A knock upon the outer door sounded, interrupting them.
Thomasin was closest to the door. She went through the parlour and into the antechamber, feeling the ring’s strange weight and cold presence. It was not the servants waiting outside, but Mountjoy, looking tired.
“The queen is dressing.”
“I will wait,” he said wearily, stepping inside. “What is her mood this evening?”
“She is a little tired,” Thomasin explained, not giving away anything about their exchange.
“She is not upset?”
“Why?”
“The court is buzzing tonight. All sorts of rumours are flying.”
Thomasin thought at once of the Venetians, then of Jane Boleyn and her sorry predicament. It must be difficult to keep secrets in such a place as this.
“Oh? What rumours?”
“Do not tell the queen, but they are whispering that Anne is with child.”
Thomasin’s jaw dropped. “Is that possible?”
“It is not impossible, certainly, as the king assures us he is a man like any other. Don’t forget he already has one bastard child, the little duke Henry, who lives at Durham House. But I had thought Anne was denying him her bed, so I do not think it is the case, yet the tongues wag.”
“You do not believe it, then? It would be most injurious to the queen.”
“I do not believe it. Nor what they say about his plans for the boy. It is also rumoured that the king will wed him to his daughter, the Princess Mary, in order to secure his line.”
“But that cannot be. They are half-brother and sister.”
Mountjoy shrugged. “Such things can happen, and often do in Europe. I give it no credence, but it shows just how desperate the king is perceived to be. His performance tonight with Anne did not help. He has retired to her chambers now, where they drink wine as the minstrels play.”
Again, Thomasin thought of Jane, lying in her bed with the agony of her loss, while her sister-in-law entertained the king. Surely Anne knew what she was going through? She resolved to send Jane some wine and comfits later. “It seems to me,” she pronounced, “that people have nothing better to do on a summer’s evening than to spread ridiculous gossip.”
“You are right, of course, but such words can still cause harm. I am glad they have not reached the queen.”
“No, so far as I know, they have not, and will never do so from me.”
“I am glad to hear it. I will leave you, then, assuming all is well. The king plans to ride out tomorrow, early, into the park, but he will be returning for dinner.”
“Very well, I shall inform the queen.”
Mountjoy got up to leave, but in the doorway he paused. The flickering candlelight caught his profile. “One other thing. One of the cooks has been taken ill. There may be nothing in it. She has no signs of the sweat, but there are one or two spots on her cheeks. I saw her myself an hour ago. She has been isolated, of course, and will be checked on in the morning. As I said, I am confident it is not the sweat, but you should be aware. Do not alarm the queen yet. With God’s grace it may come to nothing.”
“I pray that it is so. Goodnight, my Lord.”
He looked down at her hand upon the door. “Nice ring.”
Thomasin looked him in the eye. “Thank you.”
Catherine was in bed by the time Thomasin returned. Propped up against double pillows, dressed in her white night cap, she was small and fierce-looking between the curtains.
“I heard Mountjoy’s voice,” she said. “What did he want?”
“He was just checking to see how you fared, but he did not wish to interrupt you,” Thomasin replied. “He said the king is hunting tomorrow morning but will be back for dinner.”
“Hunting with her?”
