“I don’t know,” said Giles, his brow knitting. “Leaving the property without asking? How well do you know this girl?”
“She has only ever lived in the village; she’s accustomed to roaming wherever she likes. I suppose she only thought she would be gone a moment.”
“Probably. But we need to watch her closely. It could have turned out much worse than that.”
Thomasin grudgingly admitted this, her stomach churning with the aftermath of fear as they went in to dine. It was only later that she remembered the promise she had made to Lady Elizabeth Boleyn.
NINE
Thomasin could not untangle her mixed emotions as the carriage approached the black and white chequered archway that straddled the road. King Street led straight into the brand-new Palace of Whitehall, which sprawled out on both sides with its complex of renaissance-style buildings and formal gardens, sitting on the curve of the Thames above Westminster. Once owned by the disgraced, and now deceased, Cardinal Wolsey, it had been transformed into a European-style palace to please Anne, and it was rumoured that she and Henry had been married there. It was strange to be returning to court, when that court was so changed in its people and places. She had not wished for this.
Beside her in the carriage, Lady Elizabeth Boleyn sat very still and composed. She had dressed up in all her finery, with diamonds and rubies about her throat, her infirm body wrapped in black velvet and white silk, her cuffs beautifully embroidered with tiny stitches. There was an air of expectation about her, an inner stillness and resolution that Thomasin could not help but admire. She supposed it came from having been a great beauty all her life, and being born into a family — the Howards — where all her needs were met and her requests granted. The greatest family in England after the Tudors, Thomasin had heard, headed now by Elizabeth’s brother, the Duke of Norfolk, but of course since then, the Boleyns had risen even higher.
Thomasin had met Lady Elizabeth in the courtyard at Durham Place, and together they had taken her carriage, with its distinctive crest painted in gold on the doors. Her companion had leaned heavily on her arm, and required assistance and patience on the steps, and when entering the carriage. Thomasin wondered where the rest of her family were, allowing her tostruggle alone when she was clearly so frail. Anne, of course, was occupied, and Sir Thomas might be about some business as a former ambassador, but what of her son George and his wife Jane? What of Mary Boleyn? Where were they? Durham Place had echoed with their footsteps as they left, and Thomasin received the distinct impression that the building was empty. No wonder the old lady had seized the first chance of company and support when she saw it.
It was a fresh day. Thomasin was grateful for the fur that Lady Elizabeth had pressed upon her, saying that she must not catch a chill. As she descended the carriage at Whitehall, taking in the new, imposing courtyard with its gleaming stones, Thomasin thought how strange her arrival was, as if she were coming to court again for the first time, but what a different woman she was now from the naïve seventeen year-old-girl who had been so excited and awed by the beauty of the place. Taking her arm, Lady Elizabeth led her through an outer block and into an inner cloister around a central fountain. The pillars were of white marble, polished smooth and sculpted, gleaming where they caught the light. Four small lawns made up the inner space, divided into quarters by narrow paths, and edged by white and green railings. They followed round the outside, under the colonnade, to an arch on the far side that led them into a passage and antechamber, hung with portraits. Ahead stood guards in livery and behind the double doors, Thomasin sensed bustle and voices. The court was gathered here, just yards away. This was her final moment of obscurity.
“Here we are,” said Lady Elizabeth. “You are ready to return?”
Everything inside Thomasin screamed no, she was not. She would have preferred to be in her carriage, returning to Suffolk, leaving this world behind her. And yet, and yet … if she was being honest with herself, she could not deny that there was a glimmer of curiosity inside her, just a glimmer, which wanted tosee Anne Boleyn’s court and the glorious great hall ahead, and the faces of people she had not seen in four years.
She laid her hand on that of her companion. “Let us go in.”
The doors opened to reveal an immense great hall, as wide as it was long, with two screens on either side, set with long trestle tables and the dais at the far end. People were taking their places, filling the seats allotted to them with a swiftness and familiarity that took Thomasin straight back to the old days. She had never dined in this particular hall, but she already knew exactly how it would unfold, and the expected format and course of the meal, the behaviour and rules. Her eyes flew over the heads of the crowd towards the dais, but the seats there were still unoccupied; Henry and his new queen had yet to take their places.
“Now, we shall be quiet over here, tucked out of the way on our table,” said Lady Elizabeth, leading Thomasin down the central space, between rapidly filling tables, up to the top of the hall. As mother of the queen, she commanded greetings and bows from all around as they passed, some of whom came up to greet her, but none of them were familiar to Thomasin. A steward in livery led them off to the left, where a separate smaller table awaited, clearly for special guests only. Sir Thomas Boleyn and his son George rose to their feet upon seeing the women arrive. Sir Thomas led his wife by the hand to her place and widened his eyes in pretend surprise at Thomasin’s presence, although he must have been aware of her invitation.
“My lady, you are looking well,” he said to his wife, resuming his seat opposite her.
Thomasin took her place at Lady Elizabeth’s side, opposite the sharp-featured George Boleyn whom she had always found objectionable, despite all those at court who lauded his skill in the lists and as a poet. He did not bother to lift his eyes in greeting. She was grateful to see there was no one else there, noshadow of a man in black, no brooding chestnut eyes. She put the thought from her mind, determined to keep it there.
“I am quite well, I thank you,” said Lady Elizabeth. “I have my kind companion here to support me, and that makes everything better.”
Had Thomasin imagined it, or was there a sting in the old lady’s comment to her husband? If there was, Sir Thomas ignored it, turning instead to Thomasin.
“My lady Waterson. It was good of you to accompany my wife today. I hope she has not put you to too much trouble.” His grey hawk-eyes narrowed.
Thomasin did not like his tone, nor his insinuation that his wife was trouble. “Not at all, my lord,” she replied pertly. “It is a pleasure, no trouble at all.”
He gave a small smile at that, superficially polite, but taut, leaning in towards his son.
“You remember Mistress Marwood, as was,” he said, keeping his eyes on Thomasin. “Used to serve the dowager.”
He was speaking of Catherine of Aragon. She was not even permitted now to be referred to as queen, but only by her former title as the Dowager Princess of Wales, wife of Henry’s elder brother Arthur.
George’s features contorted into what Thomasin could only describe as a nasty look. “I do remember. Back at court again, then, my lady?”
Only he could manage to make “my lady” sound like an insult.
“I am,” said Thomasin, looking him directly in the face. Some thought him handsome, with his dark, regular features and the quiet wit that could turn cruel. “I had hoped to see your good lady wife. Will she be joining us?”
“Indisposed,” he replied.
Thomasin waited for him to elaborate, but he did not.
“She is at Whitehall, then?”
“Oh, she is at Whitehall.”
