“Sometimes I wonder what would have happened had I remained in France,” mused Anne. “My old mistress, Queen Claude, died soon after I left, but I might have served the new French queen, had I stayed — Queen Eleanor, the sister of the Emperor, although she would not wish to know me now.”
There was an awkward silence. Thomasin realised that this Eleanor was the niece of Catherine of Aragon, so naturally she would not approve of Anne.
“Shall we walk towards the tiltyard?” Thomasin suggested brightly, to try and break the mood.
Anne let her lead the way, her weight heavy on Thomasin’s arm. “My thoughts often turn to the future of this child,” she said. “His life and reign, his childhood spent here and at Eltham and Windsor, for I shall not let him be sent to Ludlow. I think of the tutors we might engage, the jousts and tournaments held in his honour. And when he has brothers and sisters, the future of England shall lie in a whole royal nursery. I shall order them bonnets and gowns and jewels and dancing shoes, and teach them their prayers and to read and write.”
Thomasin said nothing, but wondered whether her own future would be as busy.
The tiltyard stretched out before them, with the stands swept and the floors freshly sanded in preparation for jousts to be held to celebrate the arrival of the prince. Anne ran a finger along the rail.
“It is quite a thing, carrying the heir to the throne. All the eyes of the world are upon me.”
“All that matters are God’s eyes,” said Nan, coming alongside her mistress. “Think nothing of the others, only your duty to God. He has blessed you with this child; you owe no one else.”
Anne nodded. “You are right as always, good Nan. I often fall into this trap of thinking too much of others. God has given me this child, and I will keep my thoughts upon him.”
As they turned back towards the palace, the figure of Thomas Cromwell stepped out from the bushes, where he had clearly been lingering from earlier and watching them. Thomasin looked away from him in distaste, but he was more interested in the queen.
“You are well, my lady?”
“I am, thank you, Master Cromwell.”
“And the child?”
“My son is strong and moves well within the womb. He is eager to be born.”
“That is excellent. I was wondering if you have given further thought to the date of your confinement?”
Anne stopped and frowned. “Is it so hard to wait until I give the instruction?”
“Well, there are arrangements to be made, supplies and provisions to be brought up to your chamber, the ceremony of withdrawal…”
“I will give you due notice, Master Cromwell. I shall not forget to inform you the second anything changes.”
“I will be most grateful to hear at the earliest opportunity, my lady.” He made an obsequious bow as they glided past.
“Is he not the son of a butcher?” asked Nan, whilst Cromwell was still in earshot.
“No,” said Anne, “that was Wolsey. Cromwell’s father was a blacksmith.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Anne’s formal withdrawal from court took place three days later. The day after her walk in the rose garden, she had sent word to Henry for the final arrangements to be made, and after a flurry of activity, her chambers were filled with provisions. Thomasin watched the wines and spices, coal, blankets, cushions and towels being brought up in their crates and baskets, so that the room felt quite busy.
“Fresh supplies will still be brought to the room each morning and evening, and upon request,” said Cromwell, directing the proceedings. “All my lady need do is send word. I calculate there is enough to last you until October.”
“I do not intend to lie in that long,” said Anne with a sigh. “I expect to be delivered within a week or two, as my midwives confirm.”
“God grant that it be so.”
An hour before her formal retirement, the queen and her ladies heard Mass in the chapel, then made their slow way back inside the building, enjoying the fresh air and the feel of the late August sunshine upon their faces. Thomasin trailed behind her, looking at the fading roses, and wondering when she might see them again.
A banquet had been laid out in the hall, with a spread of cakes, wafers and spices, and warm wine and cream, for Anne to take leave of those who would not be with her in the coming weeks. Thomasin hovered at the side of the room, strangely nervous now the moment had come, watching as Anne spoke in turn to her brother George and her close friends, Norris and Bryan, Carew and Wyatt, who had composed some verses upon her retirement. She bid farewell to the male members of her household — Edward Baynton, her almoner John Skip, hersecretary John Udall and others — and she received blessings from the bishops gathered. She looked calm, Thomasin thought, calmer than she had been since they’d arrived at Greenwich. She was prepared for her ordeal, welcoming it in the service of God and England, bracing herself for what lay ahead.
When the time came for the women to withdraw, Sir Thomas Boleyn came forward to kiss his daughter and offer her his prayers. “God be with you, daughter, my queen. Never let your mind forget your purpose, not for a moment. Soon you will emerge triumphant with your son, the heir to this realm.”
He shot a sideways look at Thomasin. No one else saw it, but she understood it contained a silent plea for her to look after Anne. She acknowledged it with a slight nod, which he returned, a sign of the understanding between them. Thomasin only hoped he did not decide to push it too far.
