“I will not keep you,” said Lady Elizabeth, resting her grey head on the pillow. “You may return to the feast. I shall only sleep, so there is no reason for you to remain.”
Having prepared herself for a quiet night, Thomasin hadn’t expected this. “Are you sure?”
“Of course.” Her eyes looked wistful. “You know, I was beautiful once. Poets wrote verses about my beauty, but my timehas passed. It is a great skill, you know, to recognise when your time has passed.”
“You are beautiful still,” Thomasin said sincerely.
“Go on, go down and enjoy the feast.”
“Is there nothing else I can bring you? Some wine or something to eat?”
“I shall be asleep by the time you reach the hall. Go and enjoy yourself. You are only young once.”
Thomasin did as she was bidden, slipping from the room and closing the door quietly behind her. The feasting had begun, but without her companion, she did not feel comfortable taking a place at the Boleyns’ top table with Sir Thomas, Mary, George and Jane, or beside them with the Dukes of Suffolk and Norfolk. Instead, she squeezed onto the first table she found, with some of Anne’s ladies, who made way for her without comment. She had already taken her seat, and reached for an empty glass of wine to be filled, before she realised that the far end of the table was occupied by Rafe and Isabel, sitting close enough that their shoulders were touching. It was too late to rise and head elsewhere, as the toasts had now begun, round after round of various lords drinking to the health and fertility of the new queen. Thomasin tried to sink back behind her neighbour, a stout man who was eating very slowly.
“It’s on account of my humours,” he said, thinking her to be looking at him. “My doctor advises me to eat slowly, to aid digestion, and I must avoid hot, spicy foods, as my complexion is only aggravated by them.”
Thomasin sighed, wondering whether or not she was required to answer.
“I must stick instead to the cool and wet dishes,” he continued, without waiting for encouragement. “Although I will not eat lettuce. Nothing will make me eat lettuce; I feel ill at the thought of it.”
Thomasin watched as Isabel picked gently at a piece of veal in sauce. Beside her, Rafe ate steadily, every one of his gestures familiar, but again she was unsure whether he had noticed her presence.
Standing at the far end, Sir Francis Bryan was regaling the hall with a list of elaborate adjectives in praise of Anne and her promising future: rare, virtuous, fertile, incomparable, chaste, courageous. Thomasin sipped her wine, finding it strong and rich, with notes of dark fruits and pepper. Her neighbour reached across for a dish of chicken and pickled walnuts.
“Now, walnuts,” he said, speaking with his mouth full so that she could not hear Bryan, “walnuts do wonders for my thoughts. You see why?” He held up the dish before her. “Shaped like the brain, apparently. Just look at that; there’s something like that inside your head, don’t you know.”
This was too much. “Excuse me.” Thomasin tried to rise to her feet, but at that moment, Bryan paused and the hall was silent. Drawn by her movement, Rafe looked up, his eyes catching hers for the first time. She could not read what lay there, not anymore. Once upon a time she could see his passions written across his face, but he had matured, mastered himself, and returned her gaze without giving anything away. She resolved to do the same, but the moment had passed, and she sank back into her seat. Perhaps she really had meant nothing to him at all. The walnut-eater would have to be endured. Letting his idle chatter wash over her, she tried to picture Giles and Lettice back at Monk’s Place, with Mariot safely tucked away in the kitchen, kneading dough with Cook.
The feast did not last long. It was just a necessary precursor, as tomorrow night was the main coronation banquet, and after that, Thomasin thought, she could return Lady Elizabeth to Durham Place and speed back to Giles. All being well, they mightbe beck in Suffolk within days. As she rose, though, a strange restlessness overtook her, watching as the women took their leave and headed towards the stairs to squeeze into the shared chambers. The hall had grown stuffy, and she resolved to take a few breaths of air to cool herself down before she tried to sleep.
At the main doors, where the darkness outside was kept at bay by burning torches, a boy in livery watched her approach.
“Beg your pardon, my lady, are you Lady Waterson?”
“I am.”
“A gentleman came to the outer gate earlier. He said he was your husband, and to give you this.”
He held out something small and shiny between finger and thumb. Thomasin recognised it at once as the gold signet ring Giles wore upon his right hand and picked it up with sudden relief.
“He said you were not to worry, my lady, and that all was well.”
“Thank you, thank you!” She fumbled for a coin with which to reward him.
“No need, my lady; he has already paid me well.”
Slipping the ring upon her finger, Thomasin stepped out into the night, welcoming the cool air. Her emotions threatened to overwhelm her, with such intense happiness following hard upon the stresses and strains of the procession. Something must have prevented Giles from reaching Tower Hill earlier, she reasoned, but he had not wanted her to worry, so this was his way of sending her a sign. As tears welled in her eyes, she had not realised how much tension she had been carrying, and what a relief it was that the day was behind her. All was well. Thank the Lord for that. She could sleep peacefully tonight.
Voices spilled from behind her as others left the hall. A group of young men were laughing, joking, stretching, enjoying the freedom of space following the day’s confinement. Stepping aside to let them pass, Thomasin recognised Henry Norris, aclose friend of the king and Anne, and Thomas Wyatt, the handsome poet.
“Shouldn’t you be with my mother?”
George Boleyn paused as he passed her, looking her up and down with malice in his dark eyes. She’d always found him mercurial and difficult, unashamed of his aggression when it came to getting what he wanted. By contrast, his wife Jane was mild and gentle, saddened by the loss of her child before she could carry it to term.
“Your mother is asleep. She sent me away, so I…”
“Isn’t that my sister’s dress?”
