That morning, Catherine had emerged from her chapel with a mission. Inspired by her prayers, she was calling a meeting of her closest counsel and learned friends. Lately her prayers hadbeen full of her daughter, and Thomasin could not help but wonder if this action had been prompted by concern for Mary’s welfare.
“They must be here at one of the clock, or as soon after as possible, unless they are from the city. Send messengers at once, and prepare my great chamber.”
Thomasin pictured the letter being carried through green fields and along leafy May lanes, towards Chelsea. It would interrupt More in his garden, where he bent over herbs and flowers, and offered up their scents to her parents. But the queen’s will had to be obeyed.
Maria approached Thomasin, her face concerned. “Take the order down to the kitchen for wine and spices, and a few plates for good cheer. You know the kind of things the queen likes — Spanish cheeses, marmalade, figs and strawberries if they have any in season. Saffron and honey cakes, whatever can be produced at short notice. Have them delivered up here at one.”
Thomasin hesitated, unused to such a request, which was usually passed to the guards outside.
“I want to be certain that this goes well for her,” explained Maria, “as well as possible. I don’t trust the guards to make the right requests.”
“Very well, I understand.”
“Ellen, I am sending you to the laundry for fresh linen and then to the cellar for more wine, both to arrive by one.”
Ellen nodded, understanding at once.
They headed out, closing the door upon the bustle inside.
“If this meeting can give her a little hope, a little courage,” mused Thomasin, as they parted ways, “I would venture into hell itself to bring back logs for the fire.”
Thomasin was crossing the courtyard when she heard the sound of footsteps. Echoing under the archway, they rose up from theriver landing, where the special visitors to Bridewell alighted. Yet there seemed to be something secretive about the way they were moving, with muffled voices and quick steps. She guessed there might be four or five of them, and drew back as they approached the arch.
In silhouette, Thomasin saw them appear: an unmistakeable woman in green, and a group of tall men, walking tall and proud, knowing where they were headed, certain of their welcome. Anne strode at the front, with a waiting woman beside her, perhaps Nan Gainsford, Thomasin thought, although she had a hood pulled over her face. Flanking them were George Boleyn and Francis Bryan, as might have been predicted, as well as the new French ambassador, Jean du Bellay, his lips set in a wry smile. Behind them came the distinctive figure of Rafe. Her heart leapt when she saw him, although his dark brows were furrowed and his lips pursed.
They quickly paced through the court, past the place where she stood in the shadows, and hurried up the steps to the king’s apartments. Of course, Anne was visiting Henry, Thomasin realised. That meant she might steal a few moments with Rafe when the king’s head was turned. And she had to see him soon, in order to get this nonsense between them resolved. When their feet were out of sight, she cautiously climbed the first step, looking up to where torches burned bright in the darkness. At the top, the figures entered the outer chamber, and the hum of noise within floated down the steps.
Thomasin was left with a dilemma. She could either turn away and deliver the queen’s messages, which would summon their recipients to the palace by one, or she could follow. As one of Catherine’s ladies, she could probably talk the guards into letting her inside the king’s antechamber, on the pretext of delivering some news. Should she play safe, she mused, or take a risk? Should she let herself be carried along by events,or take charge of them herself? When she put it like that, she considered, there was no choice but to follow up the stairs.
And then it struck her. If she was lucky, she might kill two birds with one stone and need no excuse at all. Here in her hands were letters addressed to Bishop Fisher, John Clerk and Archbishop Warham. Whilst Fisher was probably at prayer, there was a good chance that Clerk and Warham were in the king’s apartments. Destiny and desire had collided. She hurried up the steps.
“What business?” The guards looked at her with tired eyes.
“I have letters to deliver to those within.”
“Who for?”
“Oh, quite a few, who are probably with the king. You know me — I’m a gentlewoman of the queen.”
“Thomasin Marwood isn’t it?” said the other one, a shorter man.
“Is it?” said the other.
“I know those pretty eyes. You got a sweetheart, Thomasin?”
“I need to deliver the letters. Please let me in.”
“Is that a no? You can be my sweetheart if you want. I’ll meet you in the gardens after dinner.”
“When the queen hears of this, she’ll have you strung up for your insolence!” Thomasin warned, fixing him with her steeliest glare.
“Oh, let her pass,” said the other, standing aside.
Thomasin didn’t wait to be asked twice.
The antechamber was lit by a roaring fire in the grate and torches around the walls. Tapestries and cloth of gold made the place seem rich and colourful. A few people stood about, talking in groups or playing cards on a trestle, while a lute-player strummed softly in the corner. Anne and her party had passed straight through into the next chamber. Thomasin caught a glimpse of her green dress as the doors ahead of her closed. She had come this far; it would be a shame to turn back now.
“I have letters to deliver, sent by the queen,” she said boldly, lifting her chin.
