“But the legatine court will soon convene, will it not, now that Cardinal Campeggio is here?”
“I think all concerned wish for a swift conclusion.”
“Ah, but we do not all wish for the same conclusion, do we?”
Unwilling to be drawn into a quarrel with Jane, Thomasin noticed the servers arriving. “At last, here comes the food. I confess I am very hungry.”
“Me too,” smiled Jane. “I have quite got my appetite back and it feels an age since I last ate!”
The meal was a relief. It offered a respite from interaction, a common ground that was neutral. Thomasin helped herself from the dishes in relief, spooning out saffron chicken and duck stewed with plums. All she need do now was to empty her plate then invent some excuse to return to Catherine’s rooms, and her uncomfortable duty was done. She was already planning the words she would use to explain her predicament to the queen, when Anne addressed Nan, showing that the conversation was not yet over.
“My books arrived today. I must show them to you, although they cannot pass beyond this circle.”
Thomasin’s ears pricked up at once. Secret books?
“You speak of the new work?” asked George, with a question in his voice. “Come from Antwerp?”
“I am not afraid to speak of it.”
“Perhaps you should be,” continued her brother, “knowing how others see it.”
“Then they have not read it,” Anne added. “Tyndale. There! I dared say his name. William Tyndale’s book!”
“What is this book of which you speak?” asked Francis Bryan, ever on the lookout for gossip and drama.
“The Obedience of a Christian Manis its short title, as you know,” Anne replied. “It came by special courier, smuggled through Dover under a messenger’s saddle — can you believe it?”
There was a ripple of laughter at this absurdity.
“I will begin it tonight, then you must read it, Nan,” Anne continued, “and tell me what you think.”
“Be careful,” said Thomas Boleyn, wading into their talk. “Until you have your arguments formulated, you are still in danger.”
“I only need days,” said Anne blithely. “Once I have the arguments in my head, then I can make my case.”
“Make your case?” asked Jane.
“Yes, Jane,” said Anne impatiently, without looking at her brother’s wife, “make my case.”
“She intends to present it to the king,” explained George, “and show him it is not a dangerous book after all and has been misclassified; in fact, it is a work that will be of great assistance to Henry’s cause.”
“How so?” Jane obligingly asked the questions that Thomasin herself wished to hear answered: what was this book, and how might it help the king? Did it spell trouble for the queen?
“Well!” Anne took the air of a tired schoolmaster. “It contains many helpful arguments about reforming the faith, such as the Bible being read in English, but more importantly, it offers the view that the king himself should be head of the church in this country, not the Pope. That is what is revolutionary. You understand what it means?”
“I do,” said Jane, unwilling to be presented as being slow. “It means he can overrule the Pope’s decisions.”
“And thus grant himself a divorce,” supplied George.
“Problem solved,” concluded Anne.
There was a pause as the table digested this. Thomasin stared at her plate, unable to believe they would speak so freely before her about such matters. So much for Rafe’s reassurance of good behaviour. The arrogance, the presumption of them!
“So what do you think of it, Mistress Marwood?” Anne shot across the table at her.
Thomasin was determined not to be cowed by her. “I know nothing of this Tyndale’s book.”
“But you do now, having heard that. Tell me, what do you think of this new idea, that the king of England should be head of his own church?”
