Chapter 19 #2
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 might be 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, a close 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?”
“Yes, she lent it to me. Anything else?”
He narrowed his eyes at her. A sound formed on his lips, half word, half breath, but she could have sworn he called her a parasite before he disappeared again into the darkness.
Thomasin shook his influence off her. Her mood was too good to be spoiled by the likes of George Boleyn.
She took a few steps across the yard, watching the groups about her forming and the couples breaking off to walk away into the shadows.
To her right, a set of great steps led into the Thames, where a number of craft waited.
Its mixed scent stole over her, part fresh and brackish, part filled with the detritus of life.
She stood for a moment and watched as the dark waters raced past, the tide strong and fast, just a short distance away.
The tide could carry you out to sea from here, when it was flowing in the right direction.
“You’ll get cold out here.”
She knew the voice before she turned. Rafe was standing behind her, looking out at the Thames over her shoulder.
“A lad slipped out here in the dark once. No one could get to him in time; he just went under and was never seen again.”
It was a morbid and horrid story; had he meant to scare her? Once or twice she had imagined a moment when their paths might meet again, and what they might say, but it certainly hadn’t been like this.
“Hadn’t you better get back to your wife?”
“She does not require a babysitter.”
Thomasin turned back to face the river, unwilling to look at him, wishing he would go away. She waited but heard no sound to suggest he had moved.
“Why are you back at court, Thomasin?”
She did not feel obliged to explain herself to him.
“Why here, among the Boleyns? You used to loathe them.”
“You don’t refuse a request from Sir Thomas.”
“No, I suppose not. I thought you’d left forever.”
“So did I.”
He paused, searching for words. “You must find things much changed.”
“Yes,” she said, finally turning back to face him. “But then I am much changed too.”
His chestnut eyes gleamed in the darkness, his dark hair pulled back from his forehead. Once, Thomasin would have found his physical presence overwhelming, difficult to resist, but now she looked at him calmly, dispassionately, tempered by the memories of their conflicts.
“I do not think anyone could have passed through the last four years unchanged.”
“You are altered too, I think.”
“Of course. Nothing stays the same. And now we have a new queen.”
“I am not staying,” she found herself bound to say. “I am returning to the country with my husband as soon as possible. I would be there already, if I had my choice.”
A wry smile twitched over his lips. “Choice, Thomasin. Still talking about choice.”
His words annoyed her. He had never believed in their ability to choose their own path, merely to act as the pawns of great ones.
“Well, right now I choose to return to the hall. Goodnight.”
Before she could change her mind, she lifted her skirts above the cobbles and walked past him. There was no benefit in speaking with Rafe; he belonged to her past, and although he may have changed in some ways, she did not doubt he was as jealous and troublesome as he had been before.
“You look well,” he said softly, just as she was moving out of earshot.
As if fate was at play, the first person Thomasin encountered as she re-entered the hall was Isabel Danvers.
She was flushed from the warmth inside, her cheeks rosy, her eyes aglow, the colour of the sky.
She was a little taller than Thomasin, closer to Rafe’s height, but around the same age.
She had a look of contentment about her, something in her bearing and smile that suggested she was a woman who was loved.
She dropped a slight curtsey on recognising Thomasin from Anne’s chamber in the Tower, then opened her lips as if she was about to speak, but Thomasin got in first.
“Your husband awaits you outside.”
Then she hurried back up the stairs, back to the chamber where Lady Elizabeth lay sleeping and closed the door. The sooner she could return to Suffolk, the better.