“It might.”
“If only such a woman existed.”
“If only.”
Wolsey dusted himself down. “I should return to the king. He is in a most foul temper today and requires soothing. Thank you for granting me an audience, my Lady. Please accept my sincerest prayers for your good health.”
Thomasin opened the door to let the cardinal out.
It did not escape their attention that Catherine was looking remarkably pleased with herself.
“You are well, my Lady?” asked Mountjoy.
The queen turned. “Don’t you see? Wolsey has given himself away. He loathes the Boleyns and is as against this annulment as I am. Yet whose job is it to pronounce upon the case? Campeggio, who is under instruction from the emperor, and Wolsey himself.”
Alarm bells rang in Thomasin’s head. Clearly the same doubt had occurred to Mountjoy.
“Do not be too hasty to call him an ally. He may share your dislike of the Boleyns, but as he admitted, it does not mean he desires the same outcome. I do not trust the man one bit.”
“I know, and I thank you for your caution and counsel as ever, my Lord. But if the cardinal is now complicit in a plan to divert the king, he is actively working against the king’s wishes. He has been seeking to undermine Anne. Don’t you see? There we have him! He had placed his own downfall in our hands.”
Thomasin was surprised at her ruthlessness.
“Believe me,” the queen continued, “I do not like this plan at all. I loathe it. I do not wish to encourage any other woman to pay court to my husband, married in the eyes of God. I detest it. And yet the alternative is worse.”
“This is true, my Lady,” said Mountjoy. “We must all cut our coat according to the cloth we have.”
“And should Wolsey betray us, we will simply point to him as the instigator of the scheme.”
“And wisely protect yourself, my Lady.”
“The cardinal has been no friend to me, whatever he says about years gone by. Just last year he tried to woo a French princess to replace me. He must think I had forgotten about that, but I do not. I forget nothing.”
There came a rapping at the door. Catherine frowned.
“He can’t have returned so soon. Open up!”
Maria Willoughby let in a boy of twelve or thirteen, catching his breath and babbling in Spanish.
“Slow down,” said the queen. “Aren’t you one of Mendoza’s boys?”
The dark head nodded and the boy spluttered out a string of sounds again.
“You have run all the way here?” translated Catherine. “House arrest? But why? When?”
The boy burbled some more.
“But it can’t be!” exclaimed Maria, the other native Spanish speaker in the room.
“Sit down,” Catherine said kindly. “Maria, fetch him some refreshment.” She turned, with a face like thunder, barely able to contain her anger. Then, seeing Thomasin and Ellen, she explained, “Bishop Mendoza has been placed under house arrest. The king’s men arrived this afternoon and locked him in his lodgings, while two stand permanently on guard.”
“But why?” asked Thomasin, horrified for the poor old man.
“Because he is the representative of the emperor. The Imperial Ambassador. And it is the emperor who currently stands between the king and what he desires.”
“But that is no fault of Mendoza!”
“No, but it is the final straw. He is writing to Brussels, asking to be recalled. I must send him some supplies: wine and meat, medicine and blankets. This is such an unkindness. I am sure the king has done it because of the friendship Mendoza has shown me over the years.”
