‘He no doubt needs you to help him out of a scrape,’ she said.
‘Actually, I think he’s hoping to get himself into another one,’ said Thomas. ‘He’s rather interested in Jocasta Leigh.’
‘The widow of Ralph Leigh?’ queried Elizabeth and Thomas nodded. ‘She’s a Culpeper by birth, isn’t she? The daughter of Sir Richard Culpeper and Lady Isabel Worsley.’
‘Quite correct,’ said Thomas. ‘Edmund has asked if I’d introduce him if she returned to the hall. It appears she has granted his wish.’
‘Which one is Jocasta?’
‘Over there, small, pretty, wearing the green dress,’ said Thomas, indicating towards a group of women who had re-joined the party.
‘Edmund does have a type,’ said Elizabeth with the derision only an older sister could muster. ‘Go and put poor Edmund out of his misery. Although, if he marries her, how he proposes to support her and her children from her first marriage is a mystery.’
‘Does she have many?’
‘Four, maybe five – I’m not sure.’
‘Edmund does make life difficult for himself,’ Thomas commented, draining his wine.
Elizabeth watched in amusement as her husband collected her nervous-looking brother and led him over to the women.
‘Jocasta Leigh?’ said her father, slipping into Thomas’s seat, watching as Boleyn made an introduction between Edmund and the smiling, Jocasta.
‘Would she make a suitable Howard bride?’
‘Her mother is wealthy and she is a calm, fertile woman,’ he replied. ‘She might be the steadying influence Edmund requires. A match between them would be worth considering.’
Elizabeth called for the page to top up her father’s goblet.
‘Younger is delighted the king is here,’ she said, looking over to the top table where space had been made for the monarch to join the married couple.
‘There was no doubt Henry would arrive,’ said her father, his eyes shrewd. ‘He knew you would be here.’
Elizabeth felt a cold shiver ripple down her spine.
‘What do you mean?’
‘He watches you,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she replied.
‘Has he ever suggested a liaison?’
Her breath caught in her throat. Her father stared at her with hooded eyes, his face serious, and she was a child again, unable to lie to this man who loved her but commanded respect.
‘He once gave me a gift which suggested he had feelings for me,’ she said. ‘He has also written to me, sent poetry, but when I spoke of it to my husband?—’
‘You spoke to Thomas about it?’ he said.
‘Yes, and his advice was for me to dismiss it, to view it as a game of courtly love. It is, after all, the style in which the king models his court.’
‘Good,’ said her father. ‘You have more power when you refuse; continue to do so and the king will look favourably upon us, but remember, Lizzie, you’re a Howard born and should the king require it, you must do as he requests.’
‘I shall not,’ she hissed in reply.
‘I have discussed it with the king and given him assurances of your willingness. Thomas will be rewarded.’
Elizabeth stared at her father in horror. A fury of such intensity rose within her, she feared that if she spoke, she would say unforgiveable things, words of such bitterness, the rift between them would never mend, yet she knew this was not the place of a woman, a daughter. He was the head of their family, her father, a powerful man.
