“We’re very quiet here. I know that’s part of the appeal, but do you ever long to visit anywhere else, go back to London, or perhaps to Colchester or Ipswich or up north? Travel a little, see new places?”
Thomasin went quiet. Until then their world had been a little bubble, extending out to encompass Eastwell Hall and the villages, but little beyond. They’d visited the Letchmeres in Norwich, but on the last two occasions, Harry and Ellen had come into Suffolk. So Giles had itchy feet, she realised. “I’ve not really thought much about it. I’ve been so happy here, I’ve not had time.”
“I was only wondering whether it might be nice. Of course we’ll always have this place, but we could explore a little more. Visit court, even, or see friends. You’d love to see Thomas More and his family again, and your uncle Matthew, I know you would.”
Thomasin thought of her uncle in his London townhouse and her dear More and his daughter Margaret, who had become special friends of hers during her time at court.
“I can’t deny that there are faces I long to see again, but I cannot stomach the idea of court without the queen there.”
After eighteen months in the service of Catherine of Aragon, Thomasin had a fierce loyalty to her former mistress. Despite her seclusion in the countryside, she had heard how the royalmarriage had ended, through the letters of close friends. It was almost two years now since Catherine had been cruelly banished from court and sent to stay in properties in the country, to make way for Anne Boleyn. Thomasin wrote to her former mistress often, trying to alleviate her sorrows, and occasionally, she received letters back, written in a crabbed, Spanish hand, filled with regrets and memories of happier times. Recently the poor woman had been moved yet again, to Ampthill Castle in Bedfordshire, a place she described as lonely and in disrepair. For all her bravery, the former queen was a broken woman.
“Perhaps that might be a starting place,” suggested Giles. “Why don’t you write to Thomas More again and suggest a visit? Then you will know whether or not you still have an appetite for London. But look, there goes a bat!”
He pointed above her head and Thomasin spun round to see the flitting shape disappearing between two oak trees. A second one flew from its hiding place and followed.
“There,” said Giles, “the bats are at play.”
“So they are,” Thomasin replied wistfully.
Giles patted his belly. “Shall we go in to dinner? Since we are left with the pork, after you gave away our haunch of venison, which I hasten to add, is now on the road north, I asked the kitchens to prepare your favourite mustard and honey sauce to accompany it.”
“In which case,” replied Thomasin, “you had better hurry, as there will be none left for you otherwise!”
“All this country air gives you an appetite,” Giles said fondly. “Perhaps we shouldn’t remove you from here, or else I fear you might fade clean away.”
Thomasin laughed and hurried inside to the great hall, where Lettice was waiting. Her pale face wore a sombre expression that drew her sister to a halt.
Lettice was not alone. A man stood with her, dressed in his riding habit and cloak. His grey eyes looked tired, although they contained wisdom, and his shoulders had the slight stoop of advancing years.
“Father?”
Thomasin hurried towards Sir Richard Marwood, surprised to see that he had made the ride over from Eastwell at this time of day.
“Ah, Thomasin, my dear, and Giles, there you are. Forgive me: I have come to shatter your peace.”
Thomasin felt a chill run through her. “What on earth do you mean, Father? Is mother well? And Cecilia?”
In the past, Lady Elizabeth Marwood had suffered from a malaise in her breast, causing her discomfort, although with attention from the royal doctors, her worst days of discomfort had passed. Thomasin and Lettice’s elder sister Cecilia had returned to live with her parents, to raise her young daughter, Rose.
“They are well, quite well. It is your uncle, Matthew Russell, of whom I bring tidings.”
“Uncle Matthew? But we were only speaking of him a moment ago. Weren’t we, Giles?”
At her side, Giles nodded, although his face looked ominous in anticipation of the news.
“I am sorry to have to tell you that we received a letter today from Dr Butts in London. He writes that yesternight, your uncle passed on to be with the Lord.”
It took a moment for the words to sink in. “Uncle Matthew is dead?”
“Yes, my dear. He had a good, pious life, he did not suffer, and we must rejoice that he has gone to be with the Lord.”
Thomasin struggled to agree. She felt Giles’s arm wrap around her shoulders and leaned into him. He always knew the right thing to do and say.
“We are grieved to hear of his loss, but we will join you to rejoice in his blissful accession to life eternal. Our deepest condolences to you and your wife, his dear sister, Lady Elizabeth.”
“How has Mother taken it?” Thomasin asked.
“She is well enough, finding comfort in prayer. I am afraid I cannot stay longer. I only came to give you the news as soon as possible, but I should return to her now.”
