When the ring was replaced, Thomasin noticed that the original, smaller circle was being used. She couldn’t help wondering how well Rafe would fare with the challenge.
At the sound of the trumpet, he began to urge his horse forward, sleek and fast towards the ring. The hoofs clattered in rhythm, reverberating against the earth, thundering down as he neared the bright, streaming circle. Aiming his lance, Rafe strained forward in his saddle and pierced right through the centre, carrying the ring away with him. The crowd applauded and he made a short bow of triumph. Then he turned and rode back down the lists on the opposite side, so he had to pass the queen’s box. He went slowly, displaying his success, looking into the faces of the people, and Thomasin had the sudden conviction that he was doing this for her benefit. As he approached her seat, she pulled her eyes away, turning her head so as to look at the royal tent, until he had passed by completely.
“That was rather obvious,” commented Ellen.
“Oh, do you think so? You think he noticed?”
“He absolutely did, and looked most disappointed at it.”
Thomasin felt guilty. “I hadn’t meant to snub him, only not to acknowledge him. There’s a difference.”
“Of course there is. And you may have intended that, but I think he took it as a snub.”
“Oh dear, I shall have to apologise, if the right moment arises.”
“But you don’t want to encourage him?”
“No, especially after Nico. But I don’t want to hurt his feelings either.”
“You are too nice, Thomasin. Consider whether he would have the same delicacy of feeling for you.”
Thomasin shrugged. “We shall see. I need not think of him any more.”
“Of course not,” said Ellen. “You will be entirely free to think about your Venetian instead. Where is he, now I come to ask?”
“He’s over with Cromwell,” Thomasin replied at once, betraying her interest.
“He may have been, but he has gone now.”
Thomasin looked over to see that Ellen was correct. Ralph Sadler stood beside Cromwell alone and Nico was nowhere to be seen.
“Never mind,” said Ellen. “I am sure he will reappear at the feast.”
The feast! Thomasin shuddered at the thought of Rafe, Cecilia, Barnaby, and the Astons all together in the same room. But would Anne Boleyn also show?
EIGHTEEN
The way back to the hall was littered with ribbons and ropes, gloves and brushes, debris of the tournament. Servants hurried about, picking up the pieces, while others raked over the sand. Queen Catherine sat serenely until the way was clear, then she rose to her feet, giving the signal to Mountjoy. Once she was on the move, her ladies rose to follow. As was fitting, Catherine was the first to leave the tiltyard, placing her feet carefully, her long skirts dragging a smooth trail through the sand. Thomasin felt all eyes turn to watch them as they headed back inside, before the crowd surged after them like a wave.
“Thomasin!”
They had barely set foot inside, when her mother’s voice pierced her like a needle. It occurred to her to pretend she had not heard, or that she was busy, but Catherine was already seated and content; doubtless, Lady Elizabeth Marwood’s calls would only have become louder and shriller had her daughter ignored them. Thomasin turned, putting on a smile.
“Mother, how unexpected.”
Lady Elizabeth and Cecilia had somehow got to the front of the new arrivals.
“There you are! We saw you outside; you did not see us waving? Never mind. We are here now; we simply had to come.”
“We have sat in Monk’s Place long enough,” added Cecilia, looking around. “And when we heard there was a tournament, we just had to come. Father said we would be tired by it all, but it’s actually so exciting.”
“You look well, Thomasin,” her mother continued. “You must remember, though, not to eat too much at court. I saw you at Hever, quite gobbling your food. Mind your manners here, won’t you? It’s not attractive.”
Thomasin sighed, deciding not to even reply.
“And make sure you brush out your hair at night. One hundred strokes.”
“When would I ever have the time to do that?”
