“The Lord works in mysterious ways,” said Catherine, pursing her lips. “It is not for us to question his motives. We must trust in his plan.”
Thomasin watched as Lady Howard tied the laces on the golden sleeves, then the headdress was brought by Catherine’s lady-in-waiting from Spain, Maria Willoughby, formerly de Salinas. They did not work as quickly as she or Ellen used to, when they had worked together dressing the queen.
“And your parents, Mistress Marwood? I hope they are well?” Catherine asked, catching her breath as Lady Howard’s fingers pulled too hard.
“My mother is a little indisposed,” Thomasin replied quickly, “but they will be arriving in the city in the coming days, and may attend court.”
“I do hope she recovers soon. I will send my physician to her again, if you think it will help. They stay in Monk’s Place, do they not, with your uncle?”
“Yes, at Monk’s Place with Sir Matthew Russell; you are most kind, my Lady.”
“Well, we have busy times ahead. I do not feel this intolerable situation will last much longer. I have hope, for the first time in many months, real hope. My cardinal is nearing England; his last letter was sent from near Calais and he will cross soon, weather and sea conditions permitting. Sir Francis Bryan has been sent to accompany him. What a relief it will be to welcome him here, to make my confession and speak with the envoy of the Pope himself.”
“Sir Francis Bryan?” asked Thomasin, recalling the king’s gentleman who wore an eye patch as the result of a riding accident. Last autumn he had been part of Anne Boleyn’s intimate circle. If she recalled, he was her half cousin, or some similar blood connection. And now he was serving the queen?
“I suppose it matters not who brings him,” shrugged Catherine.
“Then this dress is in honour of his arrival?” asked Ellen quickly.
“No, this dress is for the feast today. Have you forgotten the day? It is the feast of Michaelmas. Wolsey has planned a pageant and I am to dance in the lead.”
Thomasin was surprised. During her time at court, Anne Boleyn had been the one to dance, in her seductive, sinuous way, even inviting Thomasin and Cecilia to participate last autumn. Queen Catherine had usually sat and watched in silence, or absented herself in disapproval. She had been a great dancer in her youth, but most people had assumed that those days were long behind her. This was why Catherine had been so keen for their return.
Maria Willoughby brought forward a golden coronet. It was fitted with stars and in the centre was a pair of balanced scales.
“I am to play the figure of Justice. Is it not fitting?” Catherine beamed. “I shall stand there, shimmering in gold, dispensing justice to the characters of envy, greed, sloth and lust, and then, within days, Cardinal Campeggio will arrive to rule on my case. The Pope has given him definite instructions. My nephew, the emperor, told me such.”
“Shall I remove your hood?” asked Maria.
“Not yet. There are hours still to go, and it is weighty.”
Maria withdrew, bearing the golden scales in her hands.
“What assistance do you wish us to give you at the pageant?” asked Ellen.
“You will be in my dressing team, in the antechamber. After the pageant, I will change into the burgundy velvet and hood with pearls.” Catherine nodded at the items, draped over the bed. “So you two must bring the gown and be ready with it as soon as Maria and Elizabeth have removed the gold.”
“Very good, my Lady.”
There was a knock at the door. Lady Mary appeared on the threshold.
“If you please, my Lady, there is another letter.”
“Another?” Catherine seemed to jolt upwards in excitement. “From the emperor again?”
“I think it is from Ludlow?”
“Ludlow? Oh, hush, hush!” she cried to the musicians, who promptly ceased their playing. “From my daughter?”
“From her guardian, Lady Salisbury.”
Lady Mary held out the folded paper and Catherine sprang forwards to claim it, disappearing into the anteroom for privacy.
It reminded Thomasin of the envelope with the Boleyn seal that was tucked in the folds of her inner sleeve. At some point, she had to find an opportunity to sneak away from the queen and deliver it to Anne, although she had no desire to see that woman.
Laughter came from the antechamber, revealing the queen’s delight in what she read.
It was imperative, Thomasin thought, that Catherine did not find out about the Boleyn letter or the Marwoods’ impromptu stay at Hever, not even when she was in this buoyant mood. It had not been planned, and could not have been helped, but it would shake her faith in their loyalty.
