“Her Royal Majesty, Queen Catherine of England. Make way for the queen!”
At least the heralds were still using her official title.
The hall was thronging with people and light. Henry was seated at the dais at the top, under a cloth of state.
For a moment, Catherine paused, nervous to see if the king would accept her announcement as queen. After his cruel dismissal of her at Windsor, this would be a turning point. Either he would let it go, and there was still hope, or he would denounce her title here, before all assembled. That would mean all was over.
Henry did not flinch. If he held doubts, he judged this was not the time or place. Thomasin heard Catherine exhale in relief, then begin her walk towards him. All eyes were upon them.
The hall was busy. Visitors had come from outside to see the king again. Those who had already taken their seats along the trestles at the side rose and bowed as the queen and her ladies passed by. Thomasin recognised several from court the previous autumn, but none whose names she cared to recall. Her heart beat a little faster, as she could not stop herself scanning the hall for one particular face, with its dark, glowering looks. As they progressed, Catherine’s appearance drew admiration, and conversations halted mid-flow, as her subjects could hardly draw their eyes from her, friends and foe alike. Sparkling in her regal gold, she reflected all the warmth in the place, truly and spectacularly a queen.
One look was sufficient to tell Thomasin that Anne Boleyn was not present. Not yet. The mood, and the response of the crowd, would have been quite different otherwise. As they progressed through the hall, though, she noted the broad back of Thomas Boleyn and his tall son George, who half turned towards Catherine and doffed their hats in a feigned show of deference. The hypocrisy of it turned Thomasin’s stomach. Catherine, however, did not even look in their direction.
Ahead, Thomasin spotted the poet Thomas Wyatt in conversation with another man she had seen before, although she had never been formally introduced to him: Thomas Grey, Marquess of Dorset, fifty and greying, cousin to the king on the York side. His head was bent towards that of Francis Bryan, a feisty and roguish companion of the king, who wore an eye-patch following a near-fatal accident in the joust. Again, as Catherine passed by, the three men fell silent in a demonstration of respect for the queen.
Thomasin remembered Wyatt’s ready wit and the laughter that had flowed around him in Anne’s chambers. She would have enjoyed spending more time in his presence, but given his allegiance to the Boleyns, it was a necessary sacrifice.
Seated behind the top table, Henry had his eyes fixed on them. Catherine’s approach was slow, as she had planned it to be, capitalising on the drama of her entrance. Thomasin could not read the expression on the king’s face, but the importance of this critical moment made her legs tremble. He had stormed away from his wife only the day before, with the worst accusations. What kind of welcome would he offer his wife now? Had his temper cooled? Would he denounce her in public?
Nor could she forget that terrible feeling, walking with her family towards the chapel for Cecilia’s wedding, then watching the mood turn. The laughing eyes, the derision, the burning shame at the empty altar. Thomas Boleyn had had the last, cruel laugh, and it had contributed to her mother’s collapse on the way out. The current moment had the potential to be as explosive, if Henry chose.
On the next table to the king, Thomasin noted the presence of Cardinal Wolsey, with whom Henry had been in conversation. Wolsey’s acknowledgement of Catherine was to incline his head and clasp his hands, as if in blessing. It felt distant.
Further off sat an old friend of Catherine, the dour-faced but erudite Bishop John Fisher. Thomasin was pleased to see him, recalling the rare instance of his wit, in the company of Thomas More and Catherine, and the way a smile unexpectedly lifted his serious countenance. The bishop rose to his feet and bowed low to Catherine, despite the infirmity he suffered in his back. In response, Catherine sent him a kindly look.
The opposite table was occupied by Thomasin’s recent companions from Hampton: Charles Brandon, William Compton and, she particularly noted, William Carey, who caught her eye with a grin. At least one person was pleased to see her, Thomasin thought. Behind them were the flame-headed Hugh Truegood, and the little, drab Charles Collins. Perhaps there were friends to be found here, after all.
Reaching the steps, there was no way to avoid the king directly. Nor could Henry escape the moment. Catherine made a deep curtsey before her husband, and her ladies followed suit. Henry was dressed in green and gold, a reminder of happier May days. His hair was pushed back under a cap with gold aiglets and a deep red ruby; his cheeks were flushed but those small, pale blue eyes were troubled.
One thing the king hated, Thomasin had learned, was being forced into a position, put in a situation that made him uncomfortable, his choices taken away. She hoped he would not lash out now because Catherine had engineered such a public meeting.
Henry spoke as courtesy demanded, but it was only brief and made no acknowledgement of her appearance or position. “You are welcome to court.”
Then he rose, offering his hand to the queen. Catherine took it, visibly relieved, and placed herself in the seat beside him, over which the gold canopy hung. They sat stiffly, side by side, without exchanging a word. Eventually Catherine tried to speak to her husband, who gave her his attention, but only a short reply.
“I fear this is no true welcome,” whispered Ellen.
Thomasin nodded, following her to the empty table. From there, she permitted herself a look around the room, her stomach still turning. Thomas Boleyn was standing, watching the top table with interest, perhaps awaiting the arrival of his daughter. Thomasin turned to the table opposite, to Brandon and Carey, where she hoped to find greater understanding, even friendship. She was not disappointed that Truegood was present, as a potential ally, a port in a storm. Casting her eyes around again, she noted with relief that the face she had been dreading to see was not there. There was no sign of Rafe Danvers, whom she had glimpsed in the park earlier.
The hall was on edge. At first, Thomasin wondered if it was due to the lateness of the food, or the tardiness of the diners in seating themselves. Servants circulated with wine and spices. But no-one seemed to be in a rush to eat. They appeared to be waiting. Boleyn kept occupying the central space again, sometimes with his son George, who wore a look of impatience, and more than once they exchanged a few inaudible words before the whole court.
A few more courtiers appeared, slipping into empty seats, and a jester threatened to start tumbling and talking to a monkey sitting on his shoulder, which drew a few laughs. But still the food was not served.
“What is wrong?” whispered Ellen. “Is the dinner hour later at Greenwich?”
“The king has not given the order to serve.”
“Why not? Is he unwell?”
“Or does he seek to humiliate the queen in this way?”
Presently, Mountjoy approached their table. “Apologies, ladies, but it appears you must move. This table is reserved.”
“Then where must we sit?” asked Maria indignantly, looking around them. No one else was seated on their trestle, so close as it was to the dais.
“I am afraid you must move to the next one down, and squeeze upon the end.”
Thomasin looked at the indicated table, which was already busy, where Wyatt, Grey and Bryan had placed themselves among other diners.
