Ellen put a hand on her cousin’s arm. “Thank you, that is kind of you, but it is something I have to do alone. You would be better going to keep an eye on Cecilia.”
“I honestly do not think I have the stomach for that.” Then a thought struck Thomasin. “Oh, do you think I should tell our father?”
“He will be angry if you don’t,” Ellen mused, “but frustrated if you do, because there is nothing he can do if the queen is involved. He can’t order Cecilia home again if Catherine commands her to stay. And besides, the queen has already compelled us to silence, hasn’t she?”
“Yes. She did make us promise not to tell anyone of the plan.”
“So that excludes your father. The question is taken out of your hands.”
“I suppose so,” Thomasin sighed. “I just hope she doesn’t make a fool of herself and the family again.”
“There’s nothing we can do now,” said Ellen, “only trust in Cecilia.”
“Yes,” said Thomasin, “that’s the problem.”
As she picked up her needle, Thomasin felt the scratch of Lady Boleyn’s letter in her sleeve, like a prick of conscience. There was nothing more to be done, while Anne stayed away, but she resented the wretched letter for the trouble it was causing her. And it was especially cumbersome whilst sewing. As Ellen was fetching her thread, Thomasin whipped it out of her sleeve and stuffed it under the cushion pad of her chair. It was a relief not to have the sharp edges constantly reminding her of her failed duty.
TWENTY
“Thank you for seeing me, my Lady,” said Thomas Wolsey as Maria Willoughby opened the door to the queen’s chambers.
They all watched him cautiously; the queen, her ladies and Mountjoy were all suspicious of the enemy who had requested an audience.
The cardinal entered slowly, portentously, with the air of one who is careful of his footing. At fifty-five, his holy position offered no protection against all the mortal pains that his life of power and excess had brought on. He carried his jewel-encrusted hands before him and breathed heavily through his thick lips. And yet there was something pitiful about him too, thought Thomasin, watching him make his way towards the queen. Something she couldn’t quite put her finger on, but it stemmed from his strained relationship with Anne.
Rumour had it that years before, when Anne had first returned to court from France, she had fallen in love with a young man named Henry Percy, now Duke of Northumberland. The pair had even contracted a secret engagement, even though his family intended him for another. Wolsey had separated the lovers, sending Anne back to Hever and insisting that Percy be wed, a good two or three years before she had caught the king’s eye. They said Anne never forgot a slight or let a grudge go, and that her memory was sharp as a knife. She had made no attempt to conceal her dislike of the man who had been by King Henry’s side for the last fifteen years.
“A gift, my Lady. Cramp rings, to ease your suffering.”
The irony of this, from a man who had brought suffering to the queen, was not lost on Thomasin.
He held out a small cloth bag between thick, shaking fingers encrusted with gems. Mountjoy stepped forwards to take it, then handed it to the queen. She toyed with the ribbon but did not open it. Instead, she waited.
Wolsey understood what was required of him. Very slowly, he lowered himself to his knees. His robes pooled about him as he tried to accommodate his limbs and feet. The queen watched his suffering without offering respite.
Wolsey waited until he was composed and had his breath back. “Good day, my Lady.”
“You wished to speak with me?”
“I hope I might, as you have been so good as to grant me an audience?” He looked hopefully towards a chair, but the queen had not forgotten the many times he had taken Henry’s part against her.
“What is the matter on which you wish to speak?”
Wolsey sighed in acceptance. “The great matter between you and the king, my Lady.”
“Do you mean my marriage?”
“I mean that which you, no doubt, sincerely believe to be a true marriage.”
“And which was conducted in the eyes of God, with a dispensation from the Pope, according to the rites of the Catholic Church by Archbishop Warham.”
“Yes, my Lady. That marriage.”
“What do you wish to say to me about it?”
Wolsey leaned forwards, resting the knuckles of one hand upon the ground. “A moment, my Lady. My apologies.”
Still Catherine showed herself little inclined to show mercy. Wolsey’s cramp rings sat in her lap.
