“I heard,” said Ellen, “that in the early days of their marriage, the king and queen used to celebrate May Day by riding out into the woods in costume and staging pageants beneath the trees. There would be a feast, musicians playing and archery contests, as if they were legendary huntsmen, like Robin Hood.”
Thomasin smiled. “The king as Robin Hood?”
“I think it sounds romantic. Do you think all happy loves must end up the same way?”
“I don’t know,” said Thomasin, caught off guard by the change in mood. “I suppose we will find out.”
“Oh, look, there’s your father!”
Sir Richard was making his way down the hall in his best court doublet. He hastened to join them, looking especially careworn as he took a seat opposite his daughter.
“Father, are you well?”
“I have not had the best of mornings. First I met with Lord Cromwell, and had to sit through his tiresome entreaties and threats, and then upon coming here I ran into Sir Hugh, who looked as if he had more to say to me, although I did not give him the chance.”
“Oh dear. We saw him too. He had the gall to ask Ellen to run away with him to Raycroft, promising to cast Cecilia out of the house.”
Sir Richard shook his head. “It is a bad business, a terrible business, but it is of their making.”
“I assure you, sir,” said Ellen, “that I gave his impertinent suggestions short shrift.”
“I did not need to ask for your response, dear Ellen, for I know enough of the goodness of your heart already.”
Thomasin pushed a dish of spring lamb with green sauce towards her father. “For that kind remark, you may take the first portion.”
“Oh, and you know who else I have seen?” said Sir Richard as he helped himself. “Your distant relative. Sir Giles Waterson is back at court after all this time.”
“Ah, Sir Giles,” said Thomasin, nodding.
“Wasn’t he the one that your mother had hopes that you might marry?” Sir Richard looked at his daughter pointedly.
It was on the tip of Thomasin’s tongue to mention Rafe, to say that it was he who she desired as a husband. But she did not.
“Yes, indeed it was he,” she confirmed, and took a large bite out of her bread, so that she could speak no more.
“Your mother will be pleased,” said Sir Richard, beaming.
SIX
The last day of May dawned bright and fresh. When Thomasin woke to the usual sound of palace bustle, Catherine was standing by the window in her nightgown.
“My lady, are you well?”
Thomasin rubbed her eyes as the queen turned slowly towards her. Maria was still sleeping soundly, her blanket pulled up to cover her ears.
“Well enough,” Catherine said wistfully, pulling a shawl about her shoulders. “The court convenes today. My fate is in its hands.”
“Might I bring you anything? Do you wish to dress yet?”
“No, it is too early. I was waiting to hear the hour of Prime but I must have missed it, because the sun is quite up now.” She traced a finger across the pane of glass before her. “I had hoped to spare my daughter this.”
“Is Lady Mary now at Hatfield?”
“Yes, but I was thinking of moving her to Eltham, as it is a greater distance away. There she is less likely to hear…” The queen paused. “Reports.”
“I am sure the Countess of Salisbury is vigilant in protecting her from idle gossip.”
The princess’s governess was a formidable woman, but Thomasin had every faith in her desire to protect her vulnerable young charge. The unravelling of her parents’ marriage had opened Mary’s eyes to suffering for the first time, and now, at the age of thirteen, she experienced low moods and severe toothache that Thomasin was sure were not helped by her sense of loss.
