Thomasin felt sorry for the poor man.
“Tell me, Walker, how many mares there are in the stables this morning that are suitable for riding?”
“Half a dozen, my Lady. This is the best of them all.”
Catherine stroked the creature’s silky flank.
“Her name is Chestnut,” Walker added, nervously.
“Half a dozen. But my Pipkin was chosen. Was she requested specifically by name?”
Walker dropped his eyes. “I believe so, my Lady.”
Catherine asked no more questions. She climbed the stone steps and allowed Thomasin and Ellen to assist her into the saddle, both legs at the side, arranging her skirts so that they hung becomingly. Without a word, she pulled on the reins and the little party rode away. The horses’ hoofs clattered over the paved yard and through the outer gateway into the street.
Thomasin took a deep breath and turned back to the palace.
They were passing back through the old painted chamber, when an idea occurred to Thomasin. With both Catherine and Anne absent from the palace, this might be the perfect opportunity to rid herself of the troublesome letter she carried in her sleeve. If she could find Mary Boleyn, she might leave Lady Boleyn’s words with Anne’s sister, which was almost as good as Anne herself. Otherwise, she might have to wait a long time for another opportunity, and there was a chance that the contents of the letter might be urgent. Thomasin simply wanted to fulfil her promise and have no more to do with the Boleyns.
Telling Ellen that she would join her shortly, Thomasin hung back, wondering where, amid the vast palace, she might find Mary Boleyn. There was a chance she was not at court at all, but if Anne had already ridden over from Durham House, there was a chance Mary had come too.
She looked around at the painted chamber. Once an important room, with many colourful murals that gave it the name, it had been badly damaged by fire fifteen years earlier. A few of the former paintings remained, but much had been whitewashed over, to cover the smoke damage. Now embroidered hangings covered the walls and the king preferred to sleep in one of the newer, riverside chambers.
Thomasin retraced their steps through the larger White Hall, toying with the idea of entering the grounds again. Where might Mary Boleyn be?
Footsteps were approaching. A line of servants appeared, carrying items through the hall — cushions, goblets, bowls, books, a pair of shoes.
“Excuse me,” Thomasin said to the last servant, a thin man in his middle teens. “Where might I seek the Boleyns in this palace? Where are their rooms?”
“They go where the king goes, Lady, or else on the first floor, to the east.”
“Thank you.”
She was heading for the main staircase, daring herself to climb up and seek out her adversaries, when another pair of figures crossed the hall before her. It was Nico Amato and another of Cromwell’s men, young Ralph Sadler. Nico spotted her, made his excuses and sent Ralph Sadler on his way.
“Thomasin, what are you doing here, wandering about? Is aught amiss?”
“The queen is out riding. I had hoped to deliver a letter.”
“To whom? Might I help you?”
“Thank you, you might guide me; I seek Mary Boleyn. I was told she might be in a first floor room.”
“I don’t know about that, but she has taken lately to walking in the cloister garden about this hour. Shall we?”
Thomasin followed Nico gratefully, through the twists and turns of the palace and out through an arched side door. It was a cloudy, mild day. To the side of the cloisters, the little garden was a haven of autumnal colours amid all the buildings. The leaves were turning from green to yellow, orange and red, before falling to make a brown carpet on the floor. A few gardeners were sweeping them up and pruning the heads off dead flowers, dropping them into their baskets. The setting put Thomasin at ease at once.
She sensed that Nico was looking at her.
“So you are a deliverer of letters, now?”
“Just this once. It is not an office I enjoy.”
“Sometimes that is our lot, is it not? Due to our station in life, to perform those tasks our masters do not wish.”
She looked at him sharply, and those golden, dancing eyes met hers. “How is your service with Cromwell working out, then?”
“I have that place of influence that I craved. It is important work and a steady position, so I will not complain. He has me copying letters, seeking out references and precedents, compiling lists. I am certainly kept busy.”
