“Before you sleep, just as I used to when you were a child.”
“More often I am brushing out the queen’s hair, before we fall asleep exhausted.”
Lady Elizabeth’s nose wrinkled. “If you do not take care of your looks, do not complain to me when you lose them.”
“Is the king here yet?” Cecilia was looking around.
Thomasin had never been so grateful to her sister for changing the subject.
“I imagine he is getting changed out of his armour.”
Lady Elizabeth sniffed. “Should we go and greet the queen now? Is it still the done thing?”
Her question made Thomasin’s blood boil. “Why would it not be?”
“Well, you know, because of how things stand.”
“How things stand? How they stand is that my mistress is your queen and your gracious hostess today. She has not changed in her person or her merits, regardless of anyone else’s inclinations.”
“Well, I wasn’t suggesting…”
“Of course you should give her the respect she deserves.”
Cecilia moved forward as if heading towards Queen Catherine, but Lady Elizabeth put a warning hand on her arm. “Wait, we should be careful.”
“Careful?” asked Thomasin. “Of what? Showing proper respect?”
“You never know who is watching. We don’t want to be seen to be taking sides.”
Thomasin felt her rage rising and fought to control it. She lowered her voice. “You can’t mean this, Mother. You spent a night at Hever and suddenly you are of the Boleyns’ faction?”
“It’s not that,” said Lady Elizabeth.
“Then what, exactly?”
“Caution, prudence, for the sake of Cecilia. For a new marriage.”
“Well, unless you plan to marry her to a Boleyn, of which there are none available, your prudence is misplaced. Excuse me, I am busy, serving my queen.”
Lady Elizabeth and Cecilia exchanged a glance, but Thomasin was already walking away.
“Your mother?” asked Ellen, as Thomasin took her place beside her cousin, who was serving the queen from the buffet.
“Yes, my mother,” Thomasin replied in such an irate tone that Ellen looked up.
“Oh dear. Not already?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
Thomasin was mindful of the queen’s proximity. Catherine was speaking with Bishops Tunstall and Fisher, with Mendoza already seated on a plump velvet cushion. The old man was looking tired and pained, and Thomasin remembered seeing him suffering in a similar way one evening at Windsor.
“Might I fetch you anything, Your Grace?”
Mendoza’s face lit up at her kindness. “Thank you, a little wine. It’s my legs again.”
“Of course, one moment.”
She poured out a large glass of wine and brought it back to him. As he reached up to take it, he spotted the pearl ring she wore upon her little finger.
