“But you do not owe him your life.”
“I know.” He lifted his quill to the ink. “Forgive me, I must get on.”
Thomasin crept away with rising anger in her heart. There was little that she could do to alleviate Ralph’s position, but she wondered whom she might speak to, who might have influence with Cromwell. He would not listen to the queen, nor any of her friends, and she could not approach the king with a criticism of his servant. But Wolsey might. Or More.
Thomasin took out Nico’s letter and broke open the seal. The familiar handwriting made her smile.
The personal words came first: he missed her, he was thinking of her and sent prayers and good wishes for her health and happiness. He spoke of his journey home, of the long wait at the Channel for a favourable wind, of the storm that beat them back to Dover, creating more delay. Then, the long ride through the Netherlands, through Luxembourg, Strasbourg, Zurich, cities whose names existed for her only on maps or in conversation. He wrote of the sudden beauty of the blue skies in Venice, mirrored in the waters around the city. And there he came to the subject of his letter: his father had died a short time after his arrival. They had a few days in which to speak and pray together, although the old man had been failing daily, his eyesight almost gone. The funeral was being arranged, but there were many duties Nico was required to perform as the eldest son, and familymembers to visit. He would be staying in Italy for the coming months, at least until the spring, when he would reconsider his position.
Thomasin put away the letter. It had been exactly what she had expected, and despite his words of reassurance, she would wait to see whether or not he decided to return to such a cold, out of the way country as England. For now, Thomasin had to tuck him away inside her heart, fold him in deep, and continue. She did not know if she would ever see Nico again, but she had cried enough for him already.
Ellen rose to her feet as Thomasin entered the queen’s chambers. “Any luck?” she asked.
“Nothing. I take it the book has not yet been found?”
“No, it has quite vanished into thin air.”
“It is strange, is it not? A book, forgotten somewhere, should be easy enough to find, so long as you retrace your steps. I have been in the covered walk, the chapel and the servants’ corridor.”
“And I have been all round the kitchens and storerooms, even the cellar. Mary and Maria searched the hall and corridors all around the king’s apartments, although Wolsey dismissed them before they could complete their search. They even sent a boy out to the stables.”
“It is very strange,” said Thomasin. “I will check the Boleyn corridor when I visit my parents next, but I expect they have already scoured it. The book should really have been found by now, with so many people looking. It makes me suspicious.”
“I know what you mean,” said Ellen. “Do you think it was ever lost at all?”
“Oh yes, I do. You saw how frantic Lady Norfolk was, but I think it not so much lost as taken. Someone must have it.”
Ellen’s eyes opened wider. “Do you think someone has it?”
“I do. But it is only a question of whether that person is Anne’s friend or foe.”
“Who can it be?” asked Ellen.
“I have no idea, but I am sure that time will tell.”
TWENTY-FOUR
The night passed quietly. Thomasin supped with the queen and her ladies in her chambers, relieved to be out of the eye of the storm. As she ate venison pastries and saffron jellies, Thomasin was on edge, every moment expecting a knock at the door and further revelations. But the candles burned down slowly, the lute player sang, and final prayers were said before they climbed into their beds. Tonight, Thomasin and Ellen lay in the antechamber, a small, warm room, the air full of spices and smoke. Their bellies were full and their heads befuddled by wine, so they slept quickly.
Outside, just as the first snow had receded, fresh flakes began to fall, lying on top of the ice puddles and the brown sludge. Fires burned low in the grates, leaving piles of glowing embers. When they woke, roused by the sounds of the others stirring in the chambers outside, the palace was once again blanketed in white.
Thomasin yawned and stretched. Then the rush of excitement charged into her belly again. Would today be the day when Anne Boleyn was unmasked?
Queen Catherine was surprisingly cheery despite the cold. She called for her furs, heaping them on in layers, and her fur-lined boots, before leading them off to chapel. But if she had expected to find the place quiet, she was disappointed. It was instead busy, with Henry kneeling in prayer in his closet next to that of the queen, and Anne below, in the pew with her family, preparing themselves to receive Mass.
“Their hunting trip has been postponed because of the snow,” whispered Lady Essex. “And Anne is not too happy about it.”
Thomasin looked down at the top of Anne’s headdress. Of course she had wanted to get the king away from court, to buyherself some time, or to make her excuses. From above, she looked like any other woman of the court, waiting devoutly, hands in her lap, her skirts spread about her. At her side, her mother looked small and frail, set between her two daughters. Behind them, the viscount sat with George and Jane, before the pews enveloped the Norfolks, Sheltons and others of their circle. Right at the back, Thomasin could make out Rafe, George Zouche and Nan Gainsford, none of whom looked as if they had had much sleep.
The rest of the court were ranged about in varying formations. Warham was officiating today, and the front row was spread with bishops, two cardinals and their followers. Guests occupied the body of the chapel, sober and quiet in that early hour, her own parents among them.
“The storm has not yet broken,” said Thomasin to Ellen.
“I almost hope it will blow itself out instead.”
“Not if it brings the opportunity to cast Anne down.”
Ellen shrugged. “I can’t see him rejecting her over this.”
