He stalked from the chamber, and the women collapsed with relief.
Moments later, Baron Mountjoy came striding in through the door.
“What has happened? I passed Cromwell in the corridor.”
“He came bursting in here, without warning,” explained Lady Mary, “demanding to examine the queen’s bedding and her linen. He was asking all manner of intrusive questions.”
“On whose authority?”
“He gave none. But surely he would not have dared to act in such a way without the knowledge of the king?”
Thomasin had never seen Mountjoy angry before. He was always serene and dignified in his bearing, as befitted his station and years, no matter what challenge he was faced with. It was one of the reasons the queen valued him, besides his long years of service. Now his cheeks flushed scarlet with rage.
“He will not get away with this breach of etiquette — a man of such coarseness and brashness! Surely it is enough to secure his dismissal!”
He rapped sharply on Queen Catherine’s door and was admitted. Inside, there followed an intense ten minutes of discussion, which drifted out into the antechamber in odd words of outrage, before Mountjoy left again and set about his mission of Cromwell’s downfall.
A short while later, Catherine’s door opened again and Lady Howard appeared.
“The queen is going riding. Quick, quick, ladies.”
Thomasin and Ellen looked at each other in surprise, but obeyed the summons. Catherine was waiting, with perfect composure, to be dressed in her green checked riding habit.
“Riding?” whispered Thomasin, as she gathered up the dress. “Where can you ride at Westminster?”
Ellen shrugged.
“Aldgate pastures,” supplied Lady Mary, her fingers fumbling to untie laces ending in silver aiglets. “It is not for us to question why.”
Once they had dressed her, they walked solemnly after Catherine along the corridors and out to the inner gateway of the palace. One ostler held a horse for the queen and another for Lady Howard. A group of mounted guards in livery stood ready to accompany them, along the street and out into the fields that lay to the west of the city. It was hardly hunting grounds, thought Thomasin, or even especially pleasant to look at, but perhaps the queen wished for the air and exercise.
Catherine stopped. “This is not my usual horse. Where is Pipkin?”
The ostler looked uncomfortable. “This is a steady, reliable mare, who will do you good service.”
“No doubt, but where is Pipkin?”
“That horse is already out this morning.”
“Already out? Who would take out my horse?”
The poor man clearly did not wish to answer.
“Speak, I implore you. Who is riding my horse this morning?”
“The king has ridden out early to inspect the docks at St Katherine’s.”
Catherine frowned. “But the king is not riding Pipkin, is he?”
“No, my Lady.”
“Then who is?”
“One of his party, I believe. I’m sorry, my Lady, those were my orders. If we had known of your intention to ride, I would have ensured that Pipkin was reserved for you.”
Catherine coloured. The thought of Anne Boleyn riding her horse was an affront she had not imagined. “Tell me your name,” she began. “Is it Walker?”
“Yes, my Lady.”
