Thomasin looked over to where the rest of the queen’s household were turning out to view the entertainment. They came out of the bowels of the castle, the middling employees from the laundry and wardrobe, cellars and antechambers, summoned by anticipation, leaving behind their work and empty corridors. The only people left inside were toiling over the boiling pots and roasting spits, or sweeping the straw out of corners or swilling the soiled pots.
The castle ran on a strict system where everyone knew their place and none were foolish enough to step outside it. Now those middle servants took seats on wooden benches or leaning against the wall, surprised by the sudden holiday. Thomasin knew them by their faces and roles: the girl who lit the fire, the man who brought the water or the fresh linen. The little red-haired seamstress who had mended Thomasin’s hem returned her look with a smile. It was a revelation to see just how many people were involved in the complicated machinery of the court, especially as this was only the queen’s court.
Thomasin’s eyes were drawn back to the green. Four tall stands, or posts, were being prepared for action, where the keeper of the queen’s birds was tending to the falcons. The birds sat patiently on these, each on their own little platform, hooded and tied by the foot, awaiting their orders, and Thomasin could not help but feel that in some way, their situation echoed hers.
It wasn’t that she disliked her position with the queen; serving Catherine was a quiet, busy and sober task, in her chamber and chapel, and although she frequently proved to be a generous, kindly mistress, Thomasin sometimes paused, took a breath and found the days merging together. There was a restlessness inside her now, a sense of unease that had grown, day by day, through the long, dark months.
They’d been stuck at Windsor for so long, through the entombed winter, that she longed to see a different view. Her feet itched to walk down paths outside the castle walls, and even their rides into the forest now felt familiar. If only she could glimpse London or Suffolk, or anywhere in between, any place new would do. She looked across the ward, which was filling up with members of the queen’s household. If nothing else, the ambassadors’ visit was a splash of colour amid the routine.
Lord Mountjoy approached Catherine and bowed low. “My Lady, Thomas More has arrived.” His face betrayed his pleasure; the pair had been friends since their youth.
“More? It has been a while. Send him across to join us.”
Thomasin looked up at the name. Last autumn, she had been fortunate enough to speak with More and his eldest daughter, Margaret, on a few occasions, so that she felt bold enough to call them friends. They were an intelligent, cultured family, and she had enjoyed the time she spent with them. More’s thoughts about an ideal society, outlined in his bookUtopia, had taken hold of her mind, although she’d not have the chance to explore them further due to her duties at Windsor. Instead, it hovered at the edges of her world like a new landscape, visible and waiting to be discovered.
More’s tall, lean figure was instantly recognisable as he headed across the grass, wrapped in brown furs and wearing his habitual expression of interest. His dark eyes were intent, almost fierce. Yet he was looking older and more tired, and Thomasin wondered how much the king had been calling upon his services lately. His knowledge of canon law was second to none, and Henry’s marital dilemma demanded that no stone be left unturned. No doubt More had been burning the candles late into the night at Westminster.
Behind him came the familiar face of Margaret Roper, with her beautiful dark eyes and long, sharp nose, and her husband, the constant, steady William. With them were a small party of gentlemen and women, among whom Thomasin recognised the strong features of John Dudley, son of her father’s old ally. The thrill of seeing friends for the first time in months seized her, so that she longed to jump up and wave as they were conducted down to the seating by the braziers. But there would be time afterwards, Thomasin told herself, time to smile and talk, and to renew the acquaintance. She would ask More what he was writing, and Margaret what she was reading. John’s wife Jane had borne a little boy last year, who must be almost four months old now.
“Thomas!” beamed Catherine as he approached. More and his companions bowed low. “It is a pleasure to see you at Windsor. What brings you here today?”
“We come from Hampton Court, where we have been guests of the cardinal this past week.”
The changes in Catherine’s face were barely perceptible at the mention of Cardinal Wolsey, but her personal dislike of the man was well-known.
“And is the cardinal well?” she asked pointedly.
“We left him in good health,” admitted More, moving closer so that his voice did not travel so far. Thomasin strained to hear him. “But not in such good spirits. Like all of us, he is troubled by this business and longs for its resolution.”
“I expect he is,” replied Catherine, “but I doubt the resolution he seeks bears any resemblance to that which I desire. Tell me, does he still hope for a French princess for the king?”
“He has quite given up that scheme now, I believe. His eyes have been entirely opened to the king’s true intentions concerning Mistress Boleyn, and she is no friend to him, no matter how much he courts her favour.”
“No, I think she is not. There is bad blood between them, at least on her side.”
Anne Boleyn had never forgiven Wolsey for breaking her engagement to Henry Percy when she had first come to court, years ago. They had been betrothed in secret, but Wolsey had intervened to prevent the match. What had seemed a mere trifle to the cardinal then, now returned to bite him.
Catherine inclined her head. “We will speak of this at greater length after the display. You must join me for the dancing. Come, take your seats. The falcons are ready to fly.”
The falconers had taken their positions at either end of the ward. One sent his bird up with the long, practised throw of his arm, so that it soared overhead on wide, powerful wings. Thomasin watched its graceful path as it fought against the currents of air, high overhead. How different the scene must look from up above, with all the people, and even the castle appearing small and insignificant below. What a big world it must seem to a bird and yet, how accessible, how traversable, how free.
A shrill whistle brought the falcon back down, swooping quickly, as if closing in upon its prey. It was a streak of feathers behind the curved talons, bracing itself as it shot down, fastening onto the keeper’s glove. After the motion, there was stillness.
Then the cry came. “Fly!”
A second bird rose into the air, followed by the third, circling together in a majestic dance. They followed the vagaries of the wind, rising and falling, coming together, then breaking apart, before being summoned again by their keepers and returning to the gloves.
“They are beautiful, are they not?”
One of the Venetians had stolen up behind Thomasin. She understood at once that he had singled her out, slipping into her shadow and speaking to her softly. It was not the tall, wide-eyed Matteo, to whom she had spoken earlier, but a slight, slender man, about her own height. As soon as she was aware of him, she caught his scent: a sharp, musky perfume that carried her away from the ward for a moment.
Thomasin allowed herself to glance at him briefly, but it was long enough to see the exotic, deep golden eyes and arched brows above them. She had never seen eyes that colour before, but they made her think of frankincense or myrrh, or something equally rare and precious.
He noticed her attention. And her silence. “It has been made into such an art form in England.”
It took her a moment to realise he was speaking about the display. “You don’t fly falcons in Venice?”
“Oh yes, we do, but not with such ritual and skill. It is quite magnificent to see.”
