She nodded and turned her eyes back to the field, where the birds were rising again and responding to their masters’ calls. The eyes of the crowd were upon them, the courtiers and servants alike enthralled by the creatures’ rhythmic circling motions. Two, three, then four in the sky. Then, with a quick whistle, they turned at the same moment, diving down, and tucked back into the earth in breath-taking unison. He was right, Thomasin thought, it was art. An art they took seriously.
“You attend the queen?”
His voice was softer, that lilting accent sweeter and more lyrical than that of the other Venetians, and she wondered at the difference, but she had no frames of reference. Perhaps he was educated, or from a noble family, or had been sent to be educated in one of the other Italian states, or somewhere else entirely.
“Yes, I am one of her ladies.”
“I see she is fortunate in her ladies.”
Thomasin kept her eyes on the falcons, feeling no obligation to reply to his compliment.
“I have found you English women to be something of an enigma,” he added, with a little playful note.
She turned her head slightly, so he could not see her smile.
“But I think you are kept on a tight leash, like songbirds in a cage.”
Thomasin’s feathers were ruffled by this comment. She stared ahead.
“Do you ever get to fly free?” he asked.
Again, she watched the birds.
“To be your own mistress? Do you know how that feels?”
She turned her head with a little rush of irritation, but he was already backing away into the crowd.
“I am still watchful of the Venetians,” whispered Ellen, as she linked arms with Thomasin in the dance. “And I think them as slippery as eels.”
The queen’s party had exchanged the falcons in the lower ward for flights of their own in the hall. A striking tune was playing as they took up their partners, Ellen with one of the gentlemen ushers and Thomasin with John Dudley.
“And how does your little son fare, John? What is his name?” Thomasin asked her friend as they came back together, alongside the other pair. The dance required them to work in a four, back and forth, with swift steps in a circle.
“He is John,” Dudley laughed, “named after me, but finally sleeping much better than I ever do, and growing good and hearty.”
“And Jane? Is she well? I hope to see her properly ere long.”
“I am certain that you will. She tires of the country and longs for court life.”
“Will she come to court?”
“Soon enough.”
“Here, or to the king’s court?”
Dudley smiled. “I think she hopes to escape that conundrum by waiting until the king and queen are in the same place again.”
Thomasin nodded, passing by his side. “Your wife is a very wise woman.”
“I would not have married her otherwise, although, to be fair, she did accept my proposal.”
He turned to face her, smiling at his jest and joining the line of male dancers. Thomasin was aware of the Venetians in the next group, with their flamboyant moves and the light catching their bright clothing. Vernier had partnered Maria Willoughby and was dancing close to the dais where Catherine sat. It was rare these days that Catherine participated in any kind of formal dancing, preferring to watch her younger ladies perform.
At the side, More and the Ropers were conversing with Blount and Vives. Thomasin wished she could be among them, listening to their talk, their faces intent upon ideas and their laughter arising at the jokes and wordplay she imagined flying between them. Margaret Roper was looking particularly well, in a bodice laced with silver and with her dark hair pulled back under a green and cream bonnet.
The closing steps of the dance were being played. Verniers had left his Spanish partner already, as the others made their bows, and had moved swiftly onto bended knee before Catherine. He seemed to be making some impassioned speech, quite unsuitable for the occasion and the company. Thomasin caught Ellen’s eye again as they completed the formalities of the dance, and an understanding passed between them. As soon as they could get away, both women hurried forward to Catherine.
“My Lady,” offered Ellen, interrupting Vernier mid-flow. “Is there anything we can do for you?”
