Further along were more of the king’s gentlemen, beside Mountjoy and More’s party, and a swathe of faces she did not recognise: visitors to the palace for the day and other royal staff.
She returned her eyes to Margaret Roper, who was looking well and happy enough, chatting with her father. Servants were circulating with drinks and people were shifting about to find their seats, or swap for a better view. Suddenly, joining them from the steps behind, came two more figures whom Thomasin recognised. Young John Dudley, her friend from last year, and beside him… She blinked. It could not be … the unmistakeable person of her own father.
Thomas More beckoned Sir Richard Marwood into an empty seat beside him. Thomasin could hardly believe her eyes; then she recalled what More had mentioned whilst they were at Windsor — that her father had been at court back before the spring. Was it a coincidence that he had returned at the same time as Cromwell?
It was the first time Thomasin had seen her father in six months, the longest she had been apart from him. He was not looking her way, but as Thomasin watched, barely able to contain herself, Margaret leaned across, spoke a few words and then pointed at the opposite stand.
Richard sought his daughter with his eyes. He was looking well, in a brown and red doublet and feathered cap, but his beard was greyer, and there was a look of tiredness about him. Finally, he found her, raised his hand to wave and broke into a smile.
Thomasin waved back, enthusiastically.
“Look,” she said to Ellen beside her, “my father is here, look.”
Ellen was waving too, but there was an edge of doubt to her voice. “But your uncle is not?”
Thomasin’s uncle, Matthew Russell, was the father of Ellen’s estranged husband Barnaby. He had welcomed them all to his London house last autumn, and had always been kind to Ellen, especially after the truth had emerged about Barnaby’s betrayal of her with her own sister.
Thomasin scoured the crowd. “No, I see no sign of him.”
Ellen looked relieved. “I don’t think I am ready to face him yet, especially after that unpleasant letter.”
“I understand, but he is most ashamed of his son, and you are always welcome at Monk’s Place. I wonder why Father is here, though.”
“Perhaps More invited him.”
“Maybe.”
But Thomasin could not escape the sinister connection that Cromwell had also reappeared at the same time, recalling the way the minister had pressurised her father to work for him last autumn.
Trumpets announced the first challengers. The crowds on both sides of the lists grew attentive. At the far end of the field, where flags fluttered from striped tents, the riders appeared, all co-ordinated in red and silver. In a line, they rode slowly around the outside of the field, visors up, while the herald announced their names: Sir George Boleyn, Sir Henry Norris, Sir Francis Bryan, Sir Thomas Grey, Rafe Danvers and Henry Courtenay, Marquess of Exeter.
“Gertrude’s husband,” Ellen whispered, as the final gentleman passed them by.
Thomasin watched him pass. Courtenay was a cousin and close friend of the king, raised alongside him. The two men did not look dissimilar.
As he passed by, his eyes were searching the stands, and Thomasin saw the moment he spotted Gertrude and raised his hand in greeting. In response, she lifted out of her seat a little and gave a restrained but genuine wave, one eye upon Catherine.
“No doubt they’ll have the chance to reunite later,” whispered Ellen, who had also observed their exchange.
The dazzling riders took up their positions on the opposite side, with squires clustering about them to tighten saddles, adjust straps and offer wine. It was not difficult for Thomasin to pick out Rafe Danvers from among them, and now she had the chance to observe him while he was occupied, she indulged herself, watching his back, his wide shoulders and long limbs. Briefly, he removed his headpiece and she saw the blue-black locks, thick and full, returning her straight to the memory of running her fingers through them, of the intimate kiss they’d shared at her uncle’s house. It would have been so easy to give in, to grant him what he desired: what she had desired too! But that would surely have led to her ruin. She would not be here, in the queen’s household, but back in the Suffolk countryside, waiting for the scandal to pass. She knew she had been right, but passion deep inside her still yearned for him, longed to feel his touch. Those dangerous ideas she had chased last autumn, of an individual setting their own path, could so easily have tipped into self-destruction.
No, she thought, straightening in her seat, she had been right to control her desires. Catherine’s example had taught her the value of discipline and restraint. It became a lady far more than the passionate outbursts that seemed to define Anne Boleyn and her interactions with the king. At that moment, Rafe turned and looked right up to the stands, as if he had felt her eyes upon him. And there it was again. That shiver of desire, for all her convictions. Those dark brows, the deep pools of his eyes, the brooding lips. She pretended to pick at a thread on her gown.
Were there two conflicting selves within her? The one which was ruled by prudence, judgement, experience, and the other like a well of desire that threatened to bubble over? Would it ever be possible to reconcile them?
The trumpets came again, followed by the voice of the herald announcing the defendants. Into the field appeared the opposition, in white and green: the Duke of Suffolk, Sir William Compton, Sir William Carey, Sir William Hatton, Charles Collins and Hugh Truegood, riding in slow procession, their horses trapped in silver and white, embroidered with green leaves and hung with little bells.
Ellen broke into Thomasin’s thoughts. “He is handsome, isn’t he? In spite of everything.”
At once, unbidden, Thomasin’s mind flew back to Rafe. How could Ellen know the desires she was suppressing?
“Hugh Truegood? Don’t you think?”
Thomasin realised her mistake. “Hugh, why yes, there is no denying that.”
“I know you found him difficult…”
“Not difficult exactly, more hard going. He’s nice enough. We just didn’t seem to connect.”
