“I must go. I’m sorry, I don’t know.”
She carried the honeysuckle away with her, the bunch in her hand, and the little twig she had tucked into her bodice. William Carey? Mary Boleyn’s husband? Did he care for her? Did he desire her? It seemed as strange as being told that day was night, and night was day.
EIGHTEEN
The waiting was different this time. Tinged, coloured. Conflicting emotions were balanced on a knife’s edge. The mood was waiting to settle.
Somewhere in the palace, the ambassadors were getting closer. Gold glinting, eyes smiling, lips curled. They dusted down their breeches, picked stray hairs from their sleeves. Looked at the carved initials, the linked H and C in stone, breathed the air with the roses and honeysuckle and smoke. Along corridors of stone, they followed the set route, trying to bring the glitter and spice of Venice into an English afternoon.
Thomasin sat, with Ellen and Mary, Duchess of Essex, Maria and her little daughter Catherine, poised on a bench down one side of the hall. Opposite them, was the odd assortment of Lord Mountjoy, the Duke of Suffolk, Bishop Mendoza and Thomas Grey, ranged before William Compton, William Carey and Bishop Fisher. They had been assembled for half an hour, after the Venetians had been spotted on the road. Henry, seated in gold on the dais, did not insist upon silence, but chatted to Wolsey, who stood awkwardly at his side. Catherine, as ever, the picture of a painted statue, gazed into the middle distance as the moments slipped past. Tension played about her mouth.
It was still early. The morning was cool, as the sun had not yet climbed, but it promised to be warm later. Out in the tilt yard, preparations were continuing: fresh sawdust scattered, the ground raked over, cushions and carpets draped on chairs and benches.
Will Carey had greeted Thomasin as usual, with polite formality, but did not linger on this occasion to exchange words. He looked tired this morning; she imagined his sleepless night, turning over their comments in the garden, his fears and doubts. But she chased that image away; she could no more imagine what he was thinking than she could read the mind of Catherine.
Into the silence came footsteps, heels upon stone flags. But they were erratic, singular, not the oiled fleet of Venetians in step.
Anne burst through the doors, followed by her brother and father.
“Are they here?” She took a few steps into the hall, flaming in orange and gold, then stopped at the silent wall of faces ahead. Her dark eyes scanned back and forth for allies.
Thomasin saw the king tense.
“They are not here yet. Step aside.”
Anne made a show of turning and looking about her. “Aside? I should step aside? Which side?” Her father put a warning hand upon her arm, but she shrugged it off. “Where is my place, please? Where was it planned that I would stand?”
Henry rose. “Had you been here in good time, you would have been included. Now, we expect them at any moment. There are seats in the window, there.”
Anne pretended to look in disbelief. “In the window? At the side?” She looked back at the sea of faces, from cardinal to bishop, to queen and ladies-in-waiting. Her eyes lighted upon Wolsey. “Will you not speak for me, Cardinal? You who have never loved me and never seek to make a friend of me? Here I stand without a place. Where should I go?”
“Enough now.” Henry rose. Thomasin was conscious of Catherine at his side, who remained erect throughout. She never let her eyes rest on Anne, as if the woman simply did not exist.
But Wolsey, unexpectedly, stirred and turned to the king. “Perhaps the Lady could be accommodated beside me? As a gesture of my good will.”
Despite the silence, the surprise could be felt. It was an extraordinary move on Wolsey’s part, a signal that he intended to take Anne seriously, and a blow to Catherine.
But footsteps were approaching. The proposed shift had come too late, as the ambassadors were already at the door. They were held in place behind the guards, but their jewels and faces sparkled in the gloom of the antechamber.
It was good timing. To diffuse the tension, Henry merely waved the Venetians forward. Wolsey went unanswered and Anne had no choice but to follow her father into the window space. Yet Thomasin wondered at Wolsey, and what this shift might mean.
There was little time to dwell on that, though. They rippled forward like a shimmering wave, a flock of dazzling geese, with Marco Vernier at the front, splendid in black, white and gold, decked with gold chains and a velvet hat topped with white feathers and pearls. In one orchestrated movement, as a glittering cloud, they bowed low, but Thomasin knew that among them must be Matteo Vitruvio and Nico Amato.
Henry left them bowing for a long time. Before he signalled for them to rise, he exchanged a brief glance with Catherine. Thomasin wondered what had passed between them.
The herald announced them, and Henry gave the necessary wave of his hand.
“The Ambassador to the Doge and Signoria of Venice, Signore Marco Antonio Vernier and his company.”
“Signore Vernier,” said Henry slowly, “we meet again. I see that your company has been fortunate in surviving the recent sickness.”
Vernier doffed his hat with a flourish and sparkled as if he had no shame. “We were fortunate indeed. I thank the good Lord that you were also spared, My Lord, My Lady.”
He was at the back. Nico Amato with the yellow eyes. Thomasin spotted him as soon as they rose. He looked less well, less bright, than before. His star had been dimmed. She recalled his final comments about hoping to remain in England and leave the employ of the ambassador.
“It was God’s will. I suppose given all your travels, you have little left to offer us.”
Vernier was thrown slightly. “My Lord, we have already given you our best silks and laces, but we did trade a little on our travels, and offer you spiced cakes, oranges, rose water…”
