“I think I see some nits ready to hatch.”
He itches his head so violently that he might draw blood.
We’re now in the midst of the bustling noise and heat of the kitchens. Cecily is holding a bowl out to Lord Fowley, showing him the food servants were offered for lunch today. It looks like a mixture of wet dog food and dirty broth.
“Everyone working in the palace needs nutritious, regular meals,” I tell him. “There must be proteins, vegetables, and clean water or ale. No half-chewed scraps. No gruel.”
Lord Fowley glances down at Cecily bowl again, his face twisting in disgust. “Would you care to take a bite?” I ask him.
He shakes his head, and Cecily holds up a spoonful. “Take a bite,” she demands.
As we walk through the hall back toward the royal apartments, Lord Fowley is now taking his own notes as Bessie and Cecily follow along behind us.
“What are your thoughts on childcare?” I ask him.
His defeated eyes look up from the paper he’s working on. “I don’t know what that means.”
I stop walking a moment, giving him the chance to catch his breath. “It’s not sustainable for our workers to continually become sick due to poor post-birth care or by forcing them away from their children. Women need allotted times to breastfeed and family-friendly accommodations to live in so their husbands can assist them.”
Bottled-up anger flashes in Lord Fowley’s eyes as he lowers his notebook. “It is simply not how things are done, Your Majesty. The palace has been running successfully exactly as it has for years. You can’t just change our every way of life based upon a whim.”
I give him an obliging smile and move a step closer. “Watch me.”
Lord Fowley balks at my words, staying absolutely still as I walk off. I only make it a few feet before Thomas Culpepper suddenly falls into step beside me.
“Well,” he says, glancing down at me, “you seem quite pleased with yourself this afternoon.”
I struggle to hold in my little smirk. “I am pleased,” I answer.
“Indeed. Saving Hampton Court Palace one swill bucket at a time is undoubtably very rewarding.”
He offers me his arm, and I take it despite his snobbish comment. He veers us to the left, leading me into the Long Gallery. Stately portraits and tapestries line one wall and tall, narrow windows line the other.
“Tell me about when you first came to court,” I decide to ask him. We move past other noblemen and -women walking the gallery, all of whom bow or curtsy as I pass. Thomas stands up a little taller, clearly enjoying the deference being shown.
“When I first came to court,” he says, “I loved everything about it.”
“Now why doesn’t that surprise me?”
He casts me a sly grin. “Of course, it helped that the king took a keen interest in me soon after I arrived. I had helped obtain a hawk for him, and before long, I was a Gentleman of the privy council. Suddenly all at court knew who I was and wanted to befriend me. They practically begged me to exert my influence over the king.”
I look up at him, knowing the validation must have been delicious to him. Probably addictive. “Do you think of Henry as your friend?” I ask curiously.
Thomas doesn’t answer right away, but the self-satisfied lift of his brow does. “I wouldn’t dare to presume so.”
“But you said people would ask you to exert your influence over him. Did that make you feel powerful?”
“It would make anyone feel that way,” he says. “But I also know how precarious it all is. He who sits in the clouds one day may be wallowing in the dirt in the next. Or under it.”
“That’s very prophetic.” We stop near a particular portrait of woman in an extravagant gown with her hair free-flowing. She’s standing straight, and her hand rests on the back of a tall golden chair. Her expression is unreadable. Written in the bottom corner in curling script isSub rosa, veritas.
Thomas studies the portrait as well before speaking again. “The king said I remind him of himself when he was a young man. That when he looks at me, he sees himself.”
I look over at him myself, trying to imagine Henry and him standing side by side. From what I’ve heard of Henry in his youthful prime, perhaps they did have some similarities. Well-liked, athletic, charming—but whereas Henry must have always had some level of dormant cruelty hidden beneath his pleasing facade, I’m not fully convinced that Thomas does. But I’ve been wrong before. Hopefully I’m not now.
We’re moving on to the next portrait when Lady Rochford approaches us from the far end of the gallery. She’s unsmiling, and her eyes are all business.
“Your Majesty, I need a word with you at once.”
