The women watched him go.
“He is rather attentive,” Margaret commented. “Mary Boleyn’s husband, is he not?”
Thomasin was unsure whether or not to feel a criticism in the observation. She felt a rush of protection towards Will Carey. “He is a true gentleman.”
“I can see that. I couldn’t help but hear him, too. A good man, I think.”
Something about her judgement pleased Thomasin, although she could not have explained why.
“But this dancing is awkward,” Margaret continued. “I feel for the queen.”
The dramatic moment came again. With a sudden pause, the dancers froze, waited and resumed. Henry held the stillness with them, then laughed aloud as they resumed their steps. Even in his slashed velvet and gold chains, Henry was a skilled dancer, quick to pick up a new routine, yet he still looked to Anne to guide him in this. As the women watched, he turned the wrong way and almost collided with Henry Norris, before drawing back to correct himself.
“I will have it,” he protested. “I will conquer it!”
The dance seemed to bring out some competitive element in him, rising to a challenge. Perhaps, thought Thomasin, it had been brought on by the tilting earlier, and now he needed to master what Anne offered; a thinly veiled display of his personal desires.
“My Lord, you will keep us dancing until midnight if that’s what you need to conquer it!” William Compton laughed. It was a daring comment, verging on criticism. Only Compton, with his close friendship with Henry, might get away with it.
Fortunately, Henry was in high spirits, his mood robust. “Have a care, Compton. I shall keep you dancing until dawn if I require it.”
Across the hall, the troop of Venetians arrived in their colourful ensembles, taking up a position together and holding back while their eyes searched the room. Vervier seemed particularly on edge, and eventually wove his way through the crowd towards Catherine.
“Who are they?” Margaret asked.
“Ah,” Thomasin smiled. “These are the notorious ambassadors from Venice. I met them before at Windsor, but they displeased the queen there.”
“It would seem he is trying to make amends now.”
As they watched, Vervier knelt before Catherine, hoping for her attention. Without breaking off her conversation with Maria, though, the queen merely inclined her head very slightly, and turned away. The snub was undeniable. Vervier, the slick, polished Vervier, who had so charmed her before with his honeyed words and gifts, who had danced and strutted his Venetian heart out, rose slowly and adjusted his hat, before creeping away. He did not make it back to his fellows, though, as Thomas Boleyn, with his arch smile, was waiting to intercept him for private words. Thomasin wondered what he might have to say.
Henry’s laughter rang through the hall. He had Anne by the hand and was turning about with her, until they were dizzy. The complex dance had been interrupted, usurped for his own purpose, and those around them paused, uncertain of what to do next.
“Play something else, and we will dance,” Henry commanded. “One of my favourites; we’ll have no more of this French puffing like peacocks. Play on!”
The musicians rapidly struck up a new chord and the formation on the floor changed again.
That was when Thomasin saw her father enter the hall. He was looking well, if a little careworn, and his expression was serious. Richard Marwood had once held a prestigious role at court, close to the king himself, in his much younger days, but he had shied away from intrigue and politics, preferring the life of a country Justice of the Peace. Behind him came Thomas Cromwell, steering Richard slightly with a touch to his elbow. From his body language, Thomasin sensed her father’s discomfort, and felt at once that his presence at Greenwich was not through his own choosing.
She half rose in her seat, trying to catch his attention. Richard was looking around, and he caught her eye and made his apologies to Cromwell.
“My daughter!” He came forward to embrace her, his face splitting into a wide smile. Thomasin stepped into his arms. She had always been closer to her father, sharing the same pragmatic temperament, whilst her elder sister Cecilia was more like their mother, Elizabeth.
“How are you? What brings you here?”
“I am well, very well. As you look, too. All is well at home, I assure you.”
“With mother? Her health is good?”
Last autumn, Elizabeth Marwood had consulted some of the best doctors in London about the malady in her chest, which had been afflicting her for almost two years.
“She is living very simply, as the doctors advise, and her pain is much reduced.”
“Oh, that is good to hear. And Cecilia, and the younger children?”
“All well and happy. It is so good to see you. Still in the queen’s employ?”
“I am, as is Ellen over there.” Thomasin gestured towards her cousin, who was sitting with Hugh Truegood further down the hall. “We have moved around to escape the sweat, with success so far.”
