“Will I?” he said. “Will I indeed?”
And in a flash, the realisation broke inside her that it would never work out between them. Rafe would never change. There would always be terrible scenes like these.
“You are drunk. You know that drink affects your judgement. You should not drink so much.”
“Here we are,” he said, leering. “Already playing the part of the nagging wife before the wedding has even been announced. Do you think I will be content as the henpecked husband all my life, at your beck and call?”
Thomasin was stunned. “What a terrible thing to say, and so far from the truth, as you well know. I will not speak with you when you are in this state. You are doing yourself damage and you will rue your words.”
She turned to go, but he caught her by the arm and held it tight.
“Let me go! You are hurting me.”
“Why don’t you call him then, your cousin-lover? Call him to help you!”
“Rafe?” Her fury mingled with shock, tears flooding her eyes.
“And now you turn on the tears for him.”
“I do no such thing! It is your barbarous treatment that provokes them.”
He looked her in the face. “You are just like your sister.”
Those words were the last straw. Thomasin felt the rage course through her as she lifted her hand and slapped him round the face. The contact stung her palm. Rafe dropped her at once, his hand flying to his cheek. His eyes widened in surprise.
“Don’t you ever,” she said, with the power of her anger suffusing her words, “don’t you ever speak to me like that again. Ever.”
She did not give him the chance to answer, but turned on her heel and hurried away. Straight into Sir Thomas Boleyn.
He caught hold of her to prevent her from falling. “What is this?” He looked from Thomasin to Rafe, glowering in the background. “Some sort of lovers’ tiff?”
“No,” she replied angrily, “nothing of the sort.”
Thomas frowned. “Has he hurt you?”
“Not in body, no.”
“But in heart, in mind? I admit he can be a brute.” Thomas looked again at Rafe, then back to Thomasin. “There is no other matter? No delicate concern?”
Thomasin wondered what he meant. Delicate concern? Surely he could not be asking what she feared he was: that their argument had been occasioned by her expecting a child?
“Nothing of the kind!”
“Well, then. You should not be out here, alone, with a young man. Both of you should be about your business. Go to it.”
He stood aside to let Thomasin pass, burning with indignation, then summoned Rafe with an imperious wave.
Thomasin felt as if her insides were on fire. The indignity, the shame, of Thomas Boleyn suggesting she might be with child! That she might have already surrendered herself to Rafe! Oh God, let him not tell Anne of his suspicions. The cool night air stung the tears upon her cheeks as she headed back up towards the queen’s apartments. So many times in the past she had considered taking that final step with Rafe, and reasoned her way out of it, letting her head rule over her heart. What a good thing it was that she had been so wise. How relieved she was now that the predicament Lord Thomas suggested had not come true. To be pregnant and dependent upon Rafe for her welfare and her happiness: the thought sent a shudder through her. No, it could never be. He would never make her happy. The engagement, along with her hopes and dreams, was over. She must break with him, once and for all.
TWELVE
Thomas Cromwell stood barring the door with his wide, fur-lined bulk. With a hand on each hip, he surveyed the woman standing before him, who only reached up to his shoulder in her pearl headdress.
“The court is full enough. Your presence before was an oversight.”
But Thomasin was forearmed, remembering John Dudley’s words. She thought of all the times Cromwell had put pressure on her father, even coming to her uncle’s London home for the purpose. She took a deep breath.
“I am here on the authority of the queen, whose vested interest in the outcome of this court overrides all other concerns. As the queen’s representative, I demand that you admit me to the chamber.”
