Chapter Twenty-Three
TWENTY-THREE
“You will be arriving ahead of the queen,” said Sir Thomas, as the oarsmen pulled him and Thomasin through the water. “Her rooms are being prepared, but she and the king are still at Windsor. They will arrive in a day or two for her lying-in.”
Ahead of them lay the royal palace of Greenwich, set on a bend of the Thames to the east of London — a vast, sprawling complex with its turrets rising up to the skies and the expanse of gardens and parkland sloping up to the horizon beyond.
Coming into focus, it brought back memories for Thomasin, of her friendship with William Carey, Mary Boleyn’s husband, and the long, terrible days she had lain ill with the sweat, nursed back to health by her cousin Ellen.
Greenwich always reminded her of her own mortality; but for a few small changes, her life might have ended here five years earlier.
“Is it good to be back?” asked Sir Thomas.
She smiled as if to agree with him, keeping her own feelings tight to her chest. She hadn’t anticipated that he would accompany her back to London from Suffolk.
In the end, they had decided there was no need for Giles to go, as Thomasin would be staying at court, and he would then be alone at Monk’s Place, so he intended to use the time to visit his property in the north and arrange some necessary repairs.
So, Sir Thomas had ridden beside her coach, which was now safely stored in Thames Street, and from there they had taken a barge at Whitehall.
She had to admit, surprisingly, that he had proved good company, conscious of her comfort and not overbearing, with a wide range of topics at his disposal.
In fact, she had felt quite at ease in his company, something she would never have predicted a few years ago, when she had thought of him as manipulative and distant.
The barge brought them up alongside the palace steps, where guards were waiting to help her dismount.
However, Sir Thomas alighted first and turned to offer her his hand.
She had little choice but to accept, and he gently supported her as she stepped back onto dry land, with the great relief of one who never much enjoyed river travel.
As they headed in through the gates, with the outer court looming around them, Thomasin tried to blot out the memories crowding in upon her.
Will Carey’s gentle smile, Anne’s laughter, Rafe’s drunken words as they’d quarrelled in the rose garden, Queen Catherine’s quiet grace, the clash of lances in the tiltyard.
How long ago that summer felt; although it was but five years, it might have been a lifetime.
A servant appeared to take Thomasin up to the new apartments.
“Come and dine in my chamber this evening,” said her companion, turning as if to head towards another staircase. “The kitchens are only providing basic food until the king arrives.”
“You are not going to join the court at Windsor?”
“I think not. Anne has quite enough people about her; she will hardly notice me there.”
“Is Lady Boleyn at Windsor?”
“She is currently at Hever, but prepares to depart for Greenwich as soon as Anne enters her confinement.”
Thomasin nodded.
“But remember she is not your concern this time; I want all your attention devoted to Anne, to keep her at peace.”
“Very well.”
Last-minute touches were being made to Anne’s chambers.
In her state room, a great chair on a dais had gilt pommels and was covered in gold, beneath a canopy of state hung with cloth of tissue, fringed with yet more gold.
Tapestries of birds and maidens hung from her walls and Turkey carpets were spread over her cupboards, waiting for the gold and silver plate to arrive ahead of the royal party.
All around, maids were sweeping, washing and polishing; supplies, firewood, pastilles and linen were being replenished.
Thomasin’s quick glance took in more chairs in scarlet and purple silk, cushions with the king’s initials entwined with Anne’s, a harp and lute, crates of books and a chessboard on a checkered table.
“Ah, my lady,” said a man with a grey beard, who seemed to be in charge, “have you come ahead to check things?”
“I’ve not come from court; I have been fetched from Suffolk to act as a companion for the queen during her lying-in.”
“You must be Lady Thomasin Waterson. I am Sir Edward Baynton, the queen’s vice-chamberlain. As you can see, we expect her any day. Come, we’ve prepared rooms for the use of her ladies.”
Thomasin followed him through into the private chamber, furnished with more comfortable chairs around the hearth, where a table set with silver would cater for private meals.
“This,” said Baynton, pushing open a door that stood ajar, “is the lying-in chamber.”
Thomasin peered inside. A fire was already lit in the hearth, although the weather was warm and dark drapes obscured the windows, so it took a moment for her eyes to adjust. In the centre stood a huge, ornately carved four-poster bed painted gold, with hangings of cloth of tissue.
“That is the bed given in ransom for the Duc d’Alencon,” said Baynton proudly. “It has come from the royal treasury, for the delivery of the heir.”
It was truly the most magnificent bed Thomasin had ever seen.
“And here,” he said, indicating that she withdraw, “are the ladies’ rooms. You will attend the queen on a rota, taking it in turns to sleep in her chamber, and in here.”
“I think Sir Thomas intends me to remain with her at all times, day and night.”
“Perhaps he does,” said Baynton softly, “but you might need respite, when she sleeps, for example. A change of scene, should you desire it.”
Two whitewashed rooms with large windows had been furnished with a number of truckle beds and fresh supplies.
“You see everything is in readiness. All we lack now is the queen.”
“Might she come today?”
“No, we would have received word. They will send a messenger the day before, so it might be tomorrow or the day after, but not much later than that. The king will want to be certain all is safe, as there were reports of the plague in the countryside.”
“Plague?”
“A woman passing through, we think, but there has been nothing in the last week.”
“Thanks be to God.”
Baynton left her to return to his duties. For a while Thomasin rested on one of the beds, then decided to walk a little in the gardens, to try and find the fountain again, and the roses, and the tiltyard, and enjoy the peace a little for herself.
The air was fresh and cool as Thomasin found her way through the passageways and gates to the walled garden.
Set behind the palace, it was almost possible to forget that the river lay on the other side, and that this was soon to be a bustling place, filled with life — and a new life, too.
Her feet had not forgotten the way. They led her along winding paths between beds of red, white and yellow blooms, past hedges of box, clipped trees and railed beds, towards the central fountain.
Here, Ellen and Hugh Truegood had fallen in love; here they had witnessed a distant figure on the path drop in exhaustion, the first harbinger of the sweating sickness at Greenwich.
Now it all stood silent in the afternoon sunlight.
Strange, she thought, how time changed a place.
Nothing much else was altered yet, although time would surely fix that too.
She turned and looked back up at the palace with its array of windows and jumble of angles and facades, its twisted chimney pots and sloping rooves.
A movement from the new apartment block caught her eye, as if someone had stepped closer to the window and lingered a moment.
From that distance, she couldn’t be certain, but it looked as if Thomas Boleyn had been watching her.
Thomasin turned and headed out towards the tiltyard.
That evening, she hesitated before heading to Sir Thomas’s chambers.
Bayton and the other staff would be eating in the hall, but Sir Thomas had singled her out to dine with him on different fare, in the privacy of his room.
Something about it made her feel a little ill at ease: perhaps it was the seclusion or the separation, or perhaps it raised a slight confusion about her status now, not just a servant but also a friend of the Boleyn family.
It might also have been the figure at the window earlier, which could have been a simple coincidence as he’d spotted movement outside whilst going about his business.
It had been the way he’d lingered, though, that made her uncomfortable.
There was no question of not dining with him, she realised, no matter what other options lay before her.
Sir Thomas had clearly set out her role, and it was not within her power to deviate from it, so she brushed off any last pieces of the garden from her gown and splashed water on her face and hands with a sense of purpose.
No doubt he wished to discuss Anne’s situation with her further, and get her opinion on the lying-in chamber.
A fire was burning in the hearth behind Sir Thomas and scented pastilles filled the air with a musky, citrus odour.
As soon as she entered the room, Thomasin realised it definitely was the spot at which she had looked up from the garden; she saw the wide window, with the bright garden view through its diamond-leaded panels.
Sir Thomas had changed out of his riding habit into soft grey velvet, but Thomasin thought he was looking tired about the eyes, which the candlelight showed to be etched with lines.
“There you are. You have passed a pleasant afternoon, walking in the gardens?”
There was no secret then, no spying. “Yes, I wished to remember what it was like. It must be five years since my last visit.”
“Greenwich never loses its charm, does it? Will you sit?”