“Maybe people would have, if they dared speak. Perhaps fear or threats keep them silent.”
“Yes, I suppose that it would be treasonous to suggest such a thing. No one speaks of the illegitimate boy or his mother, or even much about Mary Boleyn once being the king’s mistress. Not now that it has passed.”
Or even about her own mother, Thomasin realised with a jolt. Not since Thomas Boleyn had reminded them that Elizabeth Marwood had shared the king’s bed once or twice in her youth.
“You think Anne is untouched, then?” asked Ellen.
Untouched. It sounded so pure. Thomasin could hardly claim not to have been touched by a man. Yet she had stopped short, halted Rafe instead of giving in to his pleas. But in this case, the meaning was very specific.
“Well. She is unwed,” Thomasin replied cautiously.
“Anne spent all those years in France, didn’t she? At the Valois court. And everyone knows what King Francis is like! He even had Mary too, didn’t he? People don’t mind speaking freely about him.”
“Of course not, because he is French! But, Ellen, that does not mean he has corrupted every woman he has ever set eyes upon. I thought that Anne was part of the French queen’s household, and Queen Claude is extremely pious.”
“I have heard that, too.” Ellen paused. “But Anne is cunning, is she not? Her manner is … flirtatious. I am sure she has tricks, you know, to prevent such occurrences.”
Thomasin felt very small, stung by her own inexperience. “You forget, Ellen, that I am unwed. I’ve never known a man’s bed the way you have, and I can’t imagine the tricks you allude to.”
Yet she had known passion, she reminded herself, physical passion that felt so overpowering that she had almost submitted to it. And only one man had made her feel that way, who now lay under this very roof.
“Your time will come, soon enough,” Ellen whispered, “and believe me, there was precious little enjoyment in sharing a bed with Barnaby! What matters is that you choose the right man, then all will follow, without you needing to think about it.”
“But the tricks? What tricks do you mean?”
“Well, there are things a woman can do, when she lies with a man, to prevent herself conceiving a child. Charms and herbs to start with, or by careful washing, or lying on one’s side, or even by making him withdraw from the fight.”
Thomasin lay silent, thinking about this world to which she did not belong, and how her cousin suddenly sounded so much wiser and older than herself.
“Any woman may lie with a man if she is careful enough,” continued Ellen, “but it is not without risk. Sometimes these methods fail in spite of the most careful planning.”
“So do you think Anne has lain with Henry?”
“It is difficult to say. But a man’s passion can be increased by denial. If she had submitted too soon, there would be no more incentive for him to pursue her.”
“And that is what she wants — for him to pursue her until the time is right. She cannot yield or fall pregnant before his divorce from Catherine is secured.”
“You meanifhis divorce is secured,” Ellen corrected.
“She can’t end up pregnant and unwed. Her trump card is a son born in wedlock. I don’t think she would throw that away.”
“Which is why she is so desperate for this new cardinal to arrive, so that the case can be tried.”
“Perhaps they might even be wed by Christmas, with a child arriving next year. 1529 might end it all.” Thomasin pictured the scene.
“And what of Catherine, then? She will not accept it, or retire quietly.”
“No, it is not her way. But if the case goes against her, she may not have a choice.”
Thomasin lay in the darkness, thinking back over their words. Perhaps a time might come when she could ask Ellen more. Perhaps she might allow herself to wonder, to experiment, to take a risk. What were these herbs and chants her cousin spoke of? Could she possibly be so bold as to lie with a man, to submit to her passion?
It would take a special man to make her abandon her caution, to forego her chastity. A man who aroused in her the deepest desires, who made her long to offer herself to him — a man with whom she might allow herself to become that vulnerable. She longed to experience that, to know that sort of satisfaction, that connection of one body to another. She shivered. There was only one man who had ever made her feel that way. But Rafe had turned out to be a man she could not trust.
And afterwards? After she had given herself to him? Reality began to sink in. Ellen was right; their relationship would forever be altered. Would he lose his desire for her, stop pursuing her, or even lose his respect for her? Or, once she had given her virtue away, would he cherish that gift, protect her from scandal, and commit to her if there was a child?
Surely she could only expect all those things from a husband. The law, the Church, and the court demanded that a husband protect his wife. And her own heart was in agreement. It was more than the joining of bodies; marriage was the union of two souls. She could not doubt that she physically desired Rafe, but what of his mind, his soul?
The more she considered it, the more she saw that her precious gift was best given to a man who had pledged in church to value it. Passion was one thing, but the consequences of yielding to it outside of marriage could be severe. Without that pledge, a man could simply walk away. And this realisation made her ache all the more for Queen Catherine, and understand the motivation behind Anne’s long game.
