“But that fancy has not lasted?” added Thomasin, thinking of what she had overheard in the hall.
“Long enough for her to bear five children, but it seems it did not prevent him taking a mistress.”
“I can see why that would cause a rift between them,” said Ellen.
“But it happens,” said Lady Mary. “I am not saying it is right, but it does happen. Some men, well, that is what they do, and the wife can do little but turn a blind eye. Our queen learned that the hard way.”
Thomasin flushed, thinking of her own mother’s former closeness to the king.
“And it must be doubly hard,” Lady Mary added, “if the mistress is younger than yourself, or bears a child.”
“It must have been awful for the queen when the king had a son with Mary Boleyn.”
Lady Mary nodded. “It was nine years ago. Catherine had just lost a child, for the final time, although none of us knew that then. It almost broke her when she learned of it. And Mary’s child was a son, of course — that was the worst of it. He is nine now, little Henry. But come, we cannot stand around gossiping. We must get to bed.”
Thomasin straightened the blankets on her bed and took one of the bolsters from the box, shaking it out for air. A stray feather floated up, then came to rest by her feet.
The letter from Lady Boleyn was still in her sleeve. Now, though, she felt disinclined to deliver it in person, and face another round of Anne’s rudeness. Slipping it under her pillow, she resolved to find another way.
TWELVE
Incense hung heavy in the air. The painted walls of St Stephen’s chapel rose up high on each side, topped with colourful stained-glass windows. Queen Catherine had been kneeling at the altar for almost an hour, her hands clasped in silent prayer. Behind her, the row of ladies remained as still as they could, knees numb and stiff, despite the layers of their dresses. No one dared speak of the events of yesterday evening, the bright, glorious pageant, followed by King Henry’s cruelty. But they all knew it weighed heavily on the queen’s heart. She had risen with solemn compliance, dressed in grey and come straight to chapel, a different woman. None of them had broken their fast yet, and Thomasin could feel the growls and contractions of her empty stomach.
Finally, Catherine rose slowly to her feet. Maria Willoughby and Lady Mary hurried forward to offer her an arm on each side. It took a while to get her up. The pain in her back had returned, and her legs were cramping and needed stretching out. The queen struggled to keep her dignity in such a holy place: the twirling, golden figure of Justice had been claimed by old age overnight. Once Catherine had passed them, the other women were free to rise, rubbing their knees and eyes.
“At last,” whispered Ellen, as they processed outside into the mild sunshine. “I felt as if I was turning to stone in there.”
They followed Catherine through the gardens and back into the palace. A dimly lit corridor led past antechambers towards the hall, but instead the queen turned away to a side chamber, where a table had been prepared for a meal. There were places enough for a dozen diners, and here, Bishop Mendoza, Bishop Fisher and Thomas More were awaiting her arrival. Thomasin was delighted to see More, and Catherine did not prevent her from taking a seat at the humanist’s side. The queen herself sat between Mendoza and Fisher at the head of the table. It was a relief, Thomasin thought, to see her among friends.
“Mistress Marwood, a pleasant surprise to see you again. I hear you have recently returned to court?”
Thomasin could not help but smile at More’s warmth. He was old enough to be her father, grey-haired and lined, but the eminent scholar had always spoken to her as if she was his equal.
“Ellen and I returned yesterday. We have been in the country, after I had the sweat.”
He looked at her in alarm. “The sweat? Goodness me, yes, I remember now. Well, I am glad to see you quite recovered, thanks be to God.”
“I am well enough.”
“And your parents?”
“They should be arriving in the city soon. Father has some legal business to assist my uncle with. They are all staying at Monk’s Place again, but Father, at least, will definitely attend court.”
“That is good news. I will be sure to catch him.”
“And you?” Thomasin asked. “And your family?”
Thomasin had struck up a particular friendship with Margaret Roper, More’s married daughter, who was as intelligent as her father, and as devout.
“We are well, thanks be to God, and all keeping busy, especially Margaret,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “Between the children and her latest translation, she has no idle time. I left her in Chelsea this morning, as Will has gone down to Canterbury to see about their estates there.”
Thomasin had always thought Margaret’s husband Will a solid, dependable, good sort of man. He took his duties seriously, but he lacked the playful wit of his wife and father-in-law.
“What is she translating?”
“Erasmus again. Currently hisColloquies, but I think it is a dry subject and she may turn to his divine works. I wish she would write a treaty of her own; she has many ideas about the nature of good works and salvation and expresses herself so eloquently, but she will only write them in poetry! What can I do?” He chuckled to himself.
“I have been thinking,” Thomasin began, as bread and cuts of meat were set before them, “about the question of free will.”
