Mary Boleyn turned. It was strange to see that face again, the pale mask with pretty lines, the full mouth that both the king and her husband Will had kissed. She looked Thomasin up and down, but did not reply.
“May I speak with you, please?”
Still silent, Mary Boleyn rose majestically. She was still dressed in mourning, wearing a pale grey and black gown with a plain bonnet. Only the gold chain about her neck gave the slightest hint of colour or warmth.
“Outside.”
Thomasin was surprised by her clipped tone; perhaps it was because Mary Boleyn did not wish to break the penitent air of the chapel, but something in her voice made Thomasin’s stomach turn to knots. She followed her outside and round the corner into a little space of bushes and trees that led down to the river. There, Mary turned and faced her.
“I was offering prayers for the soul of my late husband.”
Thomasin froze at the words.
“So your timing is a little inappropriate, but here I am. What can you want to say to me?”
A pair of defiant eyes stared at Thomasin. Mary Boleyn was not tall, but she was well built, and knew the power of her position and beauty.
“My apologies, my Lady, I would not have interrupted your prayers for anything.”
“Well, you did,” said Mary Boleyn sharply, “so let’s have it.”
Thomasin thought of the supper party she and Cecilia had attended last autumn. The laughter and the smiles, the flowing wine and conversation, the dancing. It had seemed then that like Anne, Mary was offering her friendship. Clearly that good will had now been withdrawn.
Thomasin reached into her sleeve and held out the letter. “I wish to deliver this to Anne. I hope you will be so good as to pass it to her, with my regards.”
Mary Boleyn looked at the letter but did not take it. “That is my mother’s hand.”
“Yes, yes, it is. She entrusted it to me. I promised to hand it over to Anne in person, but it has been difficult to find the opportunity.”
“How did you come by it?”
“My family were travelling to London, when the axle broke on our carriage, and amid heavy rain, your mother was kind enough to offer us shelter at Hever.”
“You were at Hever?” Mary Boleyn looked at her long and hard.
“Yes, my Lady. By your mother’s kind invitation. Otherwise we would never have intruded upon her privacy.”
“You are Thomasin Marwood, are you not?”
The conversation did not seem promising. Thomasin lowered her arm. “Yes, I am. Daughter of Sir Richard of Eastwell, Suffolk.”
“And sister of Cecilia. I remember you from last year.”
Thomasin waited, still gripping the letter.
“And I hear that you were close to my husband before his passing.”
Thomasin flushed hot at this unexpected turn, unaware that Mary Boleyn had known anything of it.
“We were friends, my Lady.”
“Oh,” Mary Boleyn laughed. “I think it was a little more than that, wasn’t it?”
Thomasin made no reply, but steeled herself for the possibility of accusations. Will had always been insistent that the marriage was one of convenience and that Mary’s affair with the king had prevented any real intimacy between them. No recriminations or apologies could bring him back, now, though.
“It’s funny that you should speak of letters,” Mary Boleyn continued. “You see, Will left behind an unposted letter when he died. It was handed to me, of course, as his wife.”
Her words were painful. A last letter. Thomasin could not imagine what it contained, and it was a blow to her heart that she would never get to read it. Had it been anything like the one letter that reached her in Suffolk, it would have been full of protestations of love and plans for them to build a future together, for Will had hoped he would be able to part from Mary.
