Cromwell’s eyes shifted from left to right. He had clearly thought he could intimidate a mere girl, but he had seriously misjudged Thomasin Marwood.
She pulled a paper from her gown. “Here is the queen’s permission, written in her own hand, confirming her desire for me to attend. See, her own seal. Would you deny the queen’s direct command?”
Cromwell muttered something under his breath.
“Was that your answer, my lord?”
“This is most irregular,” he began, “most irregular to have random women of the court in attendance as if this were some sort of dance.”
“I have not come here to dance, nor am I the random woman you describe. This court has summoned the queen to attend and she has appointed me in her absence to hear the proceedings. Or do I have to appeal directly to the king?”
Thomasin had chosen her words carefully that morning. She had risen with the light, splashing rose water on her face and taming her long, unruly locks with a wooden comb. Her hand-mirror told the story of tears in the night, and secret, silent resolutions, but she was determined to start the new day afresh. With the queen’s blessing, and fortified by bread and curds, she had made her way across to Blackfriars, knowing exactly what to expect. It was pathetic really, she thought, looking at Cromwell, when men’s devices were so transparent and illogical. And such a waste when their talents could have been turned to improving the world.
“Is there a problem here?”
The dear, welcome face of Sir Thomas More appeared at her shoulder.
“Good morning, my lord. Unfortunately, Master Cromwell is attempting to refuse my entrance into the court’s chamber this morning.”
“Surely not?” More turned his scrutiny upon Cromwell. “Upon what grounds?”
“Apparently because I am female.”
“Is that so?” He raised his brows. “And what qualification does that bestow? For sure, many females of my acquaintance have twice as much common sense, good manners and sharp wits than many of the men already assembled within. Surely that cannot be the reason.”
Cromwell sighed, attempting to ignore them.
“And he tells me that the court is full,” Thomasin continued, “although looking over his shoulder, you and I can both see that there are plenty of empty places within.”
“Well, it cannot be that, then,” said More, playing along.
“The only thing remaining is that he does not accept that I have a legitimate reason for attendance, but here, in the queen’s own hand, I have her written instructions to attend as herrepresentative. So he chooses to disregard the queen’s word. I fear I must appeal directly to the king, or to the cardinals.”
Upon that, Cromwell snatched the letter out of her hand and broke the seal. He scanned the contents quickly.
“And now I have read the letter, and am pleased to allow you admittance,” he said in oily tones, turning his back upon her.
Thomasin decided not to argue further. She had won her point, but Cromwell was not a man she wished to make a worse enemy of. The court had already begun its formal opening proceedings, so she hurried inside and took a seat beside More. There was no sign of her father, though, only Wolsey and Campeggio on the dais, surrounded by officials making notes, Bishop Fisher, the king’s clerks and a few others, listening to the pronouncements of various authorities on the matter.
“All that and I fear it will be dreadfully dull,” More whispered.
Thomasin knew he was right, but having established her right to attend, she could at least anticipate being present when things finally started to liven up.
Wolsey was speaking at length, establishing legal precedents for the case, and Thomasin’s mind began to drift. She could not help revisiting the painful scene of the previous night, with Rafe’s cruel words and Thomas Boleyn’s assumption. Both men had thought her like Cecilia in some way, accusing her of immoral conduct. Their crudeness made her feel stronger. Boleyn, Rafe, Cromwell and even the king were men trying to judge women according to their own tawdry standards, to bend them to their will. She would not accept it. Alongside the queen, she would stand against such monstrous treatment. Rafe would find her dignified and distant. She would dance with whomever she pleased, laugh with whomever she pleased, and find a man cast in the same inspiring mould as her good friend Thomas More. But where might she find such a man?
Wolsey rose to his feet, drawing her attention back to the court. She spotted Cromwell on one of the benches, looking at her out of the corner of his eye. Behind him sat her father, Lord Richard Marwood. He was listening intently to Wolsey’s closing speech and had not yet seen her. No one else but her could have read the conflict behind her father’s eyes. She knew he was walking a fine line, allowing Cromwell to believe in his support, but intending to contradict him in his evidence. The Marwoods’ support for the queen might mark them out as targets: they would both have to be careful.
Wolsey was rising to his feet. He fumbled with a packet of letters and looked around at those gathered before him. Thomasin sensed a note of hesitation in his manner: no, Wolsey could not fail now, not at this crucial moment. The French ambassador, Jean du Bellay, seated to the right, shifted expectantly in his chair.
“Our king is of an age where another marriage may furnish him with the son and heir the kingdom requires. Our ally and brother, King Francis of France, has given his personal assurances that his own sister-in-law, Princess Renee, is sound in body and health, making her an excellent choice for marriage. Once this matter is concluded, she can be brought to England with the greatest haste and I myself would officiate at the wedding ceremony. God willing, the king might be blessed with a male child by the end of a twelve month.”
Thomasin could hardly believe what she was hearing. No one believed that Henry was interested in a French princess. She nudged More.
“Is Wolsey mad? Henry would marry Anne straight away.”
“But Wolsey still won’t believe it. He ascribes the king with purer motives.”
“But it is plain for all to see.”
