Alone in the bedchamber, she hesitated, her heart beating faster. Did she dare do this? Well, she told herself, she was here now, so she may as well make the most of it.
It looked as if the place had been used, very recently, for someone to dress. The green and gold bedspread was rumpled and a number of dresses had been left strewn across it, taken from the wooden chest that sat open below the window. A pair of velvet slippers sat in the middle of the floor; pots of herbs and scent, a carved hairbrush and a looking glass sat on the table.
Thomasin was surprised: Catherine’s apartments would never be left in this way. A pair of truckle beds leaning in the corner suggested the existence of Boleyn servants, but not at the crucial time, when they should have been straightening up the room for their mistress’s return.
There appeared to be no book. No sign of any books, whether banned or not. Thomasin lifted the pillow and searched under the bed, beneath the linen left in the chest, and even upon the window ledge. There was simply nothing there.
A noise in the main room made Thomasin freeze. Someone had entered. She could hear their feet, and then, to her horror, voices.
“It’ll be in her chamber,” said the voice she recognised as Jane Boleyn’s. “She left it upon the bed.”
Thomasin’s eyes went to the bed before her, strewn with items.
“I’ll get it, don’t worry.”
She recognised Rafe Danvers’ voice at once and heard his footsteps approach. There was barely time to draw back behind the bed hangings, and not enough space to conceal her completely.
The door opened and Rafe strode in. At least it was him, she thought, and him alone, among all of them who it could have been. He stopped at the bed, looking down.
“Was it the red one?”
“Yes,” called Jane from within. “The dark red.”
He leaned forwards, plucked up a red shawl from the pile, then looked up, straight at Thomasin.
She saw his reaction: a little jump of surprise ran through him, which he tried to conceal. She pressed her finger to her lips, her eyes pleading for his silence.
Rafe took a moment to recover himself. Then he called back to Jane, “I have it.”
He made a gesture for Thomasin to remain where she was, then headed back to the door. She heard him return to where Jane was waiting.
“Here we are. Your shawl.”
“Thank you. I don’t mind Anne borrowing it, only it is my best one, and I do feel the cold these evenings.”
“Of course, it is no trouble.”
“I think I shall retire for the night. I don’t fancy joining the dancing. I’m tired.”
“Do you wish me to walk you to your chamber?”
“Thank you Rafe, that is kind, but it is only down the corridor.”
“Very well, I bid you a good night.”
Thomasin waited, her heart beating faster. The outer door closed again and the footsteps returned.
Rafe faced her in amazement. “What in the name of goodness are you doing in here? Do you know how close you came to being caught? Anne was willing to fetch her shawl for Jane herself; she was on the verge of leaving the dinner to come up here. What good fortune for you that I offered instead! What are you thinking?”
Thomasin hardly knew where to begin. “I know it does not look well.”
“Hardly well at all. How do you explain it?”
She did not wish to confide in Rafe. He was not someone she could trust with her search, with the danger of banned books, given his Boleyn allegiances. “Forgive me, but I cannot say.”
“You cannot say? Perhaps I should summon the viscount. Would you tell him the same?”
“You would not!”
