Thomasin thought the bishop had begun better than she would have done.
The queen snorted. “Yet I doubt this was all he said.”
“No. Indeed not, I am afraid. He used this praise as explanation for his grief and sorrow, as he called it, over havingto question the validity of the marriage, and wished that it were not so.”
“He has never said as much to me,” said Catherine. “Never this high praise and great grief, only ever the questioning. Tell me, was it done in the service of repairing the marriage?”
“The opposite, I am afraid. He made a show of great reluctance but told the people of the necessity of investigating the validity of the marriage, and of parting company with Your Grace if it was found not to be a legitimate match. He harped on the dangers to the realm and the lack of an heir that may leave the kingdom open to civil war upon his death.”
Catherine sighed and sat back in her chair. “This again,” she said slowly. “I am utterly fatigued and disappointed to hear this is still his line of thinking. You saw the crowds, Fisher. Were any of the people fooled? Was her name spoken?”
Fisher understood, as did the whole room, that the queen referred to Anne Boleyn. “Her name was not spoken, my lady, not by the king, nor any of those in attendance, so far as I heard.”
“And yet, I do not doubt,” Catherine continued, “that they are speaking of her now, in every tavern and marketplace. This will only serve to fuel gossip, not quell it. When does a king have to explain his actions to people from the streets? This was a wrong step, and I am surprised by it. Who advised him on this?”
Fisher looked uneasy. “I believe, my lady, that it was Cromwell and Norfolk.”
“Of course. The upstart and the woman’s uncle.”
“And her brother was in the crowd, but there was no sign of her or her father or sister.”
Thomasin wondered about Anne’s mother, who again went unmentioned. Two months before, the Marwoods had spent an unexpected night as the guests of Elizabeth Boleyn at their country home at Hever, in Kent. Although their visit had been brief, Elizabeth had taken a liking to Thomasin. She had evenwritten to Anne, recommending that she take Thomasin into her household, much to all their surprise.
“This must be occasioned by the arrival of the Papal Legate, Cardinal Campeggio,” continued the queen. “I expect him here tomorrow, to advise me and hear my confession. The king knows that my conscience is clear, and that I will convince the cardinal of my innocence, and so he attempts to put his case to the people, in order to build support.”
“My lady, you and your daughter are esteemed by the people, who will see this performance for what it is. No one was convinced. Many in the crowd came away shaking their heads.”
It was true. Thomasin had witnessed that herself.
“Your words bring me some comfort, Bishop, and I thank you for your information. If my husband seeks to rally my people to his cause, he shall find himself speaking into the empty air. That woman is not beloved of the citizens of London, no matter that her forefather was their mayor. Perhaps because of it! The king may address as many crowds as he wishes, but none want their true born queen replaced by the daughter of a tradesman’s family. He cannot command hearts and minds when it comes to this.”
“Amen to that, my lady,” nodded Fisher, “amen to that.”
Heavy with her old sense of world-weariness, Catherine retired to read in her chamber with her daughter. The room became quiet without her. Pale light tiptoed in through the window, barely lifting the ladies’ spirits; it was simply a reminder of the falling rain outside. It fell to Ellen and Thomasin to clean the queen’s shoe buckles, which sat in a chest upon the floor between them, glinting with gold, silver and precious stones. Cold and hard to the touch, they were beautiful, dazzling even, such as Thomasin could never dare to dream she might wear. But as she searched through them, she discovered their sharpcorners. Her fingertip caught on the rough edge of one of the jewel settings. She drew her hand out sharply.
“Ouch!”
The tiniest dot of blood had risen upon her pale skin. She put it to her lips and sucked it away at once, but the blood reappeared.
“Oh, does it hurt?” asked Ellen, leaning forward to examine the wound.
“No, not really — perhaps it stings a little. But the blood won’t stop.”
“Which buckle was it?”
“I don’t know. Take care putting your hands in the box.”
“Is there water in the room?”
“The queen’s washing bowl has been taken and there is only the hand basin left, but you do not wish to colour it.”
“No, I suppose not.”
“You could ask a guard to fetch some.”
Thomasin stood up. “No, I’ll go myself. It gives me a reason to escape the buckles. I won’t be long.”
She passed down the stairs and along the corridor. The former crowds had dispersed and an air of mid-afternoon calm had settled over Bridewell. Work of all kinds was progressing behind its many heavy wooden doors: clerks wrote letters, money was counted out on chequered boards and the king listened impatiently to his councillors. In the kitchens, meats were being roasted for that day’s supper, laundresses plunged their hands into vats of soapy suds, and horses were being groomed in stables. Outside, under the rain clouds, a lad was sweeping away the straw and carts with deliveries were being unloaded: coal, apples, braces of pheasants with glossy feathers. It gave Thomasin a sense of satisfaction to see all the parts of the vast institution running smoothly; the wheels turning, each person in their place, to bring the court to life.
