“Never mind.” He pressed his lips to her forehead. “I just wanted to see you, to hold you. Often it feels like we are being drawn apart by circumstances out of our control.”
It was in Thomasin’s mind to say that they were on opposing sides of a war, part of factions that could never reconcile, but the proximity of Rafe’s body made her stop. She did not want to spoil the moment.
“It will pass,” he continued. “It will all pass; it must. All things pass, and we shall celebrate the new year and return to London. There will be something to break this stalemate.”
And Thomasin almost spoke of Cecilia, of the fresh humiliation her sister had brought upon the family, and the shock to her parents, and their disappointment. But instead, she closed her eyes and allowed him to pull her tighter. His lips returned to her skin. They seemed to draw her turbulent emotions to the surface again.
“What matters, what truly matters,” he said softly, so that she could feel his breath on her face, “is that we stay close. Through all of this, we don’t let the quarrels of our master and mistress come between us, but we remain true to ourselves. We continue to serve them, but protect our hearts as our own.”
His words were seductive, exactly what she needed them to be. She turned her face upwards and his lips met hers. The kiss was gentle, warm. It did not feel like the ravages of lust that had bound them before, urgent and desperate, blurring their senses as if they were drunk.
In Rafe’s kiss was understanding, kindness, reassurance. With a sudden wave of acceptance, she realised that it felt like … love.
TWENTY-SIX
The hall flickered with low lights. In the darkness, the court was gathering to watch a new masque, one staged by the king himself, in which he was expected to dance. Shadows leapt up the walls, giving a sense of constant movement, of looming shapes and indistinct figures.
It was New Year’s Eve. Two days had passed since the confrontation between the king and Anne, and the discovery of Cecilia in bed with William Hatton. Thomasin had wisely kept to the queen’s apartments, away from the gossip and chaos of the palace.
Although Catherine had learned of the discovery of the book, she had not mentioned it to her ladies, beyond saying that they would not speak of it. She instead ordered a banquet, musicians, and even dancing in her outer chamber. There was merriment, with the company of good friends: Thomas More, Margaret and Will Roper, John and Jane Dudley, Bishops Mendoza and Fisher, and even Thomasin’s parents and uncle. They hid their concern behind smiles as new arrangements were made for Cecilia’s departure.
Princess Mary had risen to the occasion in her bright new finery and ruby brooch, singing, dancing and playing chess. Catherine sent, more than once, for Will Somers, who brought his little dog Mischief, to the great delight of all.
They had ventured out once, in a colourful procession, on the evening of the feast of Thomas Becket. The great hall had been laid with food and musicians played in the gallery. Catherine had taken her place on the dais, but there had been no sign of Henry. Whispers ran round the tables, answered by the announcement that the king was indisposed and keeping to his chamber. So Catherine asked Mary Tudor to join her, along with PrincessMary and Lady Salisbury, and the royal women kept the feast together, presiding over a happy hall.
Thomasin had kept watch on the Boleyn table, where the Norfolks sat with the Boleyns, but there had been no sign of Anne, nor Nan, George Zouche, or Rafe.
Now New Year was almost upon them, and the snow drifts were finally beginning to melt. The air smelt of cinnamon and there were fresh berries hung against the golden drapes. At the far end, the stage was set for a masque: a gold-painted ship had been wheeled into position before rippling swathes of blue cloth, representing the sea.
“The king is not here yet,” whispered Ellen, looking round as they took their seats.
Queen Catherine and Princess Mary took their places in the two chairs draped in velvet, leaving the third untouched. Whether Henry would position himself in it, or appear in disguise as a dancer, no one was quite certain.
Servants moved silently among the crowd, filling glasses, and friends crossed spaces to greet each other. Thomasin ticked them off mentally as they arrived, all those who had been invited for Christmas, soon to go their separate ways.
Wolsey sat with Archbishop Warham at the front, with Bishops Mendoza, Fisher and Foxe. Cromwell was placed a little way back, and Thomasin was pleased to see that Ralph Sadler had been permitted to leave his work and join the company. He gave her a small wave across the heads of the crowd. She wondered if it had anything to do with her words to Cromwell.
More and Margaret came to sit behind them.
“Will had to return to London,” Margaret explained, “as he had clients to meet today. He sends his apologies.”
“And we depart tomorrow,” said Jane Dudley, “so we can celebrate the arrival of the new year with our children.”
“It looks as if everyone is departing,” said Sir Richard, and Thomasin knew he was thinking of Cecilia, who had recovered from her fever and was at that moment packing her bags. The family had decided not to speak to Sir Hugh of the matter, but to leave it to Cecilia as to whether she chose to admit her adultery. Nor had they thought it necessary to tell Ellen, so as to avoid causing any further pain.
There was a buzz about the hall. Henry himself had not been sighted yet. Two days ago, it had been given out that he was out riding, and Ellen had seen him returning to the courtyard at nightfall, wrapped in ermine and accompanied by a small crowd of ladies and gentlemen, although she could not say who they were. Yesterday the masquers had been ensconced in the great chamber, the door closed to all visitors, rehearsing their performance.
During that time, Anne had not been seen either, so there was no way to tell what the king’s verdict had been regarding Tyndale’s book. Thomasin knew some announcement must be made soon — surely Anne would force it, so as not to lose face at court. They had given up expecting any apology or response to their complaint about Anne’s behaviour, swept up as it was in the wider concern of heresy.
Looking round, Thomasin saw Viscount and Lady Boleyn arrive, with the Duke and Duchess of Norfolk and their Sheldon relatives. They took seats at the front right, where a few junior courtiers hurried to vacate seats for them. Jane Boleyn was placed at her mother-in-law’s side, holding her arm, as if she were her guide. A group of the king’s men followed: Page, Heneage, Cheney and Fitzwilliam. Then, finally, Rafe came after them, flashing her a smile as he took his seat. Thomasin’s body suffused with warmth as she recalled the kisses and promises they had exchanged the other night, before duty demanded her return to the queen.
“It looks as if the king will soon be here,” whispered Thomasin’s mother.
Presently, the music began, with the deep sonorous notes of a shawm, followed by the beat of a drum, almost wild in tone.
Richard Sampson took his place at the front, facing the crowd. Thomasin had not seen him since he had brought the Tyndale book before Henry.
“My royal ladies —” he bowed to Catherine and Princess Mary — “Cardinals, Archbishop, Bishops, ladies and gentlemen of the court. The king’s new year masque is about to begin.”
