“Only for a few months, then he’ll be back.”
“Who is the new imperial ambassador?” Thomasin whispered to Lady Elizabeth, looking around the hall for a new face.
“At the end there.” She nodded towards where a thin-faced man in a black hat with long hair down over his ears was forcing himself to eat. “Eustace Chapuys. He’s the old queen’s man. No friend of ours.”
Thomasin looked closer. Chapuys’ expression looked waspish, although his features were regular enough, and his skin smooth. He did look as if being present pained him, but that might have been the role, if his sympathies lay elsewhere, and certainly not with the French for whom the feast had been thrown. Thomasin was pleased, at least, that old Bishop Mendoza had been replaced by someone keen to champion Catherine’s cause. She made a note to try and speak to Chapuys if the chance arose and make her allegiance known.
But Henry was rising to his feet, gesturing for the musicians to cease their playing, launching into an impassioned salutation to France for its friendship to himself and his new queen, anticipating years of brotherhood ahead.
Thomasin bent her head towards her plate, waiting for the speech to be over.
Soon enough, Henry resumed his seat and the feast continued in a blaze of jellies, poached fruits, wafers and gilded marzipans. Thomasin slipped a sweet treat, shaped like a heart and covered in gold leaf, into her sleeve for Lettice to enjoy later.
“I am quite stuffed!” announced George, looking to the dais for a cue to rise. Henry and Anne had declined to dance, but were preparing to leave, Anne looking tired about the eyes for once. It might be the pregnancy, Thomasin guessed, wondering how well she was sleeping. No doubt the best doctors and midwives were on hand: the new queen didn’t need Thomasin’s concern.
“I will take a turn about the gardens to let my food settle,” George announced. “Will you come?”
This invitation was directed at his parents, specifically his father. He did not look at Thomasin, who felt the cold limit of his mood excluding her.
Sir Thomas rose to his feet and extended his hand to his wife. “A fine idea. My lady, will you?”
“Oh no,” Lady Elizabeth said gently. “I shall sit here a little longer; I hope to speak to Mary.”
“And I will stay with you,” added Thomasin at once.
“Oh no, no, you must go out and take the air. Thomas, take her with you. Go, you are young, enjoy the opportunity.”
The food settling in Thomasin’s stomach curdled at the thought. “But, my lady, I was to be your companion…”
“Go, I won’t hear of it. I have words for Mary alone. Go.”
Reluctantly, Thomasin took the arm Sir Thomas Boleyn offered, catching his spicy, musky scent and the odour of wine on his breath. He was taller than she remembered, placing his hand over hers to guide her, or in case she was thinking of escaping, she thought. Following George, they passed out through the hall and the antechamber, which was full of bustleand voices, eyes turned towards them, figures bowing and curtseying. That was the difference now, Thomasin thought, suddenly realising that she was arm in arm with the father of the queen. The cool outside air rushed up to greet them.
TEN
The gardens at Whitehall were magnificent. Darkness was falling, but torches along the paths brought enough light for Thomasin to appreciate them, perhaps even to see them at their most dramatic. Led along by Sir Thomas, she forgot for a moment who she was with and why, and lost herself in the beauty of the place. The space was divided up into squares and bisected by paths, which were railed and painted in the Tudor colours, and adorned with medallions carved in the shapes of vines, portcullises and roses. Along each route stood statues, some mythical, some of animals with gilded horns, some of children. All led towards a central fountain, ringed by seats made from trimmed bushes, packed with mosses and flowers.
“Delightful, isn’t it?” said Sir Thomas, observing her intense interest. “I remember how often I discovered you in a garden in the past; I believe you have a fondness for them.”
“I do,” Thomasin replied, before she had a chance to think. “My garden in Suffolk…”
Then she paused, weighing up her options. She could maintain her cold, aloof exterior with Sir Thomas, a man whom she did not trust, or she could be polite and converse for a short while, to make the time pass. After all, he was now in a greater position than she had ever known him, and she had always been realistic about the need to be polite to those in power.
“Go on,” he said. “Your garden in Suffolk…”
She shot him a quick look. His expression seemed genuine.
“It is my pride and joy. I spend most days out there, in all weathers.”
“I imagine it is delightful at this time of year.”
“Yes, indeed. It is all just coming to life; the violets are making way for the roses now. And we had so many blossoms this year.”
“Apple blossom?”
“And cherry.”
“This garden was formerly an orchard,” he said. “Wolsey’s original garden was smaller, to the side, so Henry reclaimed and extended the orchard. I believe there is still a row of apple trees somewhere, as a reminder. Heavily pollarded, so you can hardly recognise them, of course.” Sir Thomas surveyed the view. “It has worked well, I think, and catches the sun as it faces south.”
