Thomasin realised they were speaking of Anne and her situation.
“It’s too fatiguing,” breathed Jane, seeming exhausted. “All this arguing, constantly.”
“It is essential that you rest and eat well. Perhaps we should go to New Hall for a while. We cannot risk your health.”
“Here,” spoke up Carey, reaching for a plate, “pork for you, Thomasin, Ellen?”
He served each of the women, then himself, but George Boleyn had already claimed the dish of larks. Once again he was piling Jane’s plate high with delicate concern.
Thomasin watched Jane as she ate. On the few brief occasions they had met before, she had never really taken a close look at George Boleyn’s wife, Anne’s sister-in-law. She had a light complexion and pale eyes, her features perfectly symmetrical and small, pretty enough, but with nothing to make them distinctive. There was something gentle, mild-mannered about her mouth, nothing of malice in it, but an innate intelligence. And something else too, difficult to identify, but perhaps an edge of vulnerability. It was a face she found hard to dislike.
As if she felt Thomasin’s eyes upon her, Jane looked up.
Thomasin smiled. Jane hesitated, as if unsure what etiquette demanded, then let her lips twitch in response.
“Eat up,” said George Boleyn, “eat up.”
Seated beyond Jane, Rafe Danvers was eating in silence. Thomasin tried to draw back as far as possible, to shrink into the space towards Will Carey, to distance herself from his overwhelming presence.
“Mutton?”
Thomasin started. Rafe was holding a plate towards her, from the end of the table, noticing that the Boleyns were intent upon taking more than their share.
It was a reconciliatory gesture. She wanted to accept, it was polite to do so, but that might imply forgiveness, even friendship renewed. She stared dumbly into the meat, then took the dish with a nod of thanks.
After she had loaded up her plate, Thomasin handed it politely back. Rafe was apparently waiting for the moment and spoke softly.
“You are still in the queen’s household?”
“Yes.” She kept her eyes on the table.
“Does it suit you?”
“Well enough.”
He cleared his throat, drawing her eyes to him. “I suppose it is not possible to get close to you now.”
“No.” She turned her head away.
“You are looking well.”
Thomasin did not reply.
There was a murmur in the hall as the king rose to his feet. Henry was looking more satisfied than earlier, and he smoothed down his beard with a hand glinting with jewels.
“Tomorrow, the Venetian ambassadors arrive at Greenwich. We will host a tilt in the yard. All challengers must submit their arms by noon.”
He resumed his seat and the bubble of conversation erupted.
Thomasin looked past Will Carey to Ellen, then caught the eyes of Maria and Gertrude on the far side. The Venetians were daring to show their faces again at court, after trying to entrap Queen Catherine to supply information about the emperor, and her ladies to spy upon her and report her movements.
“I can hardly believe it,” Ellen hissed.
Thomasin looked to Catherine. Once again, Catherine was composed, but Thomasin knew that the significance of this was not lost upon her. Nor had she forgotten that the ambassadors had left Windsor expressly against her orders. Briefly, the queen turned and caught Thomasin’s eye. A silent understanding passed between them.
“They are not good news, these Venetians?” asked Carey.
“We entertained them at Windsor, before the spring,” explained Thomasin, “and, let us say, we were initially impressed by their manners, but swiftly came to realise their intentions.”
