“I must go back. I have work to do.”
“Nico, don’t be like that.”
“Leave me alone; just let me be.”
He put his head down and hurried away.
Thomasin was left torn between the desire to protect him and the need to respect his wishes. This wasn’t the true Nico; he was reacting to Cromwell’s cruelty, probably in shock. She had intruded at the worst possible moment. But she could not help considering the question: had Nico been struck by his master before? What could have occasioned this? Perhaps he would be prepared to speak with her about it in the morning, when he had calmed down.
People were leaving dinner now, pouring out into the night. It was time to return to the queen’s apartments, especially as Thomasin did not wish for another encounter with the Boleyns.
Tapers were burning along the corridors. The guards stood aside to let her pass. Thomasin had barely stepped through the door, when an excited Princess Mary flew across the room to her side, eyes aglow.
“Guess what, Thomasin?” Mary laughed, not waiting for a reply. “We are going to spend Christmas at Greenwich! Can you imagine? And there will be celebrations and feasting! The chapel dean is composing new songs and Wolsey will stage a masque!”
“Wolsey?”
“It will be so exciting!” Mary shot a look at her mother behind her. “And of course, there will be Mass and services, and fasting beforehand. I am so looking forward to it. It is my favourite time of the year.”
“How lovely,” said Thomasin, concerned at once about how protocol would throw together the queen and Anne. “It is something to look forward to.”
“You will be there, of course? Ellen said you would, and so did Mother.”
“Yes, of course I will be there.”
“Christmas!” Mary glowed. “The best season.”
NINE
Sir Thomas More bowed low before the king.
“Welcome, Thomas. Please rise; it is a pleasure to see you.”
Henry strode down from the dais and offered his hand to the man bent humbly before him, an unusual gesture that indicated the depth of feeling between the pair.
More was sage in appearance, with his grey beard and scholar’s cap. He was in his early fifties, but his eyes were bright, brimming with intelligence.
“You too, Mistress Roper,” added the king. “Welcome back to court. It is always a pleasure when we have our daughters with us.”
Beside Thomas More, his daughter Margaret rose to her feet from a wide curtsey. She was like her father in the face, but her features were sharper, betraying her fierce wit. Thomasin had been drawn to her upon their first meeting, and would have liked to see her more often, although her own duties kept her at the queen’s side, and Margaret was busy with her husband, children and the Latin translation she was working on.
“Now,” continued Henry, “to business. Let us head for the long walk, where we may speak more privately.”
He walked away with More at his side, their heads together already in what looked something like a father and son pairing.
Margaret turned to Thomasin, who had been granted permission to attend by Catherine, on account of the friendship between her and More’s daughter.
“Come, it feels an age since I last saw you.”
“Indeed it does,” Thomasin replied, hastening to her side and following the men out through the palace corridors.
“This is the first time I have been to Bridewell,” Margaret continued, “so you must show me the way, as I am hopeless in situations like this and will surely get lost before long.”
“Oh, nonsense, you know your way around Erasmus and Eusebius, so Bridewell will prove no difficulty for you.”
“On the contrary, it is because my head is stuffed full with such matters, that I can barely see the way before me. When I am working, my husband has to place food beside me and insist that I eat!”
Thomasin laughed. “I do not quite believe that! I remember your appetite well enough.”
