Her lips curled in a wry smile. Thomasin wondered how she might creep away without seeming rude.
“But Anne is not a traditional beauty, is she?” continued her hostess. “She does not have the golden-red hair and the blue eyes of the manuscripts. Not like Catherine of Aragon, or the king’s sister Mary, not like that. But Anne has it in her eyes, doesn’t she?”
This was impossible to deny. Thomasin recalled the way those dark stars could light up a room.
“And she has him enthralled, the king. Anyone can see it. His wife can see it. Do you really think Anne will become his queen?”
“I don’t know, my Lady. It must be judged by a higher authority than myself.”
“But a daughter of mine, Queen? Am I to be the grandmother of a future king? Will fate allow the Boleyns to rise so high?”
Thomasin looked back at her: the faded lines on her face; her body heavy and tired, yet almost bird-like with age. “My Lady, may I ask why you are not at court with her?”
Lady Boleyn sighed. “I can’t bear to watch it, if truth be told. The uncertainty, the hope, the pain it’s causing. I can’t turn a blind eye to the pain. Like a long, sad dance. I wish she was married away in Ireland and a mother of children already.”
“You would not see her much if she was in Ireland.”
“No. But I will see her little if she becomes Queen. But now it is begun, they are set upon this path. You must take care, Thomasin, with the cards life deals you. You must take care.”
And with that, she gathered up her skirts and turned away into the shadows.
SEVEN
Darkness had fallen, stealing across the misty valley and through the trees. The lights of Hever Castle flickered behind diamond-paned windows, illuminating the rooms and corridors within. Candles guttered and fires burned down in grates. Gradually, as the evening deepened, each bright speck was extinguished, plunging the building back into the pitch black of its rural surroundings.
Yet in one room, in the top corner of the castle, Thomasin lay awake, blinking into the unfamiliar shadows. Sleep would not come, partly due to the day’s excitement, and partly because it was strange to be lying in this little room, under the Boleyns’ own roof. She and Ellen had been placed in a smallish chamber, oddly shaped, reached by a winding flight of stone steps. The roof was domed on one side, sloping gently towards the windows. Outside, there were views over the moat, across the fields, which now lay under a blanket of stars.
The house had long since retired. Down the corridor, Thomasin’s parents were sleeping in a magnificent room once occupied by the king, with a carved bed, wooden panels and a matching ceiling. Cecilia, being the eldest, had her own space elsewhere, to her great delight. Lady Boleyn had retired to her own private quarters, and the servants had cleared away all signs of the meal. The cook took his rest, the stable boy had retired to his loft, and Rafe, Thomasin realised, was sleeping somewhere under this roof. Perhaps in an anteroom somewhere, or on a truckle bed in a corridor. Somewhere she might stumble over him, if she went looking for a drink in the darkness.
She turned over and tried to banish him from her mind, but the questions kept returning. Was he asleep already, or was he lying awake like her, thinking over their conversation? He had sounded sincere in his apology, but he was so inconsistent — sometimes warm, sometimes distant, sometimes even angry towards her. He was beholden to the Boleyns, she understood that. The chains that bound him for his livelihood meant that he could not think, or feel, or speak freely. And so he always seemed an enigma, just beyond reach, even at the times when he was closest, his hand upon hers, his eyes embracing her. Would the barriers ever come down? Would the real Rafe ever be revealed to her?
“I know what you’re thinking,” whispered Ellen in the bed beside her, making her cousin jump.
Thomasin lay still, doubting very much that she did.
“You are wondering whether Anne ever slept in this room, in this bed. Do you think she would be angry knowing that we are here?”
Thomasin smiled in the dark, thinking of the conversation she had had with Lady Boleyn. “I expect she has a far grander bed to sleep in at Durham House.”
“Unless she is staying at court?”
“I think not. I do hope they leave at night and sleep in their own home. It is difficult for the queen when they are in the same place; Catherine would be tormented to have Anne constantly present.”
Ellen was reflecting. Thomasin could tell by the silence that she was building to another remark.
“You don’t think…? I mean, I could be wrong, but I was wondering…”
“What?”
“Do you think that she and Henry have, you know…”
“That Anne has shared her bed with the king?”
“Do you think so?”
The thought struck Thomasin as unlikely. As an unmarried woman, she knew the dangers this could lead to. Would Anne have risked her reputation, or even chanced a pregnancy? What would be her fate then? Would it speed King Henry into action, or would she be married off, cast aside? And what would that mean for Catherine?
“It has never been rumoured,” she reflected, trying to recall instances of gossip. “Surely people would have spoken of it, if they had? It is well-known that her sister Mary was intimate with King Henry, so I see no reason why it would not be spoken of.”
