ONE
May, 1533
Fresh cut grass. Bluebells and cherry blossom. Fresh, clear water from the little brook.
Thomasin took a deep breath, inhaling all the joyous scents of springtime and revelling in their sweetness. Ahead of her, in all its glory, lay the formal garden that had become her favourite place in the world. The long lawns bisected by paths, a central stone sundial furred with gold lichen, the rose arbour that would burst into bloom in a month or two, giving way to the section she had let become overrun with wildflowers and the line of oak trees beyond. Above it, the wide Suffolk skies were surprisingly blue for that time of year, although there were a few white clouds dotted on the horizon. The weather was changeable, unpredictable in this rural part of the world.
They had been at Green Hollow for four years now. Giles had bought it from a local landowner who had debts to pay and was moving down to the southwest; an old neighbour of the Marwoods, he had been based not three miles from Eastwell Hall, towards the Essex border, making it a perfect property for the family. The Watersons had moved in soon after their marriage, and still, even now, Thomasin would wake up in the great bedchamber, filled with sunlight and birdsong, and have to pinch herself to believe that all this actually belonged to her. She had made it quite her own, ordering new carpets, linen and tapestries from Flanders, plate from London, as well as furniture and fittings made by local craftsmen. The walls were whitewashed clean, drawing out the colours of rich red and saffron, or deep forest-green in her cushions and hangings. Assoon as the spring arrived, she liked to put fresh flowers in every room, so that the ancient place was filled with life again.
A sound from behind made Thomasin turn. Perhaps one of the servants was strewing herbs or tending the fire. Or maybe a stable boy had come to tell her that one of the hounds had whelped.
Behind her, Green Hollow loomed large and solid, the windows thrown open, the red brick warm in the sunlight. Her reflection was caught in the panel of glass in the door as she turned towards it. With her rosy, country complexion and apple-like cheeks once praised by Catherine of Aragon, Thomasin had barely aged since she’d left court, although she was now twenty-three, a married woman as Lady Waterson these past four summers. Her chestnut-brown hair was swept back under a simple headdress and she wore a plain green gown, enjoying the simplicity of her clothing compared to those elaborate garments she had once worn at court, where every pearl and every gold aiglet mattered. She didn’t miss that world. Her cheeks had a glow of contentment that had worked its way into her warm eyes. There was no doubt her new life suited her.
“Thomasin?”
A young voice called through the house.
“Out here.”
A girl appeared in the doorway, perhaps fourteen years old, dressed in a simple fawn-coloured gown, her thick dark hair streaming down her back. The likeness between her and Thomasin was remarkable, both with golden skin and rich, earthy beauty, yet the newcomer had a different nose, longer and straighter, which she had inherited from their mother, and their father’s wider mouth. This was Lettice, or Letitia, younger sister to Thomasin and Cecilia, who had come over from Eastwell Hall to stay awhile with the Watersons.
She held up a piece of paper. “A letter! A man just delivered it.”
Thomasin stepped forward and took it. The red wax seal was familiar, with its embossed swan.
“It’s from Ellen!”
Not so long ago, Thomasin and her cousin Ellen had shared a wedding day, standing side by side in the nearby St. Luke’s Church surrounded by their family and friends. It had been the culmination of their adventures at court, and after much heartbreak and betrayal, Ellen had happily married Giles’s close friend, Sir Henry Letchmere, and gone to live with him in Norfolk. Thomasin touched the little ruby brooch that sat snugly on her chest as she remembered the day. It had been a gift from the queen, and Ellen had received a matching one with a sapphire instead.
“Well, what does it say?”
She smiled at Lettice’s impatience. Her second sister was still very much a child, with her desire for everything to happen at once, but Thomasin was also keen to hear her cousin’s news. She broke the seal and unfolded the paper. The message was not long, written in Ellen’s familiar, neat hand.
“Oh,” cried Thomasin, “she has had a boy! A son! Named Benedict.” Her eyes scanned the lines. “She is tired but otherwise well, and the babe is strong. A longish labour, but she came through it with God’s help.”
“That is good news,” said Lettice. “I have heard that first children can be difficult.”
Lettice was a clever girl, who always had to be the fount of all wisdom, but Thomasin could neither confirm nor deny her statement. Despite their prayers, she and Giles had yet to be blessed with a child of their own.
She threw off her own sorrow. “It is wonderful news. We must send them venison and herrings and wine, and whatever cheese we might have in the dairy. I will make her up a cordial of spring flowers myself, and you can help me, Lettice.”
“Can we use violets? Those are my favourites.”
“We will pick them right away. But first, I must tell Giles. Come, let us find him.”
Thomasin passed round the side of the house which faced west, Lettice trailing after her. Nut trees had been planted there to make an avenue, where she liked to walk on warmer summer evenings with the dying rays of the sun filtering through the leaves. A gateway was set in the red brick wall, which led out into the kitchen garden: herbs grew in fresh, green beds, planted in circles or diamond shapes, bisected by bushes of dense box. Their scents were released as the women passed by, their skirts rustling against the foliage, startling a sparrow into flight. Beyond this scented haven lay the kennels and outhouses — a huddle of little red rooves, where Thomasin knew she could find Giles pursing his passion.
She was right. As they rounded a corner, two men came into sight: Lord Waterson with his collar open to the spring day, his arm extended, covered in a sheath of thick leather, and Smith, the man who cared for the estate’s grounds. Upon Giles’s arm sat a sleek, grey falcon, a magnificent bird with bright black orbs for eyes and a hooked, deadly beak. Its plumage was radiant in the sun, which caught the dappled patterns on its breast and belly. For now, the huge, powerful wings were tucked away and its cruel claws clung to the leather. Seeing his wife approach, Giles handed the creature over to his groundsman, who was holding out a gloved fist in readiness. It was another pleasure that their new country life gave him greater opportunity to pursue falconry and hunting, pastimes which London life had somewhat curtailed.
“A letter!” Thomasin waved.
He turned towards her, his blue-green eyes smiling at her excitement. Not a day had passed that she regretted her choice in becoming his wife.
“From the king?” he asked.
“Oh, no, thank the Lord!”
“The Pope? The Emperor? The Turk?”
