“Oh dear, that does not sound good.”
“No, they are either slippery as eels or clumsy as oxen.”
“I am stunned that they dare show their faces again,” added Ellen. “I wonder what they can want. They cannot possibly come without good purpose, when they should be retreating with their tails between their legs.”
“The Venetians?” chimed in George Boleyn, overhearing their talk. “It may be to do with the Pope. Any day Henry expects the return of Edward Foxe, his ambassador to Rome. While Clement and the emperor are at such odds, I expect they are waiting to hear his judgement. What the Pope and emperor do has a direct impact upon Venice.”
“Really?” asked Carey.
“You will recall that Rome was sacked last year?”
Carey nodded.
“And the Pope was imprisoned by the emperor?”
“Yes.”
“Well, Venice feared a similar fate from unruly Imperial troops. They lost a major trading partner back then, and were forced into an Imperial alliance, for self-protection. But now the Pope is free, they are torn between two masters, not knowing which way to turn. Perhaps the Doge has instructed his ambassadors to woo both sides.”
Thomasin let this insight sink in. If the Venetians were unsure who to follow, their task in England was a difficult one indeed. On one hand, Henry was appealing to the Pope to annul his marriage, whilst on the other, his unwanted wife, Catherine of Aragon, was aunt to the emperor. This polarised the Venetians along the lines of the royal dispute. And they, like everyone else, were unsure who would win.
Suddenly it all made sense. The expensive gifts, the flattery, the attempts to gain informal information. They were trying to play both sides until a decisive victory was reached. Thomasin could understand them better now, and itched to impart this information to Catherine.
“A tilt tomorrow, eh?” said Carey, breaking into her thoughts. “What do you think of that? George, will you ride?”
“I shall indeed. Rafe?”
He nodded, and Thomasin briefly caught a glint of his dark eyes before she looked away. He was still the same, with his dark slanting brows, the brooding looks, the blue-black hair. There was no doubt he was the most handsome man at court, outdoing the likes of Hugh Truegood and George Boleyn, who was reckoned to be beautiful by the ladies, and even, dared she think it, the king himself.
“I will ride,” he confirmed, “if the ladies promise to come and watch.”
“Will you?” asked Carey, turning to Thomasin, then to Ellen. “Will you ladies come and watch over our vain efforts?”
“Will you be strong enough?” George Boleyn picked up on the question and asked Jane, solicitously, before anyone else had the chance to answer. “We must bring cushions and a blanket for you, but you will sit with Mother, and she will bring you back to our rooms if you require it.”
Thomasin looked again at Jane. She did not appear unwell, or frail. Then it suddenly struck her. Perhaps Jane was with child? It was not seemly to ask, but she resolved to watch her closely for signs, especially if she needed attending to. It was an interesting development but one, Thomasin was aware, that was not her business. She must keep Jane’s secret, if such a secret there was.
The plates were being cleared away now. There would be no dancing tonight. The king was heading to his rooms to prepare for the tilting in the morning, and Catherine was rising to her feet, ready to retire.
“Look,” urged Thomasin to Ellen, “up, up we go.” To Will Carey and the others, she bade a general goodnight, casting her net wide enough that Rafe was also included in it.
As she hurried after Catherine, another thought occurred to her. The return of the Venetians meant another reunion for her. No doubt the golden-eyed Nico Amato would be amongst them.
Catherine did not head straight back to her apartments. She took a detour through the corridor and across the court, over which hung an orange sky, to the strip of apartments where visitors were housed. The architecture here was on a smaller scale, with plainer carvings, unpainted and ungilded. There was noise here too, of voices, and a clatter which sounded like the movement of barrels or irons.
Thomasin and the others followed without question. She paused outside the third door, knocked and waited until a voice inside bade her enter.
Following Catherine, Thomasin found herself in a dark, smoky room, with a small fire in the grate and a single bracket burning upon the wall. Before the hearth, a bent-over figure was struggling to rise, although Catherine bade him keep his seat. It took Thomasin a moment to recognise Bishop Mendoza, the Spanish ambassador, Catherine’s fellow Castilian, newly arrived from Windsor. He was looking tired and unwell.
“Keep your seat, I pray,” Catherine said, guiding him back down, then taking his hands, glinting with gold. “Dear old friend, I am so pleased to see you here, safe from the sickness.”
“As pleased as I am to see you, My Lady,” he replied, “although not free from all sickness; my gout made the journey a trial.”
“I will order anything you need. Food, medicines, comforts. We shall not expect you to appear until you are quite rested enough.”
“Thank you for your kindness.”
“How have you been? Did they look after you at Windsor after I left?”
