“It is a monstrous cruelty,” added Maria. “I will put together remedies for his feet, and some delicacies for his table.”
“Are my friends now to be in the firing line?” asked Catherine.
And Thomasin had the vision of King Henry, standing with his legs apart, a longbow in his hands as he drew back the string and loosed an arrow.
Catherine turned to Mountjoy. “I must go to Henry at once. I must speak to him of this matter, urge him to release Mendoza. It is an outrage. The emperor will hear of it before long.”
“Forgive me, my Lady, but I would advise against it at the present time.”
The queen looked at him impatiently, but he held his position. “Well?”
“I do not presume to advise you, my Lady, but I recall the cardinal’s words about the king, being in an angry state and pacing his chambers. If you go to him now with this request, it is not likely to be received well. He may react in anger rather than listen to reason. Might it be better to wait until he has calmed down?”
“At least the bishop is in his own lodgings,” added Maria, “so he can rest. And if you send him the supplies, he will at least be comfortable.”
Catherine considered the wisdom of their words. “You have a point,” she admitted. “There is no point approaching Henry when he is not in the right frame of mind. And yet again, I must be cautious with my own husband because of that woman. It is because of her that my friends must suffer.”
“Patience, my Lady,” said Mountjoy, “will yield better results.”
“Patience,” grumbled Catherine, muttering something that followed in Spanish. “My whole life is an act of patience.”
“And God sees all, Catalina,” added Maria. “Never forget, God sees all.”
TWENTY-ONE
The morning was still young, but Westminster’s outer yard was busy with arrivals and departures. Horses, led in and out, attending the smith to be freshly shod. Deliveries of apples and leeks from the countryside, a basket of eggs, a haunch of venison, all headed for the kitchen entrance. Servants were sweeping, and a boy was leading out a dog to be exercised, filling the air with its excited yelping.
Thomasin was carrying a letter from Queen Catherine to Bishop Fisher, when she spotted Rafe riding in through the far gate. He’d been out early, dressed in his boots and cloak, and he cut a dashing figure. At once, her heart gave its predictable, annoying jolt, infuriating her that he still invoked that physical reaction.
Rafe dismounted and headed towards the palace entrance. It would be easier to avoid him than to meet, so Thomasin turned away and sought out a messenger boy for her task.
“Here,” she said, placing the letter in the hands of a tall youth with a pocked face. “This is from the queen.”
His eyes grew wide as he nodded in earnest.
“Make sure you give it to the bishop directly in his palace at Lambeth; do not give it to anyone else. You know where that is?”
“Yes, Mistress.”
“What’s your name?”
“Peter, Mistress.”
“Peter. Be swift and don’t fail. There’s a coin for your pains.”
He hurried away on long legs, full of eagerness to be of use.
The errand reminded Thomasin of Lady Boleyn’s letter to Anne. In what had become an habitual gesture, she clasped the sleeve of her gown, but this time, found only empty folds of material there. With horror, Thomasin remembered the moment when she had stuffed the letter under the cushion in the antechamber, to make her darning easier. A sense of panic seized her. What if someone else was to find it?
“Thomasin? What are you doing out here?”
Rafe had seen her, after all. He strolled up with that easy, powerful gait she knew so well, cloak thrown over his shoulder.
“Good morning,” she replied formally.
“A love letter?”
His question annoyed her. “An errand for the queen.”
