Thomasin slowly climbed back up the steps into the great hall. She was not a moment too late. The party was over. Catherine was rising from her seat and gathering her ladies about her. Ellen and Gertrude were arranging her skirts. Mendoza was being helped down to his quarters, leaning heavily upon the strong arms of Henry Norris and Francis Bryan. Fisher had retired for the night and Mountjoy was making a quick survey of the hall. On one side, Charles Brandon was enjoying a final drink and conversing with Maria Willoughby and her young daughter, Catherine, a pretty, dark, obedient child of nine or ten, wearing a white dress.
Thomasin hurried over to join Catherine, trying to compose herself and not betray Will’s news.
“Where have you been, Mistress Marwood?” asked Catherine. “You know better than to go wandering off at night.”
“Forgive me, My Lady, I was bidding farewell to my father, who returns to the country. I did not wish to disturb you in conversation before.”
“Very well.” Catherine nodded. “Come, now I am tired. We shall depart for my rooms.”
Thomasin saw Catherine wince in pain as she stood up. She took a moment, then pushed her spine forward and began the slow walk. Her ladies followed. Maria and her daughter joined them at the door.
“Good night, My Lady,” said Brandon, bowing low.
Catherine inclined her head. “A good night to you, my friend. Always one of the loyal ones, Suffolk.” Before reaching the doorway, she paused again. “Gertrude? You are dismissed from my service this evening, if you wish. Go to your husband. You have been long apart.”
Gertrude stammered, open-mouthed. “Are you sure, My Lady? You will not require me?”
“I am more than amply attended. Be back before breakfast to help me dress.”
Gertrude dropped a curtsey. “Thank you, My Lady, thank you so much.” And she scurried away at once.
“What a thing it is,” Catherine mused softly, “to desire and be desired in return.”
TWENTY-ONE
The queen’s chambers were cool and dark. Thomasin hurried to place more logs on the fire while Ellen lit the candles. Maria and Mary set about the process of removing the royal headdress and jewels.
Catherine called for wine and a dish of comfits. “How long can she keep this up?” she muttered in despair. “Fluttering around my husband like a moth, confusing his senses. I shall appeal to her mother to take her home to Hever.”
“My Lady?” asked Thomasin, thinking of Nico’s confession.
“What is it?”
“It is not Anne’s mother who needs speaking with. Tonight, I discovered who lay behind the Venetian plot.”
She had Catherine’s full attention. The other women stopped their work and gathered round.
“You are certain?” asked Catherine. “Tell all.”
Thomasin took a breath. “I know the Venetians are slippery as eels, but there is one man among them who has a semblance of honour, who has proved himself a friend to Your Majesty. His name is Nico Amato and I saw him again this evening, and spoke with him. I asked about their plot, and who lay behind it.”
She looked at her captive audience: Catherine impatient, Ellen wide-eyed, Maria cynical, Mary agog.
“It was not Wolsey. Nor the initiative of the Venetians by themselves. Nor the emperor, of course, nor the Pope. It was none other than Thomas Boleyn, who asked them to move from Westminster to Windsor and put the ideas in their heads.”
The ladies reacted with disappointment and surprise, rapidly transmuting into cynicism. Catherine held her counsel.
“They were to gather information for the Doge, My Lady,” Thomasin continued, “but it was all to go through Boleyn — all your moves, your plans and thoughts, your correspondence. All to be used against you by that man.”
At that point, Thomasin did not think she could dislike Boleyn more.
Catherine pursed her lips tight. The women around her waited. Slowly, she nodded her head. “I should have known. That man and his family will stop at nothing to destroy me. Boleyn is the very devil himself, to work against God’s will in this way.” She put a hand on Thomasin’s arm. “You have done well. I will never forget your good service.” She pulled a ring from her little finger, a band of gold set with a pearl, and held it out. “Here, take this. I want you to have it; you have earned it.”
Thomasin was almost speechless. “My Lady, I cannot… It’s too much.”
“Please take it.” Catherine would not take no for an answer, placing the ring in Thomasin’s palm. “Go ahead, put it on.”
Thomasin slid it over her middle finger, where it fitted perfectly. Her hand was transformed by it, as if she had suddenly become a countess or duchess. She blushed as the light caught the pearl.
