“He was the most insolent he could be this morning, insisting upon entering the queen’s chamber at an ungodly hour. And he was quite rude to her ladies, myself included.”
“I am truly sorry for that.” Nico made a small bow, his words and voice sincere. “The king has stepped up his search for evidence against his marriage, now that the Italian cardinal has almost arrived. He seeks to prove the queen incapable of further childbearing, and my master has no delicacy or scruples when it comes to getting results.”
“Evidence or not, the case will go against her, will it not?”
“Even if it is a fair hearing, that is likely. The king will try to ensure the outcome he wants, but he has to weigh against the authority of the Pope. But your Lady should engage her good friends to speak for her. They should prepare their defences, if they have not already done so.”
Thomasin nodded. The thought of the upcoming legal battle filled her with dread. “And King Henry will really go ahead with this?”
“He hopes to put the decision into another’s hands, whilst professing his grief at the loss of his queen.”
Thomasin shook her head.
They turned a corner on the path, their faces now bathed in warm, gentle sunlight.
“And what of you, Thomasin?” Nico asked, in his gentle, lilting way. “How do you fare?”
“Well enough, I suppose, given everything.”
“You are not unhappy?”
“No, not unhappy.”
“But not happy, I think, or not happy enough?”
Thomasin turned towards a patch of late roses, their drooping pink heads catching the light. There was still no sign of Mary Boleyn.
“Was that your father I saw yesterday?” Nico asked.
“Yes, he was here with my uncle. He has some legal business, a private matter about an inheritance.”
“So what would make you happy, Thomasin? What is missing?”
His words struck a chord with her musings of the day before. What was happiness? Belonging, duty, youth, health, a sense of being useful and needed by the queen: all these things gave her a sense of satisfaction, but none of them quite amounted to happiness. It had been that intense spark of hope, of joy, when she had realised that Rafe desired her. That thrill when she first came to court. The excitement of being invited into Anne Boleyn’s chambers. Or were those things just novelties? Had she confused lust and pleasure for happiness?
“Thomasin?” He put his hand lightly on her arm, drawing her out of her thoughts. “You know that I have always held you in the deepest regard. My feelings for you are unchanged.”
She had not expected such a speech. The confusion must have shown in her face.
“Do not be alarmed,” he said quickly. “I mean nothing dishonourable. I have been reflecting myself upon the state of happiness, of what it means. When we met at Windsor, I was too forward, carried away by our mission and Venetian manners.”
She remembered the way he had flattered her, sought her out, stolen a kiss.
“Now I have been at the English court for a while, I can see how things are done here. Differently,” he smiled, “to the way my hot Italian blood would dictate.”
Thomasin could not help but smile a little at this.
“I was wondering,” he continued, “now that my circumstances have changed, as has my understanding, whether you might permit me…”
Thomasin stopped abruptly on the path, frowning and wondering what was coming next. Another kiss? A proposition?
He turned to face her, his handsome face open. “Thomasin, would you give me your gracious permission to pay court to you, with only the most honourable intentions on my part? I wish for no secrets, only discretion, so that I might better get to know you and how I might serve you.”
His words left her stunned. They sounded like something from one of the old French Romance tales, so formal and respectful, quite unlike anything she had encountered before at court.
Nico took her by the hand. “I want to do things right, Thomasin. Let me show you my pure intentions, and then you can make up your mind if you wish to accept me as a suitor.”
His words were pleasing, respectful. His tone was melodic, his eyes enchanting. She recalled dancing with him at Windsor, the lithe rhythm of his body, the easy way he had led her through the steps, the curve of his back and thighs.
