“Perhaps someone has picked it up. It may have been found by now,” offered Rafe.
“Do you think so?”
“We should head back and hear any news.”
George nodded. “Yes, that’s for the best. It’s not here, I am certain of it.”
“Is there nowhere else you went, Mr Zouche?” asked Thomasin. “I am happy to keep looking for you, if you must return.”
He looked at her for a moment, as if he was considering saying something. Thomasin wondered if he had recognised her as the woman who passed by the room where he was reading. He seemed to think better of it, though, replying, “That is most kindof you. Only the servants’ corridor behind the hall. Jane Boleyn was to search there, but it would be good to have another pair of eyes.”
“I know it; I will take a look before I return.”
“Thank you, Thomasin,” said Rafe, unaware of her ulterior motives. “I hope to see you soon.”
She stood and watched them walk away. Never had her feelings for Rafe felt so conflicted, as she tried to weigh up the different parts of him; there was so much good in him, and yet she had seen his darker side too. But was that not what he had suggested about Anne: that all people were flawed mortals, with their mix of qualities, to be accepted equally? Until today, she had never suspected him of empathy. Perhaps age and experience were improving him.
Thomasin knew how to reach the service tunnel. In the great hall, servants were setting up the trestle tables and benches for dinner, and replenishing the swathes of holly and ivy. None gave her a second glance as she headed for the parting between two tapestries, which gave way to a hidden doorway. Here, food was brought up from the kitchens, and those serving could make a swift exit.
She stepped through into the narrow corridor, cold as ice, and turned to the right. It was barely narrow enough for two people to pass, the plain white walls unadorned save for the necessary torches. There was no sign of Jane Boleyn. A little way along, another entrance gave access to the servants’ waiting room, a small space with rush matting on the floor, where essential supplies such as extra plates, linen, spoons, pastilles, glasses and chopped wood were stored in case of need. A small trestle stood in the centre. Seated at it was a familiar figure, writing upon a sheet of paper.
“Mr Sadler?”
It was the first time Thomasin had seen Ralph Sadler since they were at Bridewell.
He looked up in surprise. “Mistress Marwood?”
“Thomasin, yes. What are you doing here?”
“Copying out letters, as ever.” He indicated a pile of papers beside him.
“Have you been here, all these past days? I have not seen you at any of the events.”
“I arrived with Cromwell on the same day as all the guests, but yes, I am here to work, not to celebrate. I must eat and work at my table, retiring only to bed. Work does not stop for the season.”
“But it is Christmas!”
Rafe shrugged. “Tell that to Cromwell.”
Thomasin wondered at the man’s reputation for speed and efficiency. King Henry was often heard to praise him for his swift work, when the effort was being put in entirely by those behind the scenes. It reminded her that she still had Nico’s letter in her pocket.
“Can I help you?” asked Ralph.
“I had come here searching for a book, but I can see it is not here.”
“No, I have seen nothing here.”
Thomasin nodded. “I do hope you will get to enjoy some respite soon.”
“The king rides out tomorrow, and Cromwell goes with him, so I shall allow myself a few moments. He will still expect the pile to be completed.”
It occurred to Thomasin that Nico’s departure might have made the burden greater for Ralph. “Has he employed anyone yet to take Nico’s place?”
Ralph shook his head. “He speaks of getting someone after we return to London, but at this rate, he may need to find two clerks, as he might work me into my grave.”
“Why don’t you leave him?”
Ralph sighed. “I was placed in his household at the age of seven, educated and provided for. I have much to thank him for.”
