Taking her seat, Thomasin fought back the unexpected emotion that threatened to spill into tears, and one look at Catherine showed her the queen was trying to do the same.
TWENTY-FIVE
The sun was setting behind the hill, bathing the palace gardens in evening light. A charmed, golden light that caught the red brick and set it afire, lit the grassy paths and delved deep into the hearts of the flowers. Catherine had granted them an hour for exercise, while she wrote to her daughter, miles away in Ludlow. Gertrude had flown away to see her husband, Exeter, Mary was dozing, and Maria was walking with her little daughter. Three days had passed since the confrontation in the hall and Catherine had since chosen to dine in her rooms.
Ellen and Thomasin linked arms as they walked through the archway into the main park. Midsummer was only a few weeks away. The days were getting longer, the sun rose earlier and earlier, and it felt pleasantly warm upon their skin.
“It is truly a beautiful palace,” said Ellen, looking back at the chimneys and windows of Greenwich Palace, bright and abundant. Strings of smoke rose up into the clear blue sky. “I prefer it to Windsor and Hampton. There is more space here, too, and more privacy. And it’s so beautiful. I understand why it’s a favourite.”
Thomasin’s eyes were among the roses as Ellen chattered on.
“I can scarcely believe so much time has passed already. Summer is upon us. I know the king and queen used to go on progress, but I wonder if fears of illness, or their current breach will stop them. I would like to see more parts of the country. I’d like to go wherever Hugh is, though. I don’t want us to be parted at this delicate stage, don’t you think? Thomasin?”
“Sorry. Yes. No, I agree.”
“What’s the matter with you?”
“I’m tired, I think. Just tired.”
“Those truckle beds are not comfortable. It’s always Maria who gets to share the queen’s bed, with all that space and those cushions. I’d like to try it for one night.”
“Maria is her oldest friend. They’ve been friends for longer than I have been alive!”
Ellen shrugged. “Just one night, although I probably couldn’t sleep through Catherine’s snores!”
They giggled, a little guiltily.
Ahead, the path led two ways, one back towards the walled garden and the other towards the tilt yard. Ellen chose for them, heading back to the arena where they had witnessed the men riding at the ring.
It was quiet now, the wooden stands just empty rows awaiting an audience. The ground had been freshly sanded, but was still pitted with more recent horse hooves. At the far end, the tilting ring still hung from its frame, swaying slightly in the breeze. Three young men had gathered round it, one mounted with a lance, but no armour, as they discussed tactics. Thomasin recognised Hugh Truegood at once, if by nothing but Ellen’s reaction. Charles Collins was also there, mounted on the horse, and in the shade on the other side of the ring, stood William Hatton.
Thomasin stopped, just as Ellen was pulling forwards. Truegood had seen her and was already bidding his friends goodbye. The sun was bright in his auburn hair.
Thomasin unlaced their arms. “Go, don’t worry. But I cannot stomach Hatton, so I’ll go back to the roses. I will see you back at the queen’s apartments. Go.”
Ellen did not need to be told twice, but hurried forwards. Thomasin waited to see her meet Truegood, beaming smiles, then turned back to the garden, alone.
It was not far back to Paradise. The scents reached her before she entered the flowery paths, somehow more intense in the evening light, having been gently warmed throughout the day. Thomasin plunged into the central circle walk, trailing her fingertips against the clusters of petals; white, pink and yellow. It was a perfume that spoke of luxury, daubed at the jawbone, stuffed into a pomander or distilled into water, for handwashing in a crystal basin. The rose seemed to her a symbol of the height of the summer, of abundance, hope and long days. She was drawn to a particular variety, a sort of pinkish-apricot colour, but streaked in darker orange, whose petals clustered closely to make a really dense, tight flower. Stretching up slightly, she bent the stem down to brush against her nose, cheeks and lips. The scent was exquisite.
“Meeting someone?”
The unexpected voice, so close, startled her. Looking up, Thomasin was horrified to see Rafe Danvers a few yards away, apparently quite alone. His head of dark curls was visible above the tall bushes.
She turned away at once, recalling his harsh accusations and intending to leave.
“Please, wait. I want to apologise.”
He appeared around the side in his habitual black, but with white collar and cuffs, embroidered in the fashionable blackwork style. He had her for a few moments, but she resolved to give him nothing.
“I behaved badly towards you the other night. I can scarcely recall what I said, but I know that I had far too much to drink and I am sure I spoke unforgivably. It would have been entirely due to my own shortcomings, of jealousy or frustration, I am sure. None of it was deserved by you, or justified in the slightest. I offer my sincerest apologies.”
His words gave her pause. Never had she heard Rafe so sincere before. But she could not help questioning his motives; always there was another master with him, a higher purpose, or a lower one.
“And now I am certain I have lost your good opinion entirely.”
“You do not think that was lost last autumn?”
He held up his hands. “Fair enough. But I truly am sorry and regret those words.”
