It was a beautiful day, the kind Thomasin liked best. Fresh and light, with delicate sunlight dappled across the road and the leaves stirring on the branches. The air smelled of woodsmoke and earth after rain. The sky was a most royal mid-blue, swathed in banks of white cloud. The carriage rumbled forward, through the London streets, bringing her back to court, back to her service with the queen. And yet, Thomasin’s heart was heavy as lead in her chest.
She had been away from the palace for two weeks. After Hugh and Cecilia had been married, there was a frenzy of celebrations: dinners, hunting, dancing, even fireworks that split the sky into showers of gold and silver, imported from Brussels. Everything had been of the finest quality: Hugh had chosen excellent wine and food, the musicians had been hired from the Imperial court, the walls had been hung with exquisite tapestries and cloths of silver tissue, and the rooms had been scented with sea coal and herbs. Thomasin had watched the newly married couple for signs of happiness or burgeoning love. She wanted to believe that there might be some merit in this match after all, hoping that Ellen’s broken heart was worth it for the sake of Cecilia’s happiness.
At the end of a lively dance, she had caught her sister by the arm, her cheeks aglow from the fire.
“Tell me,” she had insisted, looking into Cecilia’s eyes, “are you content?”
Cecilia had grinned, before whirling away. “Aren’t I lucky? Mistress of all this?”
Thomasin had watched the bride dance away, packed her bags and ordered her carriage back to court. If appreciation was there, perhaps in time affection would grow. If Cecilia had all her material wishes granted, what was to stop her from fulfilling the role of the dutiful wife? But Thomasin knew her sister. The doubts niggled away in the back of her mind, but it was out of her hands now. It was between Cecilia and Hugh to make it work.
The street outside was suddenly familiar. Thomasin looked out of the carriage window to see the palace gates come into view, red brick with the royal crest set in the centre, picked out in gold paint. Once they came to a halt in the courtyard, she jumped out onto the cobbles. The place seemed quiet for early afternoon, with a few stable lads leading out horses to be shod, and a maid sweeping away water from the kitchen steps.
Thomasin made her way inside. This route was familiar to her now, with the cold shade of the passageways, their twists and turns, dark corners and sudden vistas. Light streamed down through the glazed windows as she turned away from the passage connecting the service wing to the hall and along a passage with a dark stone floor. A few more turns and there were now rushes underfoot, torches burning, even pictures behind curtains upon the walls. Then, on her right was the staircase. She had climbed this so often, knowing its angles and shallows, counting out its steps. From the top, she walked forward along the panelled gallery, turning left and then right, through a chamber and into the corridor that led to the queen’s apartments. Again, all seemed very quiet. It was almost as if she had the palace to herself.
The guards admitted her to Catherine’s chambers with looks of surprise. Only a laundress was in the antechamber, gathering up linen. Otherwise, the rooms were empty.
“My Lady went out riding,” the woman explained. “They are dining in the orchards to the north of the city.”
“Just the queen?”
“King and queen together. They’ll be gone until sundown.”
Her words took Thomasin by surprise. So Henry and Catherine were out riding in each other’s company, like the old days. And if Catherine had consented to go, it must only be because Anne was not present. Perhaps the plot of the false mistress, and the rift it had caused between Henry and Anne, had been a success after all.
Thomasin left the quiet rooms and headed down to the walled garden. This place, with its gentle flowers and discreet arbour, had offered shelter to her on many occasions, and also witnessed the kisses she had exchanged with Nico. She thought that he might be waiting for her there now, having returned from Cromwell’s house at Chelsea.
As if Thomasin had summoned him, Nico was sitting there, in a ray of sunshine. His head was bent over some papers he was reading, the light bright in his golden curls. He looked up as she came closer, heading along the gravelled path, then jumped to his feet to greet her.
Approaching, he did not hesitate to lean in and kiss her warmly upon the cheek.
“I had a feeling you would be back. I was thinking of you, and here you are, Thomasin.”
His eyes glowed at her.
“I just arrived, not a half hour ago, but I hear the king and queen are out riding.”
“Yes, it is quiet as the grave here. My master is handling business in the city and I have been left reading his correspondence. But I am so glad to see you. I have missed you.”
Thomasin smiled, wondering whether she should reply and offer the same comment. Had she missed Nico? Her mind had been so full of things up until now, but it was very nice to see him, certainly.
“The marriage has been completed,” she said, hearing the formality in her words.
“Completed,” he nodded, “yes.”
“I was very preoccupied by it before, but now I must try and forget it. I must move on.”
“Yes,” he smiled, taking her arm. “You must.”
They walked, out of habit, round the path and through the archway of late-blooming roses to their favourite arbour seat. Thomasin sat down and Nico was at once beside her, an arm about her shoulders.
“How beautiful you look today. I swear that every time I see you, you are more lovely.”
Thomasin smiled. She took a deep breath and allowed the peaceful tones of the garden to surround her.
“It is so good to be back. I did find myself missing this place, thinking of it often, wondering what was happening for the queen.”
“And missing me?”
