The pump was situated across the courtyard. The rain was light now, a mere drizzle, but it had left its mark on the world and the cobbles were wet and shiny. Thomasin had never worked the pump before, and the handle was stiff, but eventually it spilled out a gush of cold Thames water over her hand. She held up the injured finger and watched the blood drain away. Eventually, the wound was stanched, and she rubbed both hands together to remove all traces of it. The coldness had made her numb. She would be pleased to return to the queen’s warm apartments, even if it meant cleaning more buckles.
Then Thomasin heard voices and footsteps heading her way.
From a doorway that led to the palace’s private chambers, two women appeared and hastily made their way across the yard. They were instantly recognisable, familiar and yet infamous, making Thomasin draw back at once into the shadows. The first, leading the way, was imposing and graceful, lifting her saffron-coloured skirts cautiously so as to avoid the hem becoming dirty. But that walk was sinuous and lithe; those shoulders, moulded so delicately, were held back with pride. A headdress sat high upon her dark head, with her mass of hair concealed beneath. Those flashing eyes, the laughing mouth.
Anne Boleyn.
Thomasin couldn’t help the unwanted thrill of excitement that passed through her, despite her personal dislike. Anne was talking and laughing with that high, vibrant voice that turned heads. She was too far away for Thomasin to hear her words, but the pitch and tone were unforgettable. It took Thomasin straight back to her first few months at court: the delicious excitement of it all, the thrill of being in Anne’s chambers, dancing at her side, dressed in gold. Sparks seemed to come off her when she moved. She had the power to captivate, spell-bind an observer, as no other woman did. It was a surprise to see Anne Boleyn in this part of the palace, behind the scenes, instead of dancingor displaying herself before the king. What business could she possibly have here?
Anne was followed closely by her sister, Mary Boleyn, similar in many ways, but fairer in complexion. Dressed less brightly, in sombre tones of blue and grey, Mary was still presenting herself as the grieving widow following the loss of her husband, who had died of the sweating sickness the previous year. But Thomasin could not allow herself to think of Will Carey, and the good friend she had lost. Had he lived, he might even have become more to her, but fate had decreed otherwise. Mary’s pinched features and large eyes reminded her of the sharp words that had passed between them over the transfer of Will’s affections to Thomasin, following his wife’s own affair with the king.
With relief, Thomasin saw that neither of the Boleyn sisters had spotted her in the corner, being so intent upon the business that had brought them outside. From behind a stack of barrels, she was able to observe their progress across the cobbles and through the outer gate. They moved quickly, as if in expectation. But this was a service part of the palace, behind the scenes, rarely visited by courtiers and nobles. It felt instinctive for Thomasin to wait until they had disappeared, and then to dart forward, lurk at the gate and peer round to the outer yard, to see whatever it was that had brought them there.
The two women were greeting a carriage that had pulled in through the gate that led up to Fleet Street. It was plain, unostentatious in design, quite unlike Anne’s own carriage, in which Thomasin had returned to court that October. The wooden frame was painted black, there was no monogram or decoration, and the grey horse bore no plume or trappings. As it drew to a halt, the door sprang open.
Out climbed a young woman in her early twenties, radiant with glowing skin and bright eyes, her dark hair held under a travelling cap, her simple tan and fawn clothing made bya country tailor. She looked about her in awe, but upon seeing Anne, dropped a low curtsey. Anne rushed to embrace her, raising her to her feet, and the women greeted her with enthusiastic smiles. Then, linking arms, they turned and led her straight back towards the gate, so that Thomasin was forced to step into an alcove to avoid being seen. They passed her by in a murmur of giggles and a swish of skirts, with a servant hurrying behind with the lady’s bags.
Thomasin watched them disappear. It would seem that Princess Mary was not the only new arrival that day. This new woman seemed charming and engaging, even if she was Anne’s friend. Who was this fresh face, come to visit the Boleyn household? No doubt the answers would be revealed in time.
FOUR
“At least we get a bit of company dining here,” Ellen admitted, taking her place as the great chamber began to fill up around them.
“Company,” Thomasin whispered, with a touch of cynicism. “I’m not sure this is the kind of company I prefer to keep.”
Queen Catherine had sent her ladies down to dine in the hall, while she ate a quiet supper with her daughter in her rooms. Thomasin had obeyed, not exactly reluctantly, but the gossip and clamour of court dinners made for an uneasy atmosphere. Some whispered of the queen or Anne, while others murmured about the king and his intentions for the future. Everyone was an expert; everyone had a solution.
Thomasin watched the usual figures assemble, taking their places in the drama, but it only made her feel weary, disappointed. Even with such wealth surrounding them, such ease and plenty, such jewels and finery, these people could not find peace or satisfaction in what the world had spread before them on a plate.
“Henry’s looking pleased with himself,” Ellen observed.
At the top end of the hall, a table mounted on a dais was draped with white linen and runners of gold cloth. More bright cloth hung above and down the wall behind, catching the light of the candles in their gilt threads. Overseeing them all, the king was resplendent in red velvet, with an air of satisfaction that shone more brightly than the jewels at his fingers and breast, or the chains about his neck. The very first time Thomasin had set eyes upon him, a year ago, she had been overawed, barely able look at him directly. Perhaps she had expected too much from him. He was a king, but he was also a man — a man whose desireswere being thwarted. She’d since come to understand that a king might glitter and still be cruel.
Immediately to Henry’s right sat his leading statesman, Cardinal Thomas Wolsey. Like Cromwell, he had been raised from humble origins due to his exceptional talent, a fixture at court for years who had become the closest man to the king, enacting his plans, organising his finances, and ensuring that his wishes came true. In his younger days, he had been something of a mentor or father-figure to the young king, but since Henry had come into his own, spurred on by new-found passions, he was increasingly leaving his old friend behind. Cardinal Wolsey had even handed over his splendid palace of Hampton Court in the hopes of appeasing the king, but Henry’s appetites knew no bounds, and even less loyalty.
Thomasin watched the man as he ate. He was fastidious, strangely delicate in his manners. The cardinal was now in his fifties, grown large and slow of body with all the indulgence his offices had brought him, although his careful eyes missed nothing, and his mind was running on every eventuality. For now, a problem had arrived that Wolsey could not fix. And that problem was Anne Boleyn. The cardinal had been one of the last to know about Henry’s intentions. Caught off guard, he had sought a divorce, visited the Pope, written letters, bargained, suggested French princesses as brides, and pleaded with Catherine to enter a nunnery, all to no avail. Soon, he would preside over the Papal court with his fellow cardinal from Rome, Lorenzo Campeggio, but he knew it was really their last chance. As Thomasin watched, Wolsey leaned in and spoke to the king, who nodded and said a word or two in response.
Listening at Wolsey’s side was his secretary, Thomas Cromwell. Thomasin had encountered him several times before, and not a single one of those occasions had been pleasant. She could not forget those tiny, steely eyes, as he had triedto persuade her father to support the divorce, nor the strange determination in his manner. She’d loathed him at that time. Yet she could also appreciate that he was efficient, more intelligent than she might discern, and ruthless, so that he would do anything to achieve his ends.
There were always rumours about him at court, as Nico had mentioned earlier. The stories were whispered in corridors or behind his back as he passed by on his plodding, statesman-like way: he’d been a mercenary, fighting for the Italians, a spy, a murderer, a blackguard. None of them would surprise her. And yet, tonight, his face was completely inscrutable. He was breaking bread with the air of a holy man, as if his mind was on higher things, abstract and pure.
He could hear the conversation between the king and Wolsey, no doubt, but he sat back and did not comment, storing the information away for later. Thomasin hoped there was some glimmer of good inside him. It pained her to think that Nico was employed by a man without any redeeming features.
As if he was aware of her thoughts, Nico raised his hand in greeting from the table opposite. His face split in a bright smile, and she wondered if he would try and meet with her after the meal, as they sometimes did, walking in the twilight gardens, or talking in some sheltered corridor now that the autumn nights were becoming colder. The thought gave rise to a mixture of feelings inside her. As much as she enjoyed his company, there had been a night not so long ago when he had tried to encourage her into his bed. She had resisted, having decided after long consideration not to relinquish her virtue before marriage, but it had left a distance between them. Things had changed for her since then, and she was not sure whether their former innocent happiness was recoverable.
“Nico is attentive as ever,” smiled Ellen.
“Nothing escapes you, does it?” Thomasin replied.
“No, I hope not. You can’t be too watchful at this court.”
Thomasin nodded. Her cousin was not wrong there. “And what else have you noticed tonight?”
“Well.” Ellen bit into a leg of chicken. “Our old friend Lady Norfolk is dining with her husband, and none too amicably by the look of things.”
Thomasin followed her gaze to a table where the duke of Norfolk, Thomas Howard, and his wife, Lady Norfolk were seated beside each other in silence. She hadn’t missed the woman since her brief stint of service in Catherine’s chambers, especially after she had called Thomasin a traitor for carrying a letter from Lady Boleyn. It hadn’t been a task Thomasin relished, but she had felt obliged to do so for a woman who had shown kindness to her family after they were stranded following a carriage accident. Lady Norfolk had hidden the letter and attempted to use it to discredit Thomasin later. And Thomasin would never forget it.
Ellen was right. The taut little mouth and sharp nose certainly looked strained, and she was keeping her eyes down upon her plate.
