“Regarding my own situation, and that of the succession in my realm, madam, as I am sure you are aware. Ensure that she is properly prepared for such an eventuality.”
Thomasin was shocked at his openness: Lady Salisbury looked properly chastised. But perhaps now that he had made his public statement, Henry felt emboldened to speak openly about such matters, and to make new plans.
But the princess’s governess was not to be quashed that swiftly, not when the interests of her charge were at stake. “Am I to understand, my lord, that I am no longer to prepare the princess for future queenship? Is she no longer your heir?”
The king looked as if he might choke upon his meat. “It has never been my intention for her to rule England alone: a female king?” He snorted. “Come now, lady, you are not that naïve. Remember the past, and all that befell our ancestors over the question of inheritance. It is my intention to father a son, with God’s blessing, and my daughter will be found a suitable match, perhaps even as the queen of some foreign land.”
“Did you have someone in mind for her?”
“Not yet, not yet,” he replied dismissively. “Some good Catholic prince, I am sure.”
“The king of France has two suitable sons, does he not?”
But Henry had tired of being quizzed. “Is this meat to your liking? Better than Ludlow, I am sure,” he snapped, and cousin or not, Lady Salisbury knew when it was wise to keep her peace.
The meal was ending: the hall emptying out into the night. Outside, dusk was clinging under archways and smoothing away sharp corners, making everything soft and easy. A strange lull of comfort and ease fell over the palace. Breathing in the sweetness of the cool twilight air, Thomasin surveyed the walled garden, spread out before them with its geometric paths and autumnal blooms. Here and there, people were strolling, arm in arm, or standing about chatting, while the servants hurried to light the braziers, singeing the night with the tang of woodsmoke. Thomasin felt her shoulders relax: it was a relief to come outside, after the hot, noisy hall.
For now, they had escaped their duties. Catherine wouldn’t expect them back just yet, and Lady Salisbury was still occupied with the king. Thomasin and Ellen made their way along awinding path, flanked by the figures of carved heraldic beasts. Before them, on a pedestal, stood a proud lion rampant, its mane and coat of arms picked out in gold. As they passed it and veered round to the right, another statue loomed up before them, this time a mythical yale, goat-like, with golden boar-tusks and horns.
“It feels like we are being watched at every turn,” Ellen laughed. “Do you think these beasts are the king’s spies?”
“Nothing would surprise me,” Thomasin confirmed. “Although I think it more likely that they have been schooled by Cromwell!”
As they were standing in the falling darkness, overshadowed by the symbols of majesty, the palace door opened again, and two figures were silhouetted against the brightness within. The first was a slighter, older man, broad-shouldered but lean and wiry, dressed elegantly in the style that denoted high status. He stepped out into the garden, becoming recognisable as Thomas Boleyn, his gaze darting about as if in search of someone. His whole demeanour put Thomasin on edge: the swift cunning, the sharpness of tone and intent, the directness of purpose: he was nothing less than a wolf in sparkling jewels.
As she watched, Boleyn started forwards.
“Oh, goodness, he is headed this way.”
Thomasin took a deep breath and stood up straight, ready to meet the impending challenge. Perhaps amid this darkness, he would reveal his sharp teeth.
“Mistress Marwood.” Boleyn’s tone was clipped, precise. She almost felt his words darting about her.
Thomasin bowed her head, as his rank demanded, but not before she had noticed the second figure, trailing behind him like a shadow. Rafe Danvers stood a whole head taller than his guardian yet was still engulfed by him. Briefly, she took in his habitual black clothing, his dark hair, the inquisitive look he attempted to throw her.
“Good evening, Sir Thomas.”
“Viscount now,” he corrected quickly.
“Viscount,” she echoed, inwardly amused that he wielded the title like a shield.
As ever, he was straight to business. He was not a man to waste words unless the occasion demanded it. “I understand, from my wife, that your family paid an unscheduled visit to our home at Hever, not so long ago.”
Thomasin coloured at the reminder, loath to be in this man’s debt. “Your good wife was kind enough to extend her hospitality to travellers who had suffered a misfortune on the road, for which my family are truly grateful.”
“Quite a serious misfortune, as I heard.”
“Nothing that couldn’t be fixed. The axle on the carriage failed, and we required a smith, but were unfortunate due to the location and weather.”
“I was glad to hear of its repair. I do hope none of your family sustained any injury, other than the loss of your time.”
“Thankfully not. We are all quite well.”
He was looking at her shrewdly, as if to reassess her merits. She recalled the way he had danced with her when she first arrived at court, recommending that she adopt the new French fashions and purchase herself a new hood. Both he and his wife had seen a similarity between Thomasin and their daughter Anne, a comparison she had not sought and did not welcome. She could not find any similarity between her looks and those of the king’s paramour, beyond the fact that they both had dark hair and eyes. Anne’s skin was pale, while her cheeks were ruddy and her complexion warm. Any thought of a connection between their characters repelled her.
“My wife spoke highly of you,” Boleyn continued. “She seems to see something of merit in you, which perhaps I have missed.”
This was too much, especially when Thomasin was conscious of Rafe standing right beside them. She pulled her eyes away, uncomfortably.
