“I can see that you deserve to be happy, and so does Ellen. It is a pity that it must be this way.”
“We may not always have seen eye to eye, Thomasin, but you are my sister. Ellen had her chance. I’m sorry to be brutal, but there it is. We cannot resolve her situation, nor can Hugh marry a married woman. You have to let this go. And I hope you will give me your blessing.”
They had reached the queen’s rooms again. As Thomasin opened the door, she saw Ellen, sitting in the glow of a candle, lost in thought. And she was filled with a sudden sense that she had betrayed her cousin.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Thomasin re-read the final words of the letter. Thomas More’s words had found their way to her in Sussex — a welcome interruption to the business of Cecilia’s marriage. In his neat, scholarly hand, he described the task put to him by Queen Catherine. On a dull afternoon, a few days ago, with clouds building over the city, he had found himself waiting in a quiet, dark street, away from the bustling crowds. The address had brought him to a run-down lodging house, its plasterwork peeling and splashes of mud from the gutters sprayed halfway up the ground floor. The storeys above were overhanging, but the windows were larger, and all were tightly closed against the noxious odours of humanity. But he had time to spare so he entered, and ordered himself a jar of ale, some bread and cheese and sat patiently.
Eventually, a pair of exhausted horses drew to a halt outside. More had risen to his feet at once, and stepped outside to see a small carriage, inside which a large, elderly gentleman in black reclined upon a mountain of cushions, his legs covered with furs and blankets. His servants were making ready for the slow, laborious process of transferring him from his seat, down the step, over the mud and indoors at last. As he pulled himself slowly upright, the new arrival winced in pain and gripped the carriage door with arthritic fingers.
More introduced himself, stating his purpose and allegiance. An old, gnarled hand reached out to grasp his, and a pair of rheumatic eyes watered gently in his direction. It was not his first time in London, the old man explained. His brother Antonio had already ridden ahead, to announce their arrival at court; no doubt they would be reunited soon. And then that awful, ungodly business must begin, he continued, confident of More’s approval: the undignified struggle of untangling the King of England’s marriage. It was not a task that the cardinal was relishing. In due course, he promised, he would announce his arrival to Queen Catherine and listen to her confession, but for now, as he fumbled forward, all he could do was rest in a darkened room and offer up his grateful prayers.
And so, More concluded in his letter, the long-awaited Cardinal Campeggio had arrived in London. All that remained was for the scholar to wish Thomasin good health, and hope that the wedding was a success, and that he may have the pleasure of her company again, upon her return to court. She folded the paper and tucked it into her travel chest, among her clothes. Then, she slowly rose to her feet and took a deep breath. It was time.
Raycroft Court stood radiant in the October sunshine. The redbrick front shone warmly as Thomasin stepped outside into the morning light and the many mullioned windows gleamed bright. The park had taken on a different mood with the advancement of the season, with leaves still clinging to the trees in shades of red and yellow, while others had shed their coats entirely, giving much work to the busy gardeners. They had been hurrying about for the last two days, sweeping, pruning, and readying everything for the wedding.
It was difficult to believe they had only left this place just over a month ago. How utterly different everything was now, with this second visit. The grounds where they had ridden together, the graceful pond where Ellen had delighted in feeding the fish, the elegant hallway with its carved wooden staircase: all seemed to belong to another world. Thomasin could almost hear Hugh and Ellen’s contented laughter rising and falling along the corridor. Back then, she had been eager to return here soon, to witness what she believed to be an impending wedding. She’d had no idea then that the bride was to be her own sister, instead of her cousin.
She had left Ellen at Westminster. Kissing her cousin’s tear-stained cheek, Thomasin had assured her that she must forget Hugh and his fickle emotions.
“Count yourself blessed that you escaped such a match, where he would listen to everything his friends said, and cast aside that which he truly values.”
“You are right, of course,” replied Ellen, her face composed. “Your words speak to my head, but yet my heart lags behind. Do not write to me. Do not tell me any of the details. I shall pretend it has not happened, then welcome you back to court in two weeks, as if you had just gone out walking in the gardens.”
“I shall not speak a word of it, I promise. If my mother hadn’t written to the queen requesting my attendance, I would remain here with you.”
“I know. You are a good cousin, and the best of friends.”
“Keep yourself busy and do not let your mind run on it.”
“The only advantage of your absence is that I shall have to do your tasks as well as my own, so I shall have no time to be melancholy. Don’t worry about me.”
But Ellen had preyed upon Thomasin’s mind all through the journey into Kent and Sussex, past the very spot where their carriage had broken, past the chimneys of Hever, just visible above the thinning trees. Briefly, she allowed her thoughts to wander back to Lady Boleyn’s letter, to the strange circumstances of its disappearance and rediscovery, to the Duchess of Norfolk’s spite, and Lady Boleyn’s request. How strange it seemed that Lady Boleyn had taken such a liking to Thomasin in that short space of time. How strange that she had asked Anne to take her into her future household — a move that would go against the wishes of Anne and Thomasin herself. She couldn’t help but wonder what the lady had been thinking.
“Ah. Here you are.” Sir Richard appeared outside the hall, beside his younger daughter. “I have sought you everywhere.”
“I’m sorry, Father. I had to escape from all the activity for a little while.”
“Yes, I understand. Your mother is helping Cecilia dress. They are almost ready.”
Thomasin couldn’t reply. She turned back to the view and watched birds rising up from the trees.
“I know you don’t like this match, Thomasin,” he continued. “But it is done now. There is no going back. We must move on and see it for the excellent opportunity it is. Cecilia could have hardly done better.”
Thomasin turned away.
“Remember both bride and groom go into it willingly.”
“Neither has any affection for the other. Cecilia sees a grand house and wealth; Hugh has been told to do this by Suffolk. I am sure they will suit each other very well.”
“Is it any worse than her first, that was arranged with Henry Kytson?”
“Infinitely worse, Father, because of the love that existed between Hugh and Ellen.”
“Remember, this match was arranged by Suffolk and the queen. Both saw Ellen’s marriage as an implacable obstacle, and Cecilia as a more suitable bride. Who are we to argue with them?”
Thomasin could do nothing but bite her tongue. Her experience at court had taught her that the wishes of mere mortals were nothing in comparison with the will of great ones. Perhaps Cecilia had been right, and Thomasin had allowed a romantic vision to cloud her judgement.
