“You know me too well. And my other Thomas, of course,” continued the king, beckoning forward the figure who had accompanied Wolsey and who now stepped out of his shadow.
Cromwell’s black furred gown was in stark contrast to the deep red of that worn by his master, and the gifts he described were measured in ounces of gold and silver: psalters, bowls and jugs, displayed by his servants in the glinting firelight. Henry listened, nodded and waved them away.
“Welcome, Cromwell, we hope you may lay aside your work long enough to enjoy the festivities a little.”
He scraped and bowed again in return, but Thomasin could barely look at him, turning away to conceal her anger at the man who had made Nico so unhappy.
Next to greet the king came Richard Sampson, Dean of the Chapel Royal, dressed in his holy robes. Before him, he shepherded a group of dazzled choirboys, their shining round faces set off by wide white ruffs. Thomasin looked at the man shehad seen in London outside St. Bride’s church, speaking with the Boleyns. Rumour said that Sampson was quite brilliant, and that his choir were unmatched in Europe. His austere, sandy features were plain enough, but she looked forward to hearing the boys sing at his command.
As Sampson shepherded his boys away, Thomasin took a quick look around the hall. Crowds of people were still waiting to greet the king and queen, and among them she spotted Thomas More and Bishop John Fisher, two more good friends to the queen, in conversation with Bishop Mendoza. It pleased her to count the number of allies Catherine could rely upon, and she looked forward to enjoying the company of her good friend More and his family, who must also be somewhere among the crowd.
The Boleyn family approached the dais. Viscount Thomas Boleyn wore a doublet made from cloth of gold, slashed in the latest European style, so that his white chemise was pulled through, the spaces tied by dozens of carved gold aiglets. He bowed before Henry tautly, as if he were the real master of this place, but kept his eyes low until the king acknowledged him. He knew how to play the game and keep just within the rules, urbane and subtle, as he had learned in the courts of Europe. But it was Lady Elizabeth Boleyn at his side who interested Thomasin more.
Three months had passed since the Marwoods had stayed at Hever, during which time their hostess had appeared tired, and sometimes older than her years in her desire for solitude and the fears she expressed for her daughter. But here she was, refreshed and swathed in warm burgundy velvet and gold, her French headdress trimmed with pearls. Lady Boleyn had the good grace and manners to drop a curtsey before Catherine, before she turned to do the same to the king. Her poise and elegance was captivating to Thomasin, who recalled the favour Lady Boleyn had previously bestowed upon her, but the womankept her eyes low, directed at the dais or the floor. Thomasin sensed restraint in her, but not for the same reason as her husband.
Behind them came George and Jane, followed by Mary Boleyn in fawn-coloured silk and a gold chain, although Thomasin noted with gratitude that Anne was nowhere to be seen. No doubt she would display her gratitude to Henry away from the eyes of the queen and court. In light of the letter he had sent Catherine earlier, perhaps the king had asked Anne to stay away from this welcome ceremony. Perhaps she was sulking in her chamber, because this was the queen’s turn. Thomasin couldn’t see Rafe or Nan Gainsford, who were likely to be with Anne.
More guests came forward: the usual courtly figures of leading lords and ladies, among whom Thomasin recognised Thomas Wyatt, alongside his ageing father Sir Henry; Henry Norris with his brother John; Francis Bryan, wearing a jewel in his eye-patch, and his nervous-looking wife Philippa; and young George Carew alongside his brother Peter.
Striding forward as if impatient came Henry Courtenay, himself a grandson of Edward IV, making him cousin to the king.
“Exeter,” said the king, addressing Courtenay by his title. “I am pleased to see you at my court, and to have lured you away from the West Country.”
Courtenay, a tall, straight-backed young man approaching thirty, was not unlike the king in looks, although his colouring was a little darker.
“I was grieved to hear of the death of your mother last year,” Henry continued, “a most devout lady, sister to my own dearly beloved mother, may God have mercy upon their souls.”
“My lord, I thank you,” replied Courtenay, in a soft, melodic voice. “She was most honoured by your choice to make hergodmother to the princess, and remembered her in her prayers until her dying day.”
“I recall that it was also here, in this palace, that your father passed away,” the king continued, fixing his eyes upon Courtenay. “It was in the early years of my reign. He would be gratified to see you here today.”
Courtenay gave a nod which revealed nothing of his feelings. He waved forward his servant, who produced a velvet cushion fringed with gold, upon which sat a collar made of rubies and diamonds, two inches high.
Henry’s eyes widened. “Is this…?”
“Not a copy of the one owned by the King of France,” said Courtenay with a sly smile, “but an improvement upon it. I should have sent it to your coffers, but I could not resist the desire to see your response.”
“It is magnificent,” said Henry, “truly magnificent.” And his face betrayed his genuine gratitude.
Bowing, Courtenay slipped away, satisfied with the impression he had left. Thomasin wondered at his history, and the complex ties of family that laced their way through the royal family’s past. Something about his demeanour interested her, and the gentle, lyrical voice was almost hypnotic.
“Wine,” ordered Henry. “Bring wine, I am parched.”
The servants hurried forwards, offering glasses upon gold salvers. The ruby collar was carried away to safety, although the king’s fingers twitched as if he was contemplating placing it about his neck, then and there. Instead, Henry and Catherine both drank deeply, although Princess Mary waved her glass away.
There was a moment’s pause in the proceedings. Thomasin was grateful for the interruption, shifting from foot to foot, uncomfortable after standing for so long, although she was keento see who else would follow. Another servant offered a dish of spices: warming cinnamon and powdered ginger. Thomasin took a pinch between finger and thumb and let it tingle upon her tongue. Ellen took some too, but the combination made her sneeze. A look from the queen urged her to control her reaction. Ellen turned away, stifling her next sneeze with her sleeve.
Henry shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “The girl is not unwell?”
“No, not at all,” Catherine was quick to reassure him. “It is merely a reaction to the spices.”
“She has not been sneezing before?”
“No, not at all, my lord.”
“All the same, to be sure…”
Catherine turned to Ellen. “Return to the chamber. Busy yourself with some embroidery.”
