“I hope he does not judge you too harshly, after the leniency he affords his sisters.”
“Very apt.” He nodded. “Now, go, please, back to the queen. I will find a way to speak with you soon, but do not be troubled.”
Thomasin watched him hurry away, then walked back through the line of nodding blooms.
Ellen was waiting impatiently. “There you are! I was almost coming to look for you.”
The queen and her other ladies were nowhere in sight. “Where is everyone?”
“That’s the thing. Bishop Foxe has returned. Henry is receiving him in his chambers. We had a tip off and the queen has hurried there, come on!”
TWENTY-FOUR
Thomasin’s heart beat hard, drumming in her chest. Her breath came short as she hurried through the palace, following Ellen along corridors and up the staircase. A crowd had already gathered in the watching chamber that led through to Henry’s private apartments. People were jostling for precedence, each trying to inch closer to the doors ahead, trying to catch a few of the words being spoken within.
All fear of the pox seemed to have been set aside in the face of news from Rome. Pushing through, Thomasin saw William Compton sitting on a bench, with Henry Norris and Francis Bryan deep in conversation at the side. Thomas Wyatt and Thomas Grey were also waiting, nodding as Henry Courtenay was lecturing them on diplomatic affairs. Further along, Charles Collins and Hugh Truegood had taken a more light-hearted approach, playing cards at one of the trestles, and Truegood looked up to smile as Ellen approached.
“He has been here a half hour already,” explained Truegood, beckoning them over. “Straight from the road with dust on his boots. But the king will admit no one.”
“Not even the queen?” asked Ellen.
“I saw her pass through, certainly, but I think he may have refused her.”
Thomasin and Ellen exchanged glances.
“It’s a sad day,” said Collins, shaking his head in sympathy with Catherine.
At far door, William Hatton was idling about, fiddling with the gold aglets at his wrists, then raking his fingers through his blond hair. He looked them up and down, no doubt recalling his recent conversation with Thomasin’s father. “Youcan’t go inthere.”
But at that point, Maria appeared on the other side and beckoned them through. The guards stood aside. Thomasin did not try to conceal her smile, but kept her eyes ahead, as if Hatton did not exist.
In the antechamber, Catherine was seated upon one of two chairs with carved legs. The depths of her fury could be read in her expression. Maria, Gertrude and Mary waited nervously, and Mountjoy stood behind them, but the doors to the king’s private chambers were shut fast. Catherine waved for them to stand behind her. By way of warning, Maria pressed her fingers against her lips. Catherine was listening as best she could.
Thomasin took her place, her heart aching for Catherine. To be denied entry to her husband’s chamber was bad enough, as she had witnessed that night at Windsor. But to be denied publicly, in such a matter as this, was beyond endurance. Catherine truly had the patience of a saint, she thought.
Presently, Bishop Mendoza came limping into the chamber, also vetted by the guards. At once Catherine indicated for him to sit beside her on the other chair, in front of Thomasin. He did so in complete silence, easing his old bones down in relief, shifting about to find his comfortable spot. He had the scent of smoke and salted fish about him.
It must have been about half an hour, if not more, that they waited in the agonising still of the anteroom. No one came in, and no one left the king’s apartments, but the doors remained solidly closed. The guards had received clear instructions.
Thomasin allowed her mind to return to Will Carey. She had not expected the kiss in the rose garden, but nor had she anticipated the warning he had been given about her. It must have been Rafe who warned him off, although Will had not directly confirmed it. Coming, as it did, just shortly after her unpleasant run-in with him the other night, and his words about meeting a married man, it was simply too much of a coincidence not to have been him. But what were his motives? Surely not jealousy? Or a genuine desire to protect her reputation? Bitterness, perhaps?
And she had kissed Will, that second time. She hardly knew what had come over her, except in that moment, it had been what she’d wanted to do. Now she scarcely knew where it left them, but while she was hardly overcome with desire as she had been with Rafe, it had been pleasant and she suspected that, given the chance, she might do it again. She would not let herself dwell, at the moment, on what it might mean.
Come to think of it, Thomasin had seen no sign of Rafe in the watching chamber, nor any of the Boleyn faction. She wondered whether George Boleyn had caught up with Will, and what had passed between them. Or might be doing so, right now.
The doors finally cracked open, catching them by surprise.
A long shaft of light from the king’s room spilled out in a measured line at their feet. A figure stepped into it, in a long coat with a fur collar and square cap. Thomasin recoiled at the sight of Thomas Cromwell, aware now of his persistent efforts to make use of her father.
Cromwell could not avoid bowing to Catherine, but then he went on his way. The doors remained open, allowing Catherine the opportunity to enter as quickly as she could rise.
Inside the king’s private parlour, Henry was seated by the hearth, while Wolsey stood behind him. Opposite them, the man in the cloak and boots had to be Bishop Foxe. A second man stood beside him, also in travelling clothes. Both looked drained. Thomasin suspected the king had subjected them to a relentless round of questions. Also inside, to her surprise, were Thomas and George Boleyn.
“My Lord.” Catherine bowed low and waited. Her ladies followed suit.
“News travels almost as fast as the pox in this court,” Henry retorted. “So you would know my business?”
“I would know my business, My Lord, nothing more.”
