I heard that Francis threw him in a wrestling match.”
“Shh!” Thomasin looked around. “Really?”
