“Well,” Boleyn continued, “we shall see, we shall see. Good evening, ladies.”
He marched away down the path, his boots rustling the bushes.
Rafe raised his thick brows and shot Thomasin a look of surprise, before hurrying after his master.
For a moment, the two women were stunned.
“Well,” said Ellen eventually, rounding to face Thomasin. “We shall see, we shall see — now he sees something in you of merit!”
“Oh, hush!” Thomasin started walking back in the direction of the palace.
“Aren’t you curious? Where might this lead, if the Boleyns are disposed to favour you?”
“I do not desire their favour.”
“No,” said Ellen reflectively, “but you may not be able to avoid it, either.”
“Enough of the Boleyns,” Thomasin declared, heading to the palace door.
Looking through the door, they could see the hall emptying. People were talking, yawning, stretching and departing in small groups. The king and most of the court had already gone, including the Boleyns and their new arrival, and while the dalliers lingered, servants were starting to dismantle the tables, readying the space for the night. Some were even settling down in the corners: the lowliest souls would take their rest in the straw there after the torches were extinguished.
There was no sign of Nico, or his master, Thomas Cromwell. Nor Cromwell’s master, Cardinal Wolsey. All had vanished into the corridors and rooms of the vast palace of Bridewell.
“I suppose Nico has more letters and lists to make copies of, before he sleeps,” Thomasin mused, wondering afresh at the content of the letter he had received earlier that day.
“Come, then,” said Ellen, “let’s return to the queen.”
Thomasin cast a final look about the place, but the feel of the hall had changed: the hustle and bustle, and the pointed rivalry and barbed words, had all been swept away with the dishes and cloths, and now only a functional space remained. Another scene in the shifting theatre of the court was beginning.
FIVE
Princess Mary moved smoothly, regally, as if she had been practising how to glide. That morning, she was carefully dressed in a winter gown of thick murrey velvet, her long sleeves turned back to reveal white and silver cuffs with close embroidery. At Mary’s side, Lady Salisbury kept up a brisk pace, sombre and austere in a gown of black and white.
Thomasin hurried after them down the corridor, pleased to have been selected by the queen for this role, although her insides were fluttering at the prospect of the child coming face to face with her father. She was unsure exactly what Mary knew or didn’t know, and to what extent she understood the changes that had taken place between her parents, and the implications for her future. Surely it was not possible to be long at court without spotting the sidelong glances, or hearing the gossip? Mary had only been back in London a day, less than that, even. Her mother’s joy had suffused their hours so far, but soon she must notice Catherine’s quiet seclusion, her withdrawn mood, her loss of hope.
Mary turned briefly, bright-eyed. At twelve, she was still a child, animated by hope and excitement that had never yet been tainted by the sting of disapproval. Never had she known the pain of heartbreak. Was she hurrying towards that now? Thomasin watched the ripple of movement through the back of Mary’s hood. The princess was like a flower, growing towards the light, opening its petals to feel the sun, just about to bloom. Soon, it was inevitable that she would be crushed by the weight of her father’s needs. A flash of anger passed through Thomasin, but it was too late for any warning now. They were being admitted to the king’s chambers.
“Daughter!”
Mary knelt before Henry, her head bent low. Thomasin and Lady Salisbury followed suit behind, both no doubt united by the same wish that the king was in a generous mood.
Henry strode forwards, appearing in their eyeline as a pair of soft leather shoes with golden buckles, and fresh white hose swelling up over his strong calves.
He raised Mary with his hand and placed an arm about her shoulder. Straightening up, Thomasin saw that the rooms were thankfully empty of unwanted witnesses. She had not been into the king’s inner chamber at Bridewell before: the rooms were well-situated and ornate, with the usual decorations of tapestries, carved chairs with cushions and a cupboard bearing fine gold plate and crystal. A number of songbirds sat in cages hanging in front of the tall, bright windows.
“Come, let me look at you,” Henry said, extending his arm. “How much you have grown! Quite ladylike, and a good inch taller since you were last at court.”
“And you should hear me sing, shouldn’t he?” Mary replied excitedly, turning to Lady Salisbury. “I should sing for you now, if you can get a lute, but I don’t need to have it, really. I can sing all by myself.”
“Wait, calm yourself,” her father said. “There is plenty of time for that.”
“And my Latin is so far advanced that my tutor considers me quite a prodigy.”
“Does he, indeed? Do I have a prodigy for a daughter?”
“Well, of course, what else?”
Mary beamed and tried to step closer to her father. Thomasin noticed how her behaviour around the king seemed younger than her years, and how anxious she was to please him.
