“Then do you think we can persuade her to take a boat on the river, downstream a little way, to the meadow at Lea’s corner? It would be pleasant, don’t you think?”
“Oh, I am not sure. It does sound nice, but to leave the grounds, given the pestilence? Would she wish to?”
“We can but ask. Or if not, perhaps you might obtain leave to go with me, just the two of us?” He read her expression of surprise and continued, “You see, I have a plan for a little pastime. You know how much the king and queen have loved to dress up to hunt?”
Thomasin shook her head. “Remember, I am new to court.”
“Of course, forgive me. It was always their delight to ride out in costumes, to hear music and feast outdoors, a custom they have forgotten of late, which it would be pleasant to revive, whilst we are here.”
“That does sound pleasant. I am sure the queen would be happy at the prospect.”
“Then shall we try and visit the meadow? Would you like to?”
Thomasin blushed at the prospect of the pair of them together, but it was not an unpleasant idea to her mind.
“Only if you think it proper. Your cousin could chaperone you.”
Chaperone? Her mind was stirred in confusion. Did she need a chaperone? After all, Carey was a married man.
“Apologies, I think I have spoken out of turn. It was kindly meant, as a friend.”
Thomasin was about to reply that it had been kindly taken, as one friend to another, but at that moment, the peace was broken by a roar.
“Madam!”
They heard Henry before they saw him. Catherine had almost reached the hall, while the king approached from a side passage, walking swiftly, holding himself taut. Catherine paused and curtseyed, awaiting his approach.
The king was angry. All could see, but it was a cold, controlled fire that showed in his clipped movements, the thin lines of his lips and eyes. Thomasin felt a jolt of fear through her stomach.
As he drew near, he focused only upon Catherine, until he was close enough to speak. His voice was low but powerful, like a blow. The laughing, happy Henry of late was unrecognisable.
“Have you been honest with me, Madam?” he asked tersely.
Catherine was visibly shaking as she met him, face to face. “I am, My Lord. What sort of a question is this?”
“A valid one,” he spat back. “So there is nothing you have concealed from me? Nothing I should know about?”
“I cannot imagine to what you refer, but it is not fitting to speak to me thus. I am coming from chapel.”
“Not fitting?” Henry’s small eyes had become dark slits in his face. “Not fitting, Madam? So where are my letters? You know the ones I mean. Where are they? I know they arrived at the palace in the hands of the houndsman.”
Catherine lifted her chin with dignity.
“The letters, Madam,” Henry persisted. “From Bishop Foxe and Mistress Boleyn. What have you done with them?”
“You speak her name to me?”
“I do, Madam. Do you deny that you kept her letters from me?”
Catherine spoke slowly as she struggled for control. “Your letters are no concern of mine.”
“No, Madam, they are not, and yet you interfere with them? I suppose they are gone for good? Burned in your hearth? She writes to me, asking why I have not replied to her. How can I reply to letters I have never seen? Do tell me. Perhaps I should write back that my wife has stolen them!”
His voice rose to such a level that it was impossible for those around not to hear him. The queen’s ladies, and Henry’s gentlemen, were stilled by the angry accusation.
Catherine gathered up her skirts and swept past her husband with dignity, in the direction of the hall.
“Nothing to say, Madam?” Henry called after her. “Nothing? Where are my letters?”
