“Now that I cannot answer,” Maria Willoughby replied with a smile, “but the Pope will not rule in the king’s favour, when he has been asked not to by the emperor.”
“Is that behind the queen’s new confidence?”
“Of course. Now, let me eat, before it grows cold.”
Thomasin looked down the hall to Queen Catherine, a middle-aged woman with grey hair and lines about her eyes, sparkling from head to toe in gold. Was she to be given new hope, or was her time truly over?
ELEVEN
The women waited in the draughty antechamber for Queen Catherine. The feast was over. The pageant had been cleared away and the dancers had vanished. It was late. Candlelight flickered wanly from two wax sticks on the table, but there was no fire here to take the chill from the autumn air. Guests and courtiers passed by the doorway, heading for their chambers. The hall was emptying quickly, but the queen was taking her time. No doubt, Thomasin guessed, she was tired and her feet were aching. Their task after undressing her would be to take turns rubbing ointment into her heavy soles. But why was she taking so long?
Lady Mary was peeping through the curtain that opened onto the hall.
“Oh, she is talking to the Suffolks still. We might be here all night.”
“I will go to her,” offered Maria Willoughby. “We do not all need to wait. Mary, you stay with me. The rest of you go back to her chambers; build up the fire and prepare her clothing, her ointments and her drink.”
Stepping out into the corridor, Thomasin shivered. Then it struck her that this might be exactly the moment she needed to deliver Anne Boleyn’s letter.
“I have an errand to run,” she said quickly to Ellen. “Go ahead, I will join you shortly.”
“Rafe?”
“No, I am done with him. It’s an errand I promised to fulfil.”
Ellen nodded, recalling Lady Boleyn’s last words. “Do not forget you promised to write to your father, too, as soon as you arrived.”
“I will do so tonight. Now go.”
Thomasin turned back. Through the gap between the curtains, she could see the dais with Queen Catherine, King Henry and the Suffolks. Her view of the side tables was partially obscured, but she knew Anne Boleyn had not left yet. Perhaps she might call to her as she passed by, hand her the letter and be gone.
A fluttering sensation filled her belly. She was nervous about coming face to face again with Anne, nervous about doing something other than what she had been told. The words of her friend, the scholar Thomas More, returned to her, which he had spoken that spring at Windsor Castle, concerning the idea of free will. It was a concept that had deeply affected Thomasin, dwelling in her mind ever since. Taking one’s own path in your hands, pursuing one’s destiny, following one’s desires. Depending on how you understood it, it could be either blasphemous or liberating. After all, it was what Cecilia had done last year, in her attempt to evade her arranged marriage, but that had turned out badly. Although, Thomasin considered, it had failed because William Hatton had betrayed her, not through any fault of Cecilia’s. Had Hatton been a truer lover, they might have been married by now. Outcast at court, perhaps, for a while, but wedded according to their inclination. Had it only failed, after all, because Cecilia had chosen the wrong man?
Thomasin had been bold, waiting here, seizing the moment. She had stepped outside her prescribed path for the evening, in order to deliver the letter. As she stood, shivering in the cold antechamber, she knew she would be in trouble if she was found. Catherine would be displeased. And yet, she had no loyalty to the Boleyns, no motive to deliver the letter she now pulled out of her sleeve. She had made a promise, yes, but the risk to herself was greater than it was worth. So why was she standing here, peering through the curtain, tempting the queen’s wrath?
If she was honest, she already knew. It was some foolish, lingering desire for excitement, for danger. Something inside that she had felt before, with Rafe, some urge to prove that she was truly alive, not an indentured servant, not a tethered falcon as Nico had hinted at Windsor. She needed to feel that she was able to influence her own destiny, not merely to follow a path.
The Duke and Duchess of Suffolk were approaching. Thomasin drew back from the curtain to avoid being seen, waiting until they passed by. Soon after, Sir Thomas Howard, the new arrival at court, came stalking along as if under a cloud. Lady Howard hurried behind him, reaching out to take his arm.
“Take your hand off me,” Thomasin heard him bitterly reproach her as they passed the curtain. “I wonder that you try to reconcile after the way you saw fit to insult me on the way here.”
“You spoke more harshly to me!” she retorted.
“Get away from me!” he replied, through gritted teeth, breaking away.
“May devils torment you all night,” she cursed, hurrying away to the queen’s rooms, before the hall fell silent.
Thomasin dared peep out again. Queen Catherine was still seated at the end, speaking with the round, bejewelled form of Bishop Mendoza, her compatriot and friend. Once, Thomasin had discovered him at Windsor, unable to move due to the pain in his feet. Perhaps the queen was keeping him company because of his condition.
Then, a familiar, bubbling laugh rang out. It might be, Thomasin realised, that Catherine was unwilling to leave before Anne. She was reasserting the protocol that placed her above her rival. No doubt Anne was aware of it, and was clinging on as long as she could. In which case, Thomasin might be waiting in the antechamber for a long time.
“Thomasin Marwood?”
A voice behind her made her jump. Spinning round, she saw the tall figure in the back doorway, dressed in his habitual black velvet, his dark hair falling over one eye. He had the look of mischief about his face that came from too much wine.
“Rafe!”
His appearance was unexpected. Her heart leapt at once, as it always did, but his presence complicated things. He opened his mouth as if to speak but she held up a hand, wishing that he would go away.
