“And the king has a son, does he not?”
“That’s right. Henry Fitzroy, Earl Of Richmond and Somerset.”
“How old is he? Is he here?”
Thomasin paused, unsure about the life of the son born to Henry out of wedlock.
John Dudley stepped in. “He has his own household in St. James’s Palace, but he must be fourteen now.”
“The same age as me? Does he want a wife? Might I marry him?”
The table laughed.
“He is betrothed already; you are too late. He will marry his cousin by this new marriage, Norfolk’s daughter, Mary. It is a match made by the new queen.”
“Perhaps she might need a lady’s maid. I don’t really mind, if it brings me to court.”
But Lettice was distracted by a huge plate of glazed strawberry tarts being placed before her.
While they ate, Thomasin let her eyes be drawn over to where Sir Thomas Boleyn was sitting, among a few members of hishousehold, Mary and Hatton included, although she noted his wife was not present. A pang of guilt took her: was it because Lady Elizabeth had no companion to bring her from Durham Court? Sir Thomas had his back to Thomasin, and she could see the grey hair curling over his collar, the jewels on his hat, the broad shoulders. Giles moved to obscure her view.
“Who are you looking at over there?”
“The Boleyn table. I wonder where Lady Elizabeth is today?”
Giles turned briefly. “How was she with you?”
“Frail but not insensible. She still has her faculties. I just fear she is being neglected. What?”
Giles was giving her that look he reserved for disapproval.
“What is it?”
“You cannot let yourself get drawn in. We are back to Suffolk in a couple of days, remember, and you have not seen these people for four years. Do not let yourself get pulled back into their world, or who knows where it shall end? Now, try some of this saffron chicken. I think you will like it.”
Thomasin accepted the plate and it did prove as delicious as Giles had hinted. She tried to focus on her food, listening to Lettice’s excited chatter about the different flavours and the thinness of the pie crust and sweetness of the tarts, but could not help the occasional glance over Giles’s shoulder.
As the meal was concluding, Henry rose to his feet. It was customary for him to address the hall at this time, and people turned to listen, as the strains of song abruptly came to a halt.
“Lords and ladies, good tidings this morning. Cranmer, our new Archbishop of Canterbury, has officially given our marriage his blessing, as legally and spiritually binding.”
Applause rang through the room.
“The promise of this son, growing so lustily in my wife’s belly, is a sure sign of God’s blessing upon this union. In two or three months’ time, England will have a male heir, and with luck,many more to follow. Let there be no more talk of dissent, or grumblings among the people. My will, and God’s will, have been done.”
He offered his hand to Anne, who accepted at once, her plate untouched, and the pair of them walked in slow, stately fashion down the central aisle. Thomasin noticed that Anne’s graceful movements had changed; the elegant swing of her body from former times was replaced by a heaviness, a shift in gravity that robbed her of her distinct style.
They headed out once more into the sunshine of the privy garden as the hall emptied. An army of servants were already moving in, sweeping the floor, scooping up dishes, snatching away cloths and gathering glasses.
“Thomasin Marwood,” said a voice from behind. She knew at once who it was before turning.
Mary Boleyn was flanked by her father and William Hatton, whose pale eyes were looking at her searchingly. Thomasin did her best to avoid them.
“I thought it was you.”
“Lady Thomasin Waterson,” she replied. “Visiting with my husband, Lord Waterson.”
Mary did not give Giles a single glance. She focused on Thomasin, who noted that her once soft, pretty features had hardened with age.
