“I am so sorry,” said Thomasin, feeling Rafe’s rage hanging heavily about her shoulders. “That was quite unexpected.”
“We will bid you goodnight, with the hopes of a happy reunion soon,” said Giles. He paused, then went on, “Perhaps I speak out of turn, but if you have intentions or feelings towards that young man, or any desire to unite your heart with his … then he should know you better, Thomasin.”
His words so echoed her own feelings that she could only nod and bite back tears.
“We bid you farewell.”
The pair waved and headed away towards the gate, leaving the women standing in the garden.
“Oh, Thomasin,” said Ellen, laying a gentle hand on her arm. “What a horrible scene.”
“I had truly thought us past all this. I thought he had left this childish suspicion behind.”
“Had he been drinking?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps. What I cannot forgive is that he compared me to Cecilia. Did you hear him?”
“I did. It was unforgiveable.”
“I know he was angry, but…”
“But he had no cause to be, Thomasin, did he? He just saw you with another man and jumped to conclusions.”
“And what must Giles and Sir Harry think of us?” Thomasin let out a groan. “Did you hear what Giles said when he left?”
“He was quite right. How can you wish to marry a man who knows you so little, or who disregards what he knows?”
“It is not the first time. He had the same reaction once before. To Will.”
“Will Carey?”
Thomasin nodded as she remembered her old friend, lost to the terrible sweating sickness. They had grown close one summer, at Greenwich Palace, although Carey had still been married to Mary Boleyn at the time.
“I should try and speak with him when he calms down. Make it clear that I cannot tolerate this behaviour.”
“That is more than he deserves, truly, Thomasin. He should be the one to seek you out. Let us sleep on it and see how you feel in the morning. Come, the queen will be seeking our assistance soon enough.”
Thomasin threw one last look about the gardens, where night had settled into all the corners. All was so still and peaceful. Where was Rafe now?
EIGHT
Bishop Longland inclined his head towards the queen. Catherine was seated on the great chair in her antechamber, draped in finery of deep green and gold, in order to receive the delegate from the court. Beside Longland stood John Clerk, the Bishop of Bath and Wells, wearing his black and white gown.
Thomasin rested her hand against the wall beside her. She had slept little the previous night, tossing and turning with Rafe’s angry words chasing around her head. Across the room, Ellen shot her a concerned glance.
Longland and Clerk had arrived early, soon after Catherine had broken her fast. Neither looked too pleased to be the messengers of the Papal Court, but they had a duty to fulfil, no matter how uncomfortable it made them.
“And thus, my lady,” Longland proceeded, “the archbishops have sworn their oaths and under their scrutiny the court proceeds to examine the relevant documents and precedents in this matter. This will take a number of days before the evidence is assembled. Your good self and our most serene, diligent and devoted king must attend in due course.”
Catherine’s eyebrows rose at the adjectives used to describe her husband.
“If it please you, my lady,” he continued, “to be present in the court on the morning of June the eighteenth, in order to state your case.”
“It does not please me.” The queen’s voice was icy. “It does not please me at all, as you well know, Bishops. However, if I am summoned by the Pope’s court, I am duty-bound to obey out of my deepest respect for his office.”
The bishops nodded as if a concession had been reached.
“The king will be present in the court to hear you speak, and you should stick to the matter of your previous marriage…”
