There was no sign of Cromwell’s master, the formidable Thomas Wolsey. Similarly elevated from the lowly ranks of a butcher’s son, Wolsey was Archbishop of York, Lord High Chancellor and the other cardinal required to sit with Campeggio in the coming papal court. He had been responsible for planning the evening’s events; no doubt he was behind the scenes somewhere, making the last arrangements. Thomasin felt ambivalent towards him. He lacked the menace of Cromwell, and she had witnessed first-hand that his relationship with the king’s paramour was strained. She’d seen the glimmer of fear in Wolsey’s eyes as he’d tried to please Anne, to no avail.
And, just as she had expected, Thomasin saw a cluster of Boleyns close to the throne. Sir Thomas looked impatient, stroking his silvery beard and darting his dark eyes about the hall. He was the Boleyn patriarch, the descendant of a Lord Mayor of London, who had risen through the ranks by making judicious marriages, to become a skilled linguist and diplomat. Funny, Thomasin thought, how the king had surrounded himself with men of humble backgrounds.
Anne stood beside him, resplendent in a vivid dress of emerald green silk, embroidered with some intricate design. It hung about her in folds like water, shimmering in flattering waves as she moved. One thing Thomasin could admit: besides Anne’s sensual attraction, she knew how to dress. Her style and palette always drew the eye, making her stand out in a crowd. She wondered what Lady Boleyn would have thought of it.
Anne turned to speak to her father, her laughter ringing out down the hall. Tonight, the long raven hair for which she was known was swept back under a hood, but that hood was pushed back higher than ever upon her head, revealing more of her face. The top curve was studded with diamonds that caught the light. As she spoke, she threw her huge dark eyes about the hall, as if casting spells — first upon Thomas, then up towards the king. Watching as he shifted in his seat and connected with her gaze, Thomasin saw that King Henry was far from immune to her presence.
“Look, there’s Mary, too,” whispered Ellen, nodding to the side.
There sat Mary Boleyn, in solemn grey and black, towards the back of her family. Her headdress was severe, her face pale and drawn, her eyes tired and heavy. Her colouring and expression couldn’t have made a starker contrast with those of her sister. It gave Thomasin a strange jolt to see William Carey’s wife, dressed in formal mourning for the husband she had not loved. Memories rushed in. Will’s words, Will’s smile. A flush of emotion rose to Thomasin’s cheeks.
Other dancers were appearing near the pageant, slipping into their places. In black and silver costumes, sewn with stars, they held poses around the tableau, waiting to be brought to life. The hall noticed. It hummed, pointing, whispering, then the voices began to fall silent.
A drummer began to sound out a rhythm, slow and steady as a heartbeat. King Henry leaned forward in his seat and the Boleyns ceased their talk. Their faces were expectant. Did they know what was coming?
The drum faded and the musicians started a melancholy refrain. Then a white-bearded poet in a long, furred gown stepped forwards to recite a preface in rhyming couplets. It was all about the virtues: faith and love, charity and humility, patience and hope. Thomasin let the words wash over her, keeping her eyes fixed upon the curtains where Queen Catherine was waiting to emerge.
The dancers began to twitch and sway. A head turned, an arm stretched out, a hand fluttered. Then they found their feet, circling around a central spot on the floor, while flashes of light appeared behind them, made by a dozen wax branches carried in the arms of servants. The narrator spoke about the inevitability of justice, of light bringing hope into darkness. Then, suddenly, the curtains parted and Catherine appeared in a blaze of gold, heading for the stage.
The hall let out a collective gasp. Their queen had never appeared in quite this light before, far outdazzling any other pageant in recent memory. She stepped into the space as the goddess of Fortune, and her costume and demeanour leant her a radiance that made the rest of the dancers dim as they moved about her.
There were more words from the poet and more movement from the dancers. Then the music quickened in pace, rising to a crescendo before falling into a void of silence. And into that silence, Catherine spoke her lines. The hall was spellbound.
“Fortune I am, goddess and dame, bringer of justice, leveller of humankind, instrument of our gracious God’s divine will…”
Thomasin’s eyes wandered over to where Anne Boleyn stood, wide-eyed, staring at the blazing queen.
“I see your ways, your thoughts and deeds, the motives and truths within your hearts. And I promise you that each man and woman shall one day receive their just deserts, the true salvation or damnation which their souls deserve.”
Thomasin flinched a little at the uncomfortable words. But then Catherine turned to the dancers.
“Here, upon this stage, observe the characters of peace and war, drawn into conflict, with jealousy and lust, truth and virtue among them. You will see how they fare, and how each receives their fate, when Justice is dispensed.”
“Goodness,” whispered Ellen, “I have never seen her like this. I do not doubt it will give the Boleyns pause for thought, but they will not like it.”
It may touch their consciences, thought Thomasin, looking over at Sir Thomas, unless they were smirking behind their hands at their round, middle-aged queen dressed in spangles. To her surprise, though, they were not mocking her, but stood solemn, their faces unreadable. It was King Henry’s face that was the strangest. Thomasin could not decipher the mixture of emotions there, but thought she read anger, shame and discomfort. No doubt it would be Wolsey who would suffer for this. Where was the cardinal? Thomasin looked around, because this should be the moment he appeared, but there was no sign of him.
It was then that she saw Anne Boleyn make a slight movement. Standing beside her father, she turned aside, so that her flank was facing the pageant. It was a simple but decisive move that signified boredom. Anne did not quite dare to turn her back on the queen, but this was as far as she could go. Fortunately, no one else, including Henry, appeared to notice, for they were all motionless, transfixed. And Catherine herself was too intent upon her performance. As she continued her lines, walking slowly and regally round the pageant, the hall had no choice but to watch. This was her moment. And Anne could not stand it.
The pageant came to an end with thunderous applause. Even the king was moved to clap with a degree of sincerity. Catherine stood glowing, basking in the radiance of approval. Before it had entirely died down, Baron Mountjoy stepped forward and, offering Catherine his hand, led her up to the dais. She curtseyed low before the king, who inclined his head in greeting, then took the throne beside him.
“It was well done,” whispered Ellen, her voice muffled by the sound of the pageant being dragged away.
“We saw the true queen again,” Thomasin agreed, “although it was not to everyone’s liking.” She nodded towards the Boleyns, where Anne was deep in conversation with a tall, broad man in his fifties. He had a shaved, red face and a prominent nose. He looked important, fearsome, as if he would stand no nonsense.
Servants were hurrying out to prepare the tables, and all were now taking seats ahead of the feast being served. Catherine’s ladies were directed to their places on a table near the top, but Lady Howard declined to join them and walked boldly down towards the top of the hall. Thomasin and Ellen watched her in awe, reminded again of her rank. She drew up beside Anne and curtseyed, before offering her hand to the clean-shaven man. He took it and inclined his head over it, as if to kiss it, although Thomasin noticed his lips did not touch her fingers. They did not exchange a word, but Lady Howard then seated herself at the Boleyn table.
“That man must be her husband,” said Thomasin.
She and Ellen stared at the Duke of Norfolk, Anne’s formidable uncle.
“You don’t think his arrival will change anything?” Ellen asked.
“Only that they have another strong voice to speak for their cause, but he can no more rule against the marriage than any of us.”
“He doesn’t look very nice,” observed Ellen, wrinkling her nose.
“We only know the rumours about his marriage, and those are none of our business.”
