The great hall was decked with gold and silver. Flames roared in the hearth. Minstrels in the gallery played a lively, upbeat tune, with the sounds of the trumpets and rebec reaching up to the rafters.
Catherine sat in her chair of state, resplendent in red and gold with the arms of England, Aragon and Castile behind her. Chains and jewels hung in great ropes about her neck, and the folds of her black and white skirts had been carefully arranged by Maria and Ellen. Her back was straight, her head held high, her Spanish bonnet tidy, her tiny hands clasped over the chair’s carved arms. The very picture of a queen.
Catherine’s waiting women were ranged about her in absolute stillness. Either side of the throne, they were fixed in position, like a living tableau, each pair of eyes upon the doors ahead. They understood their strict instructions; the code of rules by which they lived, although such visitations were rare. It was a long time since outsiders had come to visit Catherine, let alone foreign ambassadors.
Thomasin stood beside Gertrude, on Catherine’s left, with Ellen over to the right. Still and straight, her only motion was her breath, in and out, rhythmic, loud in her ears. She held her limbs utterly motionless, as Catherine had instructed, no matter how strong the urge to fidget and twitch. For they were not women right now; the only woman in the room was Catherine, the others were furniture. Like a picture, they waited, poised as if the artist’s brush was flickering across a canvas before them, capturing them in paint. The minutes ticked by. The waiting was agony.
To the side, Bishop Mendoza in his full costume and the Spanish scholar Juan Luis Vives, with other learned gentlemen, sat posed upon stuffed chairs. The musical notes washed over them: the taut plucking of strings and the breathy flights of recorder and pipe. Catherine had a small circle of gentlemen who preferred her court to that of the king, and those who came were fiercely loyal to her.
“Chins lifted, stand straight,” Catherine whispered, so only her ladies could hear. “Show dignity, eyes above them.”
The hall waited. The doors at the far end did not move. Thomasin’s shoulders ached from the strain.
From the other side of the dais came a snuffling noise, midway between a sniff and a sneeze.
“Hush!” hissed Catherine. “Silence.”
Again, they waited, waited, waited as the moments ticked away.
Finally, they heard the approaching feet of a number of people. In the stillness, the sound echoed along the corridor leading towards the watching chamber, growing louder and louder as Thomasin held her breath in anticipation. At the far end, the double doors flung open. Noise burst in upon the women.
Lord Mountjoy came first, striding forward in his confident way. Behind him, he conjured a party of twelve gaudy gentlemen, quite a caravan of colour and exoticism, that prompted the women to take a collective breath. For a moment both sides looked at each other, as if they were the dancers at the start of a masque. Then the men came forward, each a dazzling star amid this new constellation, dressed in riding habits and boots over soft leather and taffeta, but each had a little personal addition somewhere — a feather, an earring — and touches of gold, giving them the air of importance. Perhaps in their own country, they were princes, dukes or noblemen of vast estates, with vineyards dripping down green hillsides, or the owners of merchant ships returning from the spice trail. Their leader wore a wide-brimmed, green hat, which he pulled off with a flourish as he bowed low. He was a lean, tanned man of middling height, whose elongated features certainly did not look English.
Mountjoy signalled upwards. The music abruptly halted and the trumpeters blew a final rapport. “The Ambassador to the Doge and Signoria of Venice, Signore Marco Antonio Vernier and his company.”
The Venetians advanced a step, before removing their hats in the same manner as their leader and bowing low. Moving in perfect unison, they made an impressive sight.
Catherine beckoned for them to rise. “Gentlemen, you are welcome at Windsor.”
Vernier remained on one knee. “Most gracious Lady. We could not be visiting your esteemed country without making a detour here to pay our respects to Your most excellent Majesty, of whom we have heard such wonderful praise, of your learning, your piety, your dignity.” His voice was stilted, with long vowels, but rich.
Thomasin sensed that Catherine was pleased. It was a most flattering address, and the ambassador was an elegant gentleman, perhaps in his late thirties. When he spoke, his face had an animation about it, which, added to the timbre of his voice, was attractive.Attractive for a foreigner, Thomasin thought, surprised at herself.
Vernier rose to his full height and threw back his cloak, giving them an opportunity to admire the expensive clothes beneath. His doublet was embroidered with cherry coloured thread and sewn with tiny pearls and gold laces.
“It is our great honour to present you with these humble gifts,” he said, gesturing his men forwards. “For Your Majesty, we have rolls of the best coloured silks, metres of our famous golden lace, bottled orange preserves and our fortified wines, brewed with local spices, sweet yet not too strong; perfect for a queen’s dining table.”
One by one, the men laid their bundles at the queen’s feet. Catherine sat aloof and watched them accrue.
“And for your ladies-in-waiting,” Vernier continued, smiling along the line, “such pleasant, welcoming, beautiful ladies, I bring dates, almonds, comfits, the purest white writing paper for their letters, and silken ribbons.”
Catherine eyed the spread, making her guests wait for approval. Thomasin could not help but turn her gaze upon the colourful display.
“These are most generous gifts.” Catherine paused again, looking at them each in turn. The Venetians were poised, erect, holding themselves still before her approval. Her face softened a little. “I thank you, and bid you welcome. How was your journey?”
Vernier grinned and relaxed. “Most troublesome, My Lady, and we are grateful to have arrived safely. We came by land — taking the shortest route through Switzerland, Germany and the Low Countries, keeping to the north of the border with France — but we ran into trouble, as French troops tried to detain us more than once.”
“Of course,” mused Catherine, “the Italian states are at war with the French again. However, Signore, since my husband declared for Francis, that should, in theory, make you England’s enemy too.”
This observation did not deter the smooth Vernier. “My Lady, we are aware that your husband has chosen to side with France, which is why we did not take him so many gifts.” He paused to appreciate the ladies’ smiles. “But we know that Your Majesty’s vision is wider; with your Spanish heritage and blood ties to the Empire, you see a larger Europe. You are a stateswoman in your own right, who is no enemy of Venice.”
“You are the consummate courtier, Signore Vernier. I wonder that the ladies of Venice allowed you to leave. Tell me, are you as honest as you are flattering?”
The ambassador inclined his head. “Why, My Lady, of course, you have my word.”
“You have been first to visit my husband at Westminster?”
“Yes, My Lady, as protocol dictates.”
