“Well, I don’t really care so long as his wife doesn’t try to boss us about. Can you see Hugh anywhere?”
“Not yet, no.”
Thomasin looked about the hall. Down at the dais, she could see Sir Charles Brandon preparing to take his seat. He caught her eye and raised his hand in greeting, a gesture which pleased her greatly. It was an honour to be recognised publicly by someone seated at the top table. He was placed beside his wife, Mary. A former Queen of France, she was the king’s younger sister, once a great beauty and a mother of four, although one son had been lost early. She was little more than thirty now, striking in a gown of ochre velvet, but had experienced much illness in recent years that kept her away from court. She was also well known to disapprove of Henry’s infatuation with Anne, having known Catherine since childhood.
All four seats at the dais were now taken. It seemed a cue for Anne to withdraw and, muttering to her father, she joined the Boleyn table between her sister and Lady Howard. With surprise, Thomasin noticed that Rafe was behind them, previously obscured by the crowd. Her former dance partner, Sir Henry Norris stood there too, solid and handsome, just like when he had partnered her in Anne’s pageant last year.
Then Thomasin remembered the letter that Lady Boleyn had given her. It was tucked in her sleeve, ready to deliver to Anne, although that would be very difficult to achieve without Catherine seeing. Perhaps she should have disobeyed Lady Boleyn’s direct instructions and put it in Rafe’s hands instead. That way, Anne would have had it by now, and Thomasin would have nothing more to do with it. But she had made a promise. She had not mistaken Lady Boleyn’s liking for her at Hever; how would Anne feel about that? It was a problem she would have to resolve later; perhaps she could catch Anne as she was leaving. It was her duty, and hers alone.
As the trumpets sounded to announce the arrival of the food, a slight movement caught Thomasin’s eye. Cardinal Wolsey had stepped into the hall from between the curtains, dressed in his red robes, his face unreadable as he surveyed the hall. As Henry’s closest advisor over the past years, he had served the king well until the arrival of Anne. Now the expectation that he would deliver the long-desired divorce hung heavily about his rounded shoulders. Thomasin recalled that splendid evening she had spent at his house on the Thames, York Place, a place of unparalleled luxury.
As Thomasin watched, King Henry spotted the new arrival and beckoned the cardinal with a stern finger. Wolsey obeyed the summons with as much dignity as he could muster. Mounting the dais to stand close to the king, the cardinal bowed his head while Henry delivered a few sharp words.
“Wolsey’s in trouble,” Thomasin whispered to Ellen.
“I’m not surprised, allowing Catherine to take a role like that.”
They watched as the cardinal bowed his head then retreated, leaving the hall.
“It was misjudged on his part,” Thomasin added, “if he wishes to keep the good favour of the Boleyns.”
“Perhaps he no longer cares for them.”
“If he ever did.”
Servants produced dishes of steaming beef and lamb, patties of minced meat, pheasants and rabbits. A huge plate bearing a glazed, suckling pig was carried through the length of the hall, trailing its delicious scent, and placed before the king. Thomasin unfolded her napkin on her lap as platters of beef and rabbit were placed between her and Ellen. There was more food than they had seen in months, and both were starving after their busy day.
It seemed such a long time since they had left Hever that morning, only eating bread and cheese in the carriage for lunch. Thomasin scooped up chewets of beef, and there was a dish of almond cream, richly spiced sauces and fritters. Her glass was filled with wine, and quickly emptied, although she admitted to Ellen that it was not as good as Sir Hugh’s favourite burgundy. The distraction of food made the mood lighter, the evening more manageable.
Thomasin looked back towards the dais. Queen Catherine was still glowing, chattering away to her sister-in-law Mary. To the side, Anne Boleyn was eating quietly, listening to Sir Henry Norris talk, but there was something about her demeanour, the placidity with which she accepted her rival’s moment in the light, that put Thomasin on edge. By now, she knew Anne well enough to judge that this was no real, lasting victory for Catherine. It was a brief, golden moment, before the return of the darkness that had plagued the queen this past year. Sadly, Catherine did not seem to realise it, riding high on the unexpected thrill of it all. Either Anne was confident about the forthcoming papal court, or she had another trick up her sleeve.
She looked thinner after surviving the sweat, as Thomasin did. But in Anne, the pronounced cheekbones and thinner neck gave her an air of vulnerability she had not previously had. Perhaps that was the reason for her mother’s concern. She had been touched by death, had feared for her life, had prayed, wept and returned to the living to watch them feast and dance. And yet she seemed separate from them. There was more purpose in her dark eyes — a paradoxical fragility and certainty in her position.
“You’re staring!” whispered Ellen. “Is it at Mr Danvers?”
Thomasin smiled, dragging her eyes away from Anne. Once upon a time she might have been unable to keep her gaze away from Rafe, but she had learned to overcome that impulse the hard way.
“I was just wondering what Anne Boleyn’s next move might be. She looks so aloof today.”
“Impossible to tell with her.”
Ellen handed her plate of patties.
“Be careful with those,” said Lady Mary on the other side. “They have some heating spice in them. Cinnamon, I think, and something else. Almost set my mouth on fire.”
Undeterred, Thomasin took two and turned the flavour round on her tongue. Lady Mary was right; they were heavily spiced, but not unpleasantly so.
“So,” began Lady Mary, looking to Maria Willoughby, who was seated opposite them with her daughter, Catherine, “what other news is there? The letter from Ludlow?”
Maria Willoughby turned her black Spanish eyes upon them. She had been with Queen Catherine all her life, since she was a girl in the hilly castles of Castile, and had journeyed with her over the sea to England as a young bride. Her loyalty was always first to her queen, but she was willing to share information with the women she trusted, who shared her desire for Catherine’s happiness.
“It is hoped,” she answered, “that the princess will come to court in a while, to be with her mother during the trial.”
“That would make the queen very happy,” replied Lady Mary, “but the king less so, I fear.”
“She is awaiting his permission, yes. But it is only a daughter visiting her mother.” Maria shrugged. “No father can refuse that, surely?”
“And the letter from the emperor?” risked Ellen. “Is there really an Imperial fleet poised to invade if the Pope rules in the king’s favour?”
