As she looked up, Thomasin met Lady Elizabeth Howard’s eyes, hard now in their gaze, as if she could read her thoughts. Blushing, Thomasin dropped a curtsey, as the woman’s rank befitted, and in return the duchess inclined her head slightly in acknowledgement before turning away.
“There’s something I just don’t about trust that woman,” Thomasin whispered to Ellen, as Lady Howard disappeared around Catherine’s bed.
“I had the same sense,” Ellen breathed back. “She seems so sharp she might cut you.”
“Come, girls,” said Lady Howard, suddenly returning, “do not stand around gossiping. Help order this mess!”
With Catherine absent, they had little choice but to obey, with surprise and a little reluctance in their hearts.
“You don’t think she heard us?” asked Thomasin.
Ellen shook her head. “But are we to take our orders from her now?”
An hour or so had passed. The mess was cleared away and Queen Catherine was again dressed in her familiar tawny and navy blue, resting on her bed before the exertions of the evening. The golden gown was packed away in a chest, shimmering with promise.
In the outer room, Thomasin sat darning a pair of stockings whilst Ellen and Lady Mary polished some of the queen’s brooches and chains. Outside the window, the afternoon sunshine was deepening into a warm yellow. The musicians had packed away and a soporific peace settled upon the rooms.
Footsteps approached the door from the outside. Holding her needle still, Thomasin looked up to see the guards admit a man dressed in the livery of Thomas Cromwell, secretary to Cardinal Wolsey. Her first reaction was one of caution towards the servant of a man she both disliked and distrusted, but then she recognised Nico Amato, the Venetian she had met in the spring at Windsor. He stopped at once, spotting her in the alcove, his face lighting up at the sight of her. He hurried a few steps forward, then recalled the protocol and bowed.
“Mistress Marwood, I had no idea you were here at Westminster.”
“Signore Amato, I arrived only today, and came straight up to these chambers. How long have you been here?”
“Since the start of July. I came with Mister Cromwell, thanks to your recommendation.”
It was Thomasin who had put in a good word for Nico after all the other Venetians had departed in disgrace that summer. By showering the queen with gifts and flattery, they had tried to conceal their involvement in a plot devised by Thomas Boleyn to uncover the queen’s secret plans. Alone among them, Nico had shown some integrity, some goodness, so she had recommended him for the role as Cromwell’s secretary, even though he had been bold enough to kiss her once in the garden.
“You are well?” she asked, although the answer was apparent.
He was more handsome than she recalled, with his dark hair, his skin tanned golden from the southern sun, and his sensuous lips spreading in a quick smile. And, standing there, she saw again how easy he was in his own skin, his movements graceful and self-assured. How smoothly and seductively he had danced by her side, lithe as a bird.
“Is that a messenger?” Lady Howard came through the antechamber, frowning. She looked Nico up and down. “The queen is resting. Who are you?”
“Signore Nico Amato of Venice, my Lady, secretary to Master Cromwell. I am sent by him to say that the arrangements for the masque will be ready for her arrival at half past the hour of five. The masque itself will begin at six.”
“Very good,” Lady Howard snapped in a staccato voice, although her eyes lingered on him for a moment longer. “You may go.”
Nico bowed and turned to Thomasin. “I hope to see you this evening?”
But Lady Howard intervened. “Mr Amato, I said, you may go.”
Without looking at the woman again, Nico turned and left the rooms.
Lady Howard rested her eyes upon Thomasin. “A friend of yours? Don’t encourage him; remember your place.”
Replies sprang to Thomasin’s lips at once, but she knew it was wisest to remain silent. She picked up her needle again, pushing it harshly through the wool. A moment later, Lady Howard withdrew.
“Sour as week-old milk, that one,” whispered Ellen.
Lady Mary looked up from her polishing. “Don’t let her hear you. I don’t like to speak ill of anyone, not without good reason, but I would keep your distance as much as you can from that one.”
“Oh dear, is that so?” asked Ellen.
“She is related to the Boleyns, is she not?” Thomasin added. “I wonder at her being here in the queen’s rooms.”
“She’s married to Norfolk, Anne’s uncle, certainly,” Lady Mary confirmed, “but they hate each other and fight like cat and dog. He has taken his laundress as his mistress, and now the duchess works against him at every turn.”
Ellen sighed. “That is very sad.”
