No sooner had Mary done so, than a second knock was heard.
“Come!” replied Catherine, with less trepidation than before.
However, this time, the door opened to reveal a trio of Boleyn women, decked out in their brightest and best. Anne was resplendent in white and green, her face glowing proud under an arc of pearls.
Catherine’s demeanour changed at once. Regaining her composure, she regarded Anne’s mother, a woman with finely chiselled features and wide, dark eyes, as beautiful as ever in her late forties, dressed in a russet gown. As a young woman, she had served Catherine in her first years as queen, alongside Elizabeth Marwood. Once, they had even been friends. Thomasin looked with interest at Anne’s mother.
Catherine chose to address her former lady. “Lady Boleyn, you have arrived at a happy hour. We have new arrivals from Windsor, returned to us safe and sound.”
Lady Boleyn inclined her head. It was difficult to read the gesture, be it submission or sarcasm.
“Come,” said Catherine, “sit and take some wine.” Then she added, pointedly, “All of you.”
“My Lady,” began Anne, “I have come to pay my respects, but I fear I cannot stay.”
Catherine turned slowly and let her eyes fall heavily upon Anne, who tried not to be daunted.
“I had promised to play bowls this afternoon and watch the king at tennis…”
“Hush!” It was her mother who interrupted Anne. “Your bowls and tennis can wait.”
Catherine did not let a muscle of her face flicker. “The king, my husband, has been playing bowls and tennis since you were a babe in arms. He can manage perfectly well without you.”
It was on the tip of Anne’s tongue to answer, but the eyes of the whole room were upon her, and she was not yet emboldened enough to challenge Catherine directly. Thomasin wondered if her relationship with the king was at a low point, and she lacked the confidence to fight her cause. It was one thing to do so in the hall, but quite another in the queen’s own chambers.
“Sit,” ordered Catherine. Anne and Jane went to occupy the other window seat, while Lady Boleyn took the chair at the card table vacated by Ellen.
The air was thick between them, like smoke. Thomasin could feel the presence of the Boleyn women as she tried to concentrate on her sewing. From the corner of her eye, she was aware of the hems of Anne and Jane’s dresses, green and white, and blue, rippling as they twitched their feet impatiently. How Catherine managed to bear their presence, was testament to her inner strength.
Catherine drew out a pack of cards and began to deal. “Let us play, Lady Boleyn, like the old days. What game shall we choose? Do you know this new game called Primero, or should we choose one of our old favourites?”
“Whatever My Lady wishes.”
“A goodly answer. Then let us play Imperial, as we used to years ago. I recall it was a favourite of yours.”
The room watched as Catherine finished doling out the cards. Then she cast her eyes meaningfully around the room. “I am sure I do not need to remind anyone here of the rules, only that I insist upon them being followed meticulously.”
Thomasin saw Anne turn her head towards the window, as if this could deflect the hidden meaning that was meant for her.
Taking the lead, Catherine laid the first card, and Lady Boleyn followed suit.
“I do remember,” she continued, “once when your children were small. That first summer here, we had a passion for playing dice, endless games of dice, and we took the board outside, while your children were visiting from the country. We played while they fought battles in the orchard.” She placed her next card very deliberately. “They must have been just nine or ten. Your Mary lost her poppet. Who would have thought it?”
It was a statement, not a question. Catherine took the trick and swept the cards away.
“And you, Mistress Marwood, you were yet within your mother’s belly and your sister a babe in arms.”
Thomasin looked up in surprise, suddenly connected to the past, and the court, in a way she had not expected.
But Catherine had turned back to the table. “Shall we play again? And let us have some music. Send for the lutist.”
A brief calm settled. Catherine and Lady Boleyn played several hands while the soft tones of the lute took the edge off their suffering. All save for Anne, who twitched and shifted as if she was being prickled by hedgehogs, her eyes drawn to the window, despite its view offering her only the friary and nothing of the court.
Presently, Catherine looked about and spotted the jug of wine on the cupboard. “I am thirsty,” she pronounced to the room.
Ellen rose to her feet at once.
“No, no.” Catherine waved her back down. “Anne can fetch my wine.”
