Plates of food were laid before them, breaking their speech. Thomasin found herself with a sudden appetite after the plain fair of the queen’s chamber, suited to her condition. She helped herself to portions of spiced plovers and chewetts of beef with cinnamon, thinking of the stew, bread and hard cheese of the past few nights.
“I heard Norfolk has landed at Dover,” said Norris, reaching for his wine glass. “He comes in earnest, before his time, to advise the king.”
“And to gloat that he is related to the next heir, no doubt.”
“Is his daughter not to marry the king’s son?” asked Jane.
“Illegitimate son — but yes, if all goes well,” said Norris. “It is a match that the queen herself arranged, due for the autumn, when the boy returns from the French court.”
“He had better come back quickly,” said George, “before things with Francis become too frosty.”
“Why so?” asked Jane.
“He is overly influenced by his wife, the Emperor’s sister. The King of France is far too susceptible to women.”
Sir Thomas Boleyn joined them, seating himself beside his son and opposite Thomasin, reaching for the wine, although he did not partake of any more food. She felt his presence at once, although she tried not to show it, despite the colour creeping into her cheeks.
“Good evening, my lady,” he said softly. “How fares the queen, in your opinion?”
“She is doing well, my lord, calm and resigned. She passes her days in prayer and reading, games and music.”
“That is good to hear. And all are in good temper within?”
“As well as might be expected.”
“No signs of the child yet?”
“Nothing, my lord.”
“Very well. I must go to the king, for it is with him that the trouble lies now, but I shall give him those good tidings.” He shot her a look. “We will speak again soon.”
Leaving them at the table, he departed the hall without looking back.
“I cannot wait until this is over!” said George, with a heavy sigh. “I shall go to Beaulieu and spend the whole autumn hunting, and only return to court for Christmas.”
“I should like to go to Beaulieu again,” said Jane.
“Oh no, you will not be going! You must remain at court, to help my sister.”
Thomasin felt the sting of these harsh words, and the lack of warmth for Jane, who bowed her head and did not speak again until it was time to retire.
When the first morning of September arrived, Thomasin snatched an hour to escape Anne’s chambers and walk in the gardens, feeling the change in season wash over her. The air was cooler, scented with the earth. The sky was a duller shade, lacking that bright brilliance of former days, the trees losing their emerald sheen, the flowers browning and dropping their petals.
Thomasin walked through the formal gardens and beyond, to where the land started to slope upwards to the park. Here, she turned and looked back at the palace, spread out with all its buildings and adjoints, its sloping rooves and twisted chimneys, and the rows of windows behind which life was being conducted. In one part, Anne was waiting in her secured rooms, the curtains closed to protect her from dangerous airs; in another, the king was pacing, dictating letters to Cromwell. The other rooms were full of waiting courtiers: Norfolk, Sir Thomas, the bishops, and various lords. Downstairs, servants were hurrying about their duties in the laundry, kitchen, wardrobe, chandlery and stables. It was strange to see it all from a distance, as if she was merely a bystander watching everything unfold. How unreal it suddenly seemed.
“I saw you leaving the palace.”
Chapuys was heading across the grass with his strange, shuffling walk.
“Good day, sir.”
“You have escaped the lying-in chamber?”
“Briefly. We are allowed out every few days to prevent us from losing our minds.”
“But not the lady,” he said, referring to Anne, who he refused to acknowledge as queen. “Has she lost her mind yet?”
Thomasin did not much care for the comment. “She has not. She is calm and prepared.”
