“I know the distinction. But are they not connected?”
She turned away. Rafe’s views troubled her, conflicting as they did with what she had been taught as a child, and what she heard echoed in Catherine’s chambers.
“Yes,” he added in response, “we should try to find this book.”
“Well, it is not here. Is there any other place that we might look?”
“I’d have to ask Zouche. Let’s head back and see if we can find him.”
Thomasin went along obediently at his side, as they crossed back through the gardens. The cold air pressed against her skin. Along the flowerbeds and tops of the bushes, the snow was starting to melt; it was already turning to sludge on the pathway, where boots had mixed it with the mud below.
“What is Anne like?” Thomasin asked suddenly. “I mean really like, not the outer face I see. You must know her better.”
Rafe gave her a surprised look. “What makes you ask that?”
“All I see, from the outside, is drama and conflict, but no one can be like that all the time. I do understand that it is her situation that pushes her towards it.”
“Indeed it is. There is far more to her than that; you remember, from last year.”
Thomasin did recall the excitement of Anne’s energy, the way people flocked around her at her parties and masques, the way her high spirits affected everyone else in the room.
“But what is she like in her quiet moments? Who is the real Anne?”
They had reached the bottom of the main staircase and Rafe paused.
“She is just a person, like you or I. She has her weaknesses, her moments of doubt, her attacks of conscience. But she seems to shine more brightly, to dazzle those around her so that they forget it.”
Thomasin digested this moment of insight, impressed that Rafe could see such layers within another being. Instead of learning more about Anne, she felt she had better understood Rafe; he had pragmatism and perception, where she had not previously seen it.
“Ah!” he said, suddenly. “There is George Zouche!”
The young man hurried towards them. His wide face was set in an expression of concern, but his eyes rested on Thomasin.
“Who is this?”
“I am Thomasin Marwood,” she replied.
“Isn’t she one of Catherine’s ladies?” George asked Rafe.
Rafe seemed to notice the slight to Thomasin. “She is my friend.”
George gave her a rough nod of acceptance. “No luck outside?”
Rafe shook his head. “We walked through the garden, the route down to the covered walk, and all the way along its length, but there was no sign of it.”
“God’s blood! I am in a deal of trouble. Will you come with me to search the chapel? I carried it there once, I recall.”
Thomasin thought it the most inappropriate place to take a heretical text, but she nodded and followed. If the copy of Tyndale was there, she had to find it first and take it to Catherine.
She wondered, amid this excitement, what else was happening in the palace. No doubt Anne was in a state of fury somewhere, over the lost book and the continuing presence of Cecilia. Perhaps Lady Norfolk was relaying her failure and the wrath she had endured from the queen, who Anne knew was now apprised of her predicament. Perhaps one of Catherine’s ladies hadalready found the book: maybe Maria, Lady Essex or Ellen was carrying it back this moment, in triumph. How was the princess feeling, knowing that her father was being lured towards damnation by his mistress? And Thomasin’s own parents, the Marwoods, facing an uncomfortable choice about approaching the king?
The chapel entrance loomed above them. Thomasin had previously only attended it with Catherine, seated in the box upstairs, overlooking the crowds and the black and white tiled floor.
Here, the carved pews stood silently waiting, with their depictions of flowers and fruits, of strange beasts and birds. The scent of incense lingered in the air and the altar was still, with a great gold cross presiding over all.
George Zouche went to the right hand side, entering the pews beneath a large window bright with the images of saints.
“It was here, I sat here only yesterday.” He got down upon his knees, looked under the seating, then up and down along the floor. “Nothing.”
