Climbing down, the pair passed through the first yard, where red brick walls rose on each side, catching the May sunshine, and through the archway into the main court. Ahead lay the grand staircase which would conduct them up to the royal apartments, but before they could reach it, a pair of feet came hurrying down. Thomasin and Ellen caught a ripple of blue skirts, full white sleeves and an embroidered bodice, before Mary, Countess of Essex appeared, panting in her haste.
“Finally, ladies, you are back.”
Thomasin looked at Ellen in surprise. “What is the hurry? This is the time arranged for our return.”
“Oh, I know it, but try telling the queen.”
Mary hurried them to one side. “She has got herself worked up. She will hear no words of comfort and spends all her time upon her knees in prayer. It is this place, this wretched place, with all its whispering corridors.”
“As your father advised us,” whispered Ellen.
“She has heard all manner of reports,” Mary continued, her grey eyes filled with concern, “that she is to be sent away, or removed at night, to some distant place or a nunnery. There is even talk about her being carried down to the coast at night and put on a ship bound for Spain! You can imagine how she has taken it. She can scarcely sleep at night. But this morning, there was a new report. Apparently, there is an Italian plot to slip poison into her food, so we are dining exclusively in her chamber on food made only in her kitchens, and we have to taste every dish before she will take any form of nourishment.” Mary paused for breath.
“Goodness,” said Thomasin, “things have become much worse since we left.”
“Indeed. I am heartily glad to see you both back again, as Maria and I are almost at our wits’ end.”
“Come, let us go to her.”
“Oh, she is at prayer again. She has some of her Spanish ladies with her, and they speak only in foreign tongues between themselves.”
“Still, we should join her, to show that we have returned.”
“Very well,” said Mary, with resignation. “Follow me. She will not go into St Bride’s, but prays in her closet, for fear of strangers.”
Thomasin and Ellen headed up the wide stone staircase, along to the entrance to the queen’s chambers. The guards stepped aside to allow them into her outer room, a pleasant, panelled space with wide windows, where young women sat sewing or reading. From there, they proceeded through small, dark antechambers into the main room, where the table was being cleared after a recent meal and embers glowed in the grate. Little Catherine Willougby, the daughter of the queen’s oldest friend, came bounding up to greet them.
“You are back! I am so glad!” She twirled around them, fanning out her kirtle. “Do you like my new clothes? Mother had them made up from one of her old dresses, but I am still not allowed to dine in public.”
“They look very well indeed,” Thomasin said, smiling. “Tell me, have you seen Princess Mary these past few days?”
“Oh, just a little. She is always with her tutor. She never has time to play anymore, and she said my poppet was for babies.” Catherine held up the offending doll with a frown.
“I am sure she will come back and play soon.”
Her mother, dark-eyed Maria Willoughby, appeared from the further door and called the girl to her. “Are you coming in to see our lady?” she asked Thomasin and Ellen.
“If we may,” said Thomasin.
“She is finishing her prayers and will be out shortly. Come in and wait.”
They followed her into the queen’s bedchamber, which was hung with green and silver cloth. An embroidered coverlet lay heavy across the deep featherbed. The scent of Castile soap with its olive oil lingered in the air. Heavy drapes partially obscured the windows, and a line of candles on the mantel struggled to light what was rather a gloomy space.
Presently, the curtain in the corner was pulled aside. Queen Catherine appeared, dressed sombrely in black and white, a heavy gold cross hanging from a chain about her neck and a veil masking her face.
Thomasin and Ellen knelt at her approach.
“You may rise,” said Catherine in a thin, careworn voice.
She slowly walked past them towards her chair, which was placed by the fireside. Maria hurried to arrange the cushions before the queen sank into them, as if exhausted.
“My veil,” she whispered. “My shoes. Another log on the fire.”
Ellen knelt to remove the tight leather shoes that pinched the queen’s feet and replace them with soft slippers. Thomasin gently lifted back the dark veil and arranged it across the queen’s shoulders. Drawing back, she was dismayed to see how tired Catherine was looking, her eyes red from weeping, her cheeks sunken. A surge of anger against the king rose within her, for making his wife endure such suffering, but she knew better than to voice it. It was treason to criticise Henry’s actions.
Catherine cast her pale eyes upon the newcomers and spoke with an effort. “All is well?”
“Yes, my lady,” Thomasin replied.
