“I shall be the best prize giver!” Mary promised. “They will compose ballads about me.”
Thomasin wandered to the window, and Ellen followed her. Outside, she could see more barges alighting, bringing the court, boat by boat, to witness the day’s activities. Henry and many of the jousters had ridden through the city, shepherding the other horses between them. They had left soon after dawn, so were already in the stables, preparing their mounts for the event.
“Who can you see?” Ellen was leaning past her.
“No one in particular. Just the shapes of people moving.”
“In some ways, this will be a good rehearsal for Christmas. Crowds of people, activities. We must keep close.”
Thomasin understood at once that her cousin was referring to Princess Mary. Anne Boleyn would be present, no doubt, sitting in her family’s box to watch the joust, but any provocative actions and responses when the king rode must not be allowed to reach the child.
“Yes, we must be vigilant today.”
Thomasin turned back to the room. Lady Salisbury was fixing the aiglets on Mary’s sleeve. “And although she may be insufferable,” she said, indicating the older woman to Ellen, “we have another ally in that, at least.”
After they had rested and refreshed themselves, the ladies were roused by the sound of trumpets outside cutting through the quiet air. At the same time, a messenger at the door announced that they were to take their seats.
Queen Catherine, dressed in sea-water blue trimmed with gold and pearls, called for her fur-lined cloak and led the way outside. Thomasin and Ellen followed behind, step after step, in a tight, unified line. Outside in the tiltyard, the lists were covered with fresh sand and the wooden platforms bore flags and hangings. The sky was clear still, and the temperature mild, but braziershad been lit along the walk and beside their seats. The queen’s box was draped in red and gold, bearing her Spanish arms and device of the pomegranate. She took the main chair, beside Mary Tudor, her sister-in-law, who rose to greet her. Lady Salisbury placed herself on the further side, with Princess Mary between them, and the ladies-in-waiting climbed up to the benches behind, where at least there were cushions.
To the left and right, at each end of the lists, stood the bright tents of the competitors and opposite, a platform contained musicians playing loudly on trumpets, shawms and flutes. Horses were being led out into view, dressed in silver and yellow. The king was visible, distinguished in bronze velvet, as his squire made adjustments to his armour. Diagonally across from his position was the stand occupied by the Boleyn circle, into which Monsieur Du Bellay had been welcomed. The ambassador’s Spanish-Imperial counterpart, Bishop Mendoza, had remained at Bridewell, on account of his gout. Nor did Thomasin spot Campeggio, who was probably taking spiced wine before a fire somewhere, in an attempt to ease the same affliction.
“Here we go again,” muttered Lady Essex, from the back row.
“Are you tired of jousting?” asked Ellen.
“When you get to my age, you’ve seen it all before. I might try and doze. Wake me if anything happens.”
The men were parading about on horseback, looking to distribute the colourful strips of fabric known as their favours. Tied to the end of a lance, they were given to the woman in whose honour each participant rode. Charles Brandon came first, riding boldly up to the queen’s platform and reaching the tip of his lance towards his wife, who stood up to take the fluttering lilac silk. Likewise, on the far side, George Boleyn headed towards his wife, offering her the colours he rode under. All eyes were upon King Henry now, in expectation of him heading the same way, towards the Boleyn seats. Thomasintensed, feeling this moment would be decisive, with Princess Mary forced to witness her father’s favouritism. Anne even began to rise in her chair, anticipating receiving his red and black kerchief, but Henry made a decisive turn, and with the eyes of the crowd upon him, headed towards the royal women.
“He is coming here!” whispered Thomasin in relief.
Ellen nodded. “Not to the queen, surely, not in front of Anne?”
If it gave Catherine hope, she did not show it, but sat perfectly still.
“My Lady Mary,” said the king, offering his colours to his daughter. The little girl leapt up in delight and plucked them, hugging them to her chest as her father rode away. The crowd roared its approval, reminding them all of the princess’s popularity.
“That was nicely done,” Thomasin observed.
Rafe Danvers was the final rider, turning his horse in the direction of the Boleyn stall. Perhaps, Thomasin thought, he would offer his favour to Anne, in order to make up for the king’s actions. Perhaps it had been agreed between them beforehand, and the cynicism rose in her chest again. But to her surprise, Rafe’s lance extended past Anne, seated with her father, and a smiling, dark-haired girl rose to her feet to take his green and yellow silk. Was it the shock or the action that made it sting so much?
“Nan Gainsford?” Ellen remarked. “Rafe gave his favour to Nan Gainsford? What say you to that, Thomasin?”
“It is nothing to me at all. I care nothing for him.”
Ellen said nothing.
“I assure you, I do not care!”
Ellen waited, then after a moment, she asked, lightly, “Where is Nico?”
Thomasin realised, with a pang of guilt, that she had not seen her Venetian beau take his seat. He could be anywhere in thelists, or in the palace, but she was unaware. “I saw him in the barge, but now I don’t know.”
If Ellen caught the little note of dissatisfaction in her cousin’s voice, she did not remark upon it.
After the men had been jousting for around an hour, servers brought round trays of pies and pastries and dishes of spices. The riders paused for refreshments but remained in the saddle, displaying themselves to the crowd.
From the stands opposite, a figure suddenly broke free, ducked the barrier and ran into the lists. It was a young man, dressed in anonymous brown and grey, with no distinguishing features. He raced forwards into the space before the surprised crowd, in the direction of the king.
