“I wonder if you would be so kind as to pass on my good wishes to her, and tell her that I hope to see her again.”
George looked affronted, as if Thomasin had taken a game too far, and decided he was no longer playing. He drained his wine glass and called for a refill.
Looking around the room, Thomasin finally noticed a couple of faces she knew from her time before. There was the pale-faced Stephen Gardiner, who had taken the title of Bishop of Winchester after Wolsey’s death, along with a couple of the bishops, and one or two who had formerly been in the retinue of the Duke of Norfolk.
Trumpeters at the door announced the arrival of the royal party, and minstrels in the gallery above began to play gentle music, the tune of which Thomasin did not know. However, she did know the faces who were now appearing, one after the other in procession.
First came the Duke of Suffolk, still broad and strong-looking, although he was considerably greyer in the beard than when Thomasin had last seen him. At his side walked a young lady with light, even features, but there was no sign of the old duchess, for whom Thomasin had cherished a certain respect. Although the handsome duke had once been a favourite of hers, she still could not forget the way he had engineered the marriage of Sir Hugh Truegood to her sister Cecilia, taking him away from Ellen and breaking her heart. Nor could she ever forgive that. There was something familiar about the girl, though, especially about her eyes, which were fine and dark. She looked to be about fourteen.
“That’s his future daughter-in-law, while his wife lies dying at home,” whispered Lady Elizabeth.
Thomasin was shocked. Duchess Mary was the king’s own sister. “Dying? The duchess?”
“Oh, yes. Her old complaint in the chest. Probably won’t see Christmas.”
They watched as the pair paraded past, the duke in silver and the girl in a gown of pale gold.
“You remember her mother, Maria da Salinas, the close friend of Lady Catherine?”
That was where Thomasin had seen her before: the little girl who had haunted the antechambers of the old queen, played chess and danced with Princess Mary. She had grown up into a fine, slender figure, but not grown up so much that she should be considered a woman. Not in the way the Duke was looking at her. Thomasin shivered. Things had changed indeed.
Behind them came Mary Boleyn, once Thomasin’s sworn antagonist over the friendship that had once blossomed between Thomasin and Mary’s husband William Carey, before he had died of the sweating sickness. Mary was dressed in a satin gown of crimson with golden lace, her waist pulled small, and diamonds about her throat. She looked a lot more regal and polished than she used to and Thomasin wondered if there was a reason. At her side were two children, a girl of about nine and a boy of seven, both with similar looks to hers, fair hair and large blue eyes, their complexions rosy as they looked about the place in excitement.
“Ah, my grandchildren,” whispered Lady Elizabeth.
So these were the children borne to Mary during her marriage. Rumour had it that one, or both, had been fathered by the king and while Thomasin looked closely, she could not see any features that seemed to have come from Will Carey. They were named Catherine and Henry, Thomasin recalled, echoing the past royal marriage. The Duke of Norfolk, Mary and Anne’s uncle, strode alongside them, a vast cliff of a man, foreboding and intense.
Lady Elizabeth frowned. “And my brother, God spare his soul for his many vanities.”
Thomasin did not get a chance to answer before the French ambassador strode past, or rather, strutted, dressed strikingly in dark blue and bright yellow, embroidered with the gold fleur-de-lys of his country. His chin was raised, a pert smile on his face, a group of simpering courtiers around him, whispering to each other in what Thomasin assumed was French. Among the group Thomasin also recognised Anne’s cousin Francis Bryan with the eye-patch, the more sympathetic Henry Norris and the handsome poet Thomas Wyatt. She had been present at court for Jean du Bellay’s arrival four years ago, to take up his position as ambassador, becoming an immediate favourite in Anne’s household. They had spent hours together closeted in discussion about the court of Francis I and his long-suffering wife Claude, now dead, whom Anne had served for a number of years. And now she who had served a queen had become one herself.
Anne’s ladies followed, a colourful, lively group, many of whom Anne knew at once. There was the dark-haired Nan Gainsford, Bess Holland, Norfolk’s sharp-tongued mistress, alongside Anne’s cousin Mary Howard, Norfolk’s daughter, and others whose faces she did not know.
“Who are the last three?” she whispered to her companion.
Lady Elizabeth squinted. “That first one, the very slender one, is Grace Parker, a quiet little thing, then the brown-haired one is… Let me see, it’s my niece, young Madge Shelton, the child of my lord’s sister, and that last one, the very pale one, is a Seymour, I think. Jane or Joan or something. I never heard a sound come out of her mouth!”
The women were taking their place on the other side of the Boleyn table, squeezing onto the benches with giggles and whispered words. Thomasin remembered what it had been like as a member of Catherine’s court, moving about the court ina group, preening and combing, tying and untying knots and laces, following their mistress wherever she went. She realised that Anne would not be far behind them.
The trumpet sounded again. Thomasin was right: in strode Henry and Anne, side by side, her hand resting on his. Nothing had really prepared her for the sight of them together as king and queen, even though she’d known it was coming. Anne stood tall and regal in green, her head swathed in gold and pearls, with more gold chains dripping about her neck and wrists, her fingers sparkling with gems. Her pregnancy showed under the open-laced gown; it looked as if she was about five or six months along. A tiny pang of envy rose in Thomasin, to her surprise. Here was Anne, having achieved everything she wanted, radiant in her new role, about to become a mother. She blinked back unexpected tears and directed her attention to Henry.
The king had increased in stature. He seemed taller, broader, thicker, wrapped in more layers, his red throat solid as that of a bull, his cheeks and jaw carrying more flesh, his eyes smaller, his tread more solid. Henry was certainly not the young king he had been in 1527, in his mid-thirties, when Thomasin had been in awe of him. Now, his forty-second birthday was approaching, and his advance in age was visible in his face.
“Go on, say it,” said Lady Elizabeth, as if she could read Thomasin’s thoughts. “He looks less well, although no one would dare speak it aloud.”
Thomasin shook her head, refusing to commit herself, but her companion was right. Henry had passed into corpulent, ruddy middle age. He walked more slowly and heavily, although she could see the effort he made to maintain a light step alongside Anne, who almost danced at his side.What must it be like, being married to such a man?Thomasin wondered, thinking of her own dear Giles, who she had left back at Monk’s Place with an indignant Lettice, who couldn’t understand why she had notbeen included in the invitation. At least she had the ribbons and beads they’d bought yesterday to console herself with.
The company rose to its feet as the royal couple passed through its midst. Thomasin helped Lady Elizabeth to rise a little, waiting until Henry and Anne were seated on the dais, before resuming their seats again. Du Bellay was placed at their side, along with another figure, all in dark clothing, whom Thomasin had missed in the entrance, no doubt on account of his drabness. She recoiled at the sight of Thomas Cromwell’s porcine features, having stepped into the shoes of his former master Wolsey, to become the king’s right-hand man. He did not seem to have changed in the slightest, although his sombre appearance did not prevent him from clustering his fingers with rings of varying sizes and colours.
Once all were seated, the plates of food began to arrive. Cromwell and the Boleyns aside, this was one aspect of court life that Thomasin had missed. She was pleased to savour the best spiced and creamy dishes, the roast meats and deep-filled pies, and drink Portuguese wine with its rich, smooth taste. But there was something at the back of her mind, despite her enjoyment, a question that had been mounting with every new face that entered the hall. One person was still missing. She had put him from her mind as belonging to her past, but she noted that the shadowy figure in black with the chestnut eyes was not among the Boleyn party. She looked across at Lady Elizabeth, picking delicately at a baked lark, then over to Sir Thomas and George, who were feasting lustily on venison and calling for more. Did she dare to ask them? Did she dare to speak his name?
Of course Thomasin had thought about him in the intervening years. Not consciously, not deliberately, while she was happy with Giles at Green Hollow. But sometimes she heard his footsteps through her dreams or something reminded her of him — a pink rose, perhaps, or the slope of a man’s back inthe marketplace. She never indulged the thought once it had arisen, but dismissed it as quickly as possible. She had never once regretted her choice: Giles was the prefect husband and he —he— would have made her miserable with his jealousy and pettiness. But despite it all, he had left his trace, like the faint trail of smoke after a candle had been blown out.
“Du Bellay looks like a jester,” said George, before she could make up her mind. “That ridiculous costume. The French usually do better than that.”
“No better than the emperor’s mincing little man,” growled Sir Thomas.
“So he’s leaving, then? That’s what this feast is for?”
