It was a strange time. The atmosphere at the Tower was one of expectation, a place waiting to burst into life, while the hours ticked past in anticipation of Anne. Lady Elizabeth lay down upon the bed, and soon her breathing became heavier. Thomasin sat in the window, watching the scurry of activity below as flags and banners were erected, walkways swept and the final checks made. The afternoon passed agonisingly slowly. Thomasin could not stop her mind from wandering back to Mariot and the terrifying note that had arrived just before her departure. It had all happened so quickly she’d not had enough time to consider exactly what Giles would do, and whether he might be putting himself in danger. She clung to the memory that he had spoken of involving the sheriff and that he would give her a sign tomorrow at Tower Hill, trying as best she could to put the matter from her mind. Instead, she imagined herself walking around the gardens at Green Hollow, listening to the birdsong as the roses bloomed under the summer sun and the little stream babbled away and the hills rose to the trees beyond.
Without warning, a tremendous boom ripped through the stone wall, rattling Thomasin’s bones. Lady Elizabeth sat up in bed with a gasp. A second and third shot followed soon after. The cannon. The Tower was firing its cannon to salute the approaching barge.
“My lady?” A servant was at the door. “The barges have been sighted. Would you please come down to the steps to welcome the queen?”
Thomasin helped Lady Elizabeth up gently, then straightened her dress and put her headdress back on her greying hair.
“They might have given us some warning. My poor old heart!”
“Yes, they might!”
“I suppose it is time,” she said, looking closely at Thomasin.
“Yes, this is where it begins.”
“I pray she can enjoy it. That the crowds are welcoming.”
“I am sure all will go smoothly,” Thomasin lied.
It felt fresher as they headed outside. People were already gathering along the route from riverside to apartments: castle servants, but also lords and ladies and city officials. As they approached the steps, their noses alert to the presence of the river nearby, Thomasin spotted Sir William Kingston, the Constable of the Tower, whom she had met four years earlier, alongside his wife. She also saw Bishop Fisher, her old friend, standing among the other men of the cloth, along with the new Archbishop Thomas Cranmer. No Thomas More, though, of course.
A flotilla of ships was visible, swarming across the Thames in their dozens. Thomasin estimated there were perhaps fifty vessels in total grouped around the royal barge, the largest craft at the front. As it drew closer, they could see the white falcon carved on top of it, surrounded by roses, and the young women accompanying Anne, who sat centrally, while the barge fired its guns into the river in answer to the Tower’s cannons. Other ships around her blasted out the sounds of trumpets, shawms and tinkling bells, and were draped with flags and streamers, each painted and prepared by the city’s many guilds. Slowly, the ships inched closer, the rowers pulling heavily against the tide, and Anne’s came to rest against the steps. Kingston sprang forward to offer his arm and she climbed carefully out of the barge, adorned with jewels, to the applause of the crowd. Climbing the steps, she passed the spot where Thomasin stood with Lady Elizabeth, and briefly touched her mother’s hand before she was borne along in the procession. Sir Thomas, Mary,George and Jane followed soon after, each disappearing among the crowd. At the far end, Thomasin turned to catch sight of the king, heaped in gold chains, waiting to welcome his wife.
That evening, while Anne and Henry feasted together, the women of her household dined in a private chamber. The room was long and low, with newly whited walls and fresh matting and herbs underfoot. Thomasin drank gladly from the jugs of wine circulating, although she found she had little appetite and only picked at the rich dishes laid before her. It seemed a long time before they were permitted to retire for the night, but even then, she lay awake, chewing on the last of Lettice’s mint leaves, unable to sleep for the fears racing through her mind.
EIGHTEEN
“The queen is asking for her mother.”
Lady Elizabeth hurried, as best she could, along the corridor that led to Anne’s bedchamber, Thomasin close upon her heels. They were met at the door by Mary in a state of agitation. The residents of the Tower had woken early to a clear, bright morning.
“I cannot calm her; she is convinced that she will die today in the streets, some lone arrow or a stone thrown from an upper floor. She will not listen to reason.”
From far within, they could hear Anne’s rising tones.
“Where is my lord? Fetch your father!” insisted Lady Elizabeth, giving Mary a little push. “At once!”
She pushed open the door and stepped into the antechamber. A dozen women were assembled here in their finery, members of the Boleyn clan including Mary and Jane, ladies in waiting like Nan Gainsford and others unfamiliar to Thomasin. They all looked uncomfortable, like chess pieces assembled at the start of a game, waiting to do battle.
Mary came forward, clasping her hands together. “She won’t let me in. She had nightmares, barely slept a moment, and when she did, the child woke her early, stirring in her womb.”
Lady Elizabeth nodded and pushed open the double doors at the far end. Behind her, Thomasin followed, and they entered Anne’s chamber. She was alone but for a pale young woman with large blue eyes, who was holding out the jewels Anne was declining to wear.
The sight of Anne was enough to take one’s breath away. She stood like a centrepiece, dressed in a gown made entirely of silver tissue, her long dark hair loose and rippling down about her like a mantle, with a gold circlet set on top. Yet shewas anything but regal and composed, her shoulders shaking, her breath coming in gasps, her face a picture of distress. Her mother went to her at once, drawing her back to sit on the edge of the bed.
“Some wine,” she called, “quickly.”
Thomasin was closest to the door, so she turned back towards the anteroom where wine glasses sat on a table and poured a generous measure. Anne received it silently, only sipping it with her mother’s encouragement.
“Now, it is almost time. Your coronation procession!” Lady Elizabeth was saying. “The moment that London will see you as their queen. The moment you have waited for all these years. Do not let your own fears rid you of the enjoyment of it. You are quite safe. You must master these fears.”
“It is her condition,” said the pale lady. “It causes anxiety and flights of fancy.”
“You slept in her chamber last night, Isabel?”
The woman nodded. “She was full of strange fancies. I have seen it before in women in her condition, and she would not be soothed.”
Lady Elizabeth looked back at Anne. “Stand, girl, stand up.”
