“Da Vinci has not yet reached Suffolk?”
“I confess I have no idea of who he is. A courtier of some kind?”
Margaret’s eyes lit up. “Where shall I begin? I will have to show you sometime; Father has copies of a few sketches he made. He is nothing less thantherenaissance itself. The universal man, the polymath, artist, inventor, scientist, architect.”
“Will he ever come to England?”
“Sadly he is dead these past ten years. Such a man we shall never see again. Father speaks of him often.” She turned to Thomas More, as if to speak of it, but he only smiled gently, deep in conversation with Bishops Fisher and Mendoza.
The chords changed. Before their eyes, the dancers whirled about, stopped and froze. There was a moment of unexpected stillness, immobility, in the heart of the dance. Conversations stopped, heads turned. Then the dancers sprang to life again and leapt into the air, much to the delight of the crowd. Laughter and a burst of applause rang out at their athleticism. Anne landed elegantly, and was at once snaking around the circle, brushing past Thomasin with the hem of her dress, so that her golden slippers were visible. George Boleyn followed, his long, toned legs in white stockings.
There was an unfamiliar rhythm to the music too, Thomasin thought, tuning her ear to the rapid change of chords, which had slipped into a minor key. It was not an unpleasant sound, but it felt an odd mixture to her; upbeat and swift, then suddenly overwhelmed by melancholy. No doubt the latest in French fashion, far too complex and shifting for solid English tastes, where songs were more predictable and formulaic. Cecilia had once joked that the court songs liked a good thump before finishing with a burr, like the death of a heart. Thomasin had always found it easier for her feet to follow known patterns, rather than be tripped up by sudden change, but this new style intrigued her.
Henry seemed enraptured by the performance. While Catherine had retired to the dais with Maria for company, the king was standing by the fireplace, watching intently with his narrowed eyes, clapping his hands on occasion, as if he was committing the dance to memory.
It did not appear easy. As Thomasin watched, Gertrude whirled past, led by her husband. Henry Courtenay had called upon her to take part, even though she did not know the steps, but he was keen to be beside her after six months apart. It was a little inconsiderate, Thomasin thought, as she saw Gertrude put one wrong foot after another and blush. Courtenay was more concerned with his own pleasure than her discomfort. Yet all eyes were upon Anne, so scarcely anyone saw Gertrude’s awkwardness.
The dance drew to a close, the final chords sounded and the participants formed an outward-looking circle, with glowing faces as they made their curtsey or bow.
Henry stepped forward, clapping his hands sharply to the musicians. “Again, again, I have it, I have the steps, let me show you. Play it again.”
“Are you sure, My Lord?” asked Anne. “You do not wish to see it one more time?”
“I can’t wait. I have it, or most of it. You will guide me. I must dance!”
Francis Bryan withdrew so that Henry might take his place, and the dancers lined up for a second time. Anticipation settled on the room as the king replicated the first steps with Anne at his side.
Catherine turned away.
“Here you are. Not dancing?”
Thomasin turned to see William Carey, changed from his tilting colours into a soft grey doublet.
“Not dancing to this, I do not know the steps. Neither are you, though.”
“Again, it is not a dance I know, and Anne no longer invites me to participate. I am no longer a favourite.” His playful smile betrayed that he considered this no great loss.
“You did well at the tilt,” Thomasin offered in consolation.
Carey had acquitted himself with grace and success, scoring highly against Thomas Grey, his pairing from the challengers.
“You saw?”
“Of course. Everyone saw. You did very well.”
He seemed pleased that she had noticed, but quickly tried to bury his pride. “It’s been a while since I rode at the ring, with the sweat and other business. You should have seen me joust in France, at the Field of Gold; that was my finest hour. Still, it pleased the king. He is in a good mood.”
“He is indeed,” Thomasin smiled, watching Henry make a complex turn and quickly shuffle his feet to keep pace with the others. She shuffled along the bench to make space for her friend. “You must be tired now; won’t you sit down?”
“You are very thoughtful, but I am thirsty before I am tired. I was about to offer to bring you some wine?”
Thomasin had grown a little warm in the crowded hall. “I would be grateful, thank you.”
Carey nodded, loosening his collar. “It does seem unusually hot in here, and I am not even dancing. Mistress Roper, a glass for you too?”
Margaret turned in appreciation. “Thank you, yes.”
He smiled. “I will not be a moment.”
