“My Lord, it is hardly seemly…” Maria began.
“Nevertheless, those are the orders.”
“From whom?” Maria looked to the dais. “What if the queen needs us?”
“She will indicate her need to you.”
“But there is no one else requiring this table,” Thomasin pressed. “It is empty.”
“But not for long. I am very sorry for the inconvenience, but I must urge you to move.”
When the doors opened again at the far end, Thomasin realised why they had been displaced. At once, she felt like a fool.
Anne was dressed in grey and silver, with scarlet sleeves. Even from a distance, the colours were striking, and the light caught the places on her headdress which sparkled with diamonds. In the doorway, she paused, ensuring that she held everyone’s attention before she entered, but there was hardly any need as all eyes were already upon her and the shadowy figures behind her.
Thomasin felt a sting of pain for her mistress as Anne started her walk through the hall. Comparisons were unavoidable. It reminded her of the time she had first seen Anne, when she’d arrived at court with her family and watched the woman in red dance seductively with the king, as if no one else was present. It was also the night she had first met Rafe, when he’d rescued her from a fire in the gardens.
The tension between Henry, Catherine and Anne was palpable. Dazzling as she was in her gold, Catherine could not compete with the brightest jewel her rival wore: that of her youth.
Anne approached with a stately bearing. She had always been commanding, even captivating in the way she moved, but there was something more to her now, as her manner seemed to contain a sense of entitlement.
“She has been practising her walk,” whispered Gertrude.
Behind her, Thomasin recognised Jane, George’s wife, pretty and delicate but completely overshadowed by Anne, and an older woman with dark hair, still in possession of striking good looks, and such similar features to Anne that Thomasin realised it must be her mother, Lady Boleyn. Behind them came two gentlemen; the smiling Henry Norris, with whom Thomasin had danced in a masque and the dark figure she had been dreading. Rafe Danvers followed Anne down the hall, his handsome head held high, his dark eyes, which had always been intense, now filled with insouciance. In his wake came the odious William Hatton, prancing merrily as if his soul was light as a feather.
Thomas and George Boleyn bowed to Anne as soon as she drew level. Then, with the air of ownership, they proceeded to occupy the table from which Thomasin and the others had just been evicted. She saw Rafe approach, but being tucked behind Gertrude, she managed to avoid him seeing her. However, Rafe took a seat on the opposite side to her, between Wyatt and George Boleyn, so it was probably only a matter of time before he did.
Anne dropped a low curtsey before the king and queen. Protocol dictated that she still showed reverence to Catherine, queen or not, regardless of their circumstances. She looked long and hard at Henry, before sweeping her eyes away and resting them on Catherine.
“You are here, Mistress Boleyn,” said Catherine in measured tones.
“I am,” she replied and paused, before adding disingenuously, “My Lady.”
“Then I look forward to your good service. You may report to my household in the morning. I have lacked for company, especially those who can sing and play cards.”
Anne’s cheeks flamed red and Henry shifted uncomfortably in his chair, but neither dared to challenge Catherine directly. Catherine had seized the moment and defined Anne’s role at Greenwich. It was a clever and daring stroke, well suited to the woman she had become of late.
Catherine turned to Henry. “Summon the servers.”
As the first servants appeared with their plates, there was little Anne could do other than retreat to her table, where she sat fuming. Soon, Thomas Wyatt walked over and distracted her with whispers.
Thomasin caught Ellen’s eye and the pair exchanged a smile.
“Don’t let her see you,” whispered Gertrude in warning, “or she will turn her anger upon you.”
It was strange to see Anne again, thought Thomasin. Last autumn, she had seemed to have the upper hand, but Catherine’s time at Windsor, despite its stormy ending, had breathed new hope into the queen. Perhaps the king’s outburst on the last day had been merely that: a surge of temper. Thomasin kept her eyes on the table, and dared not linger on the Boleyns, in case she drew Rafe’s attention.
At last the plates were placed before them, releasing their rich, inviting scents: beef, mutton and spices, herb custards and hot pies. Thomasin divided the portions with Ellen, with a growing hunger. On one occasion, looking up, she spotted William Carey speaking with Thomas Grey, and he offered her a smile of greeting.
Catherine and Henry ate in regal silence, while the hall around them was alive with sound.
It was not until the first set of plates were being cleared that what Thomasin had been fearing happened. Both fearing and yet, somehow, on an instinctive level, anticipating with a churning stomach. Rafe’s eyes found her. She felt rather than saw them, because it was the heaviness of his gaze that she became aware of, almost suffocating, just as she remembered it. There were a number of people between them, and he had been occupied with the Boleyn circle, partly turned away from her until now. Thomasin sat back to allow the dishes to be removed, but from the corner of her eye, she could see the pale ellipse of his face markedly facing her. Although she tried her best to ignore it, he did not look away, challenging her to respond. She stared over to the other side of the room and fixed her eyes on the middle distance, as Hugh Truegood was holding up his glass for more wine.
The second course brought mixed dishes of fruit and cream, custards and savoury tarts, which were placed within her reach.
“I know you have seen him,” Ellen whispered. “You are doing admirably well.”
Thomasin stiffened, unaware that Ellen had known of her association with Rafe. “It is not too hard. I simply do not allow myself to look.”
