Chapter Twenty-Four
TWENTY-FOUR
From the courtyard, Thomasin watched the procession of carriages and horses arrive.
The king and queen’s servants had arrived first, accompanying carts laden with chests containing clothes, jewels and items of value.
There were the cooks with their special pots of spices and herbs, their favoured pans and syrups that could not be replicated, their jars of ginger and bottled oranges, and their preserves of quince and damson; the poulterer with his pheasants and cages of songbirds; and the cobbler with his dancing shoes, not that Anne would be dancing much, thought Thomasin.
The musicians, astrologers, physicians, embroiderers, perfumers and keepers of the king’s hounds followed.
Everyone trailed inside, clearly weary from the journey.
Presently, trumpets announced the arrival of the king.
From her vantage point, Thomasin saw Henry’s barge appear, bumping gently against the steps as the king dismounted, his brow irritable as he barked orders and summons.
He wore sombre clothes, grey and white, with no gold chains, perhaps as a mark of mourning for his sister, and his expression was grave.
Cromwell was beside him, shuffling in his furs despite the summer heat, along with George Boleyn, Henry Norris and others of his household.
The king paused for a moment, as if looking up at the palace, then strode up the steps, heading for his apartments, not too far from the queen’s, yet far enough that he would not be disturbed by her travails.
Out on the quay, Baynton was still waiting alongside Sir Thomas, but Anne’s barge was still a way off, a distant shape at the river’s bend, slowly wending its way on the tide.
Thomasin held back. She had no desire to encounter Sir Thomas after his proposition the night before.
She’d woken that morning hoping she’d dreamed it, and when she realised she hadn’t, she hoped that he had forgotten himself after too much wine, and would seek her out to apologise.
But no apology had come. She’d kept to Anne’s rooms, picking at imaginary specks of dust, straightening cushions as the hours of the morning passed.
At noon she’d dined with Bayton and the others in the hall, grateful that no further invitation had arrived from Sir Thomas, and afterwards she’d helped the chamberlain oversee the menus and supplies for Anne’s lying-in.
“I heard she craved apples,” Bayton had mentioned to the cook. “Ensure there are enough in storage — both to be eaten raw and to be made into puddings and sauces. And game birds — simple fare, not too rich, just white meats and stews.”
The trumpets sounded again as Anne’s barge drew close to the steps.
It was full of ladies, overflowing with their colourful skirts and headdresses, nesting Anne amidst them as if the flock were tending to the shepherd.
Dressed in black, with her laces loosened, Anne looked pale among them, as if she had not slept.
Lavender, thought Thomasin, and camomile. She would ask in the kitchen on the way up.
Two ladies helped Anne out of the barge, placing their arms under hers and half-lifting her out of her seat.
She was large with child and looked uncomfortable, her black eyes haunted and huge as she submitted to their good offices.
There was little fuss as her party disembarked, mostly her ladies, although Thomasin noticed that Dr Butts had ridden with her, to be close at hand.
Her time was very close; in fact, it could happen at any moment now.
Lady Elizabeth was also among the group at the back, supported by her daughter-in-law, Jane, her familiar face worn and drained.
Thomasin stepped back into the shadows. She would wait for Anne to reach her chamber and be settled, before she went to offer her services.
The tired woman would not want to be bothered at the moment, not while she was in visible discomfort.
The procession swished past, slowly moving around Anne, while others led by Nan Gainsford and Mary Boleyn hurried ahead to be ready to assist her up the staircase and into her apartments.
Briefly Anne paused, leaned against a pillar to catch her breath, then moved on again.
The sound of subdued chatter went with her, and the scents of citrus and rose.
“Choosing your moment?”
Sir Thomas was watching from the dark mouth of a corridor. His grey eyes were fixed upon Thomasin, reminding her once more of the gaze of a hawk upon its prey. She would keep herself fixed upon her business.
“Yes, my lord, exactly that. I see your daughter is tired and needs her rest. I shall visit her presently.”
“And myself? Will you come and visit me?”
“I shall be busy with the queen. I see your wife is here.”
He gave a small, taut smile and stepped back into the darkness again.
After an hour had passed, when Thomasin knew Anne would have rested and been served with wine and wafers, she made her way up to the queen’s apartments.
Baynton was hurrying about on some errand and waved her inside.
The large reception room with the gold chair of state was filled with people, while Anne appeared to have retreated to the inner chamber.
Dozens of eyes turned to watch Thomasin, narrowing with scrutiny, wondering at her arrival, given that she was not one of Anne’s official ladies.
She paid them no mind, knowing her purpose, clinging to the brief duration of her visit. A month perhaps, two at the most.
“Thomasin?” Lady Elizabeth was rising from a chair. “I thought it was you! How good it is to see you! Did my husband send for you?”
“Yes, my lady.” Thomasin went to her old friend and took her papery hands in her own. “I am here to assist Anne as much as I can.”
“It is such a comfort to have you here, dear Thomasin. I hope I shall be seeing much of you in these coming weeks.”
“I shall be here as long as it takes.”
“She is skittish, you know. Uncertain. It’s always the way with the first child; you never know what to expect. Once you’ve done it, you know what you’re in for the next time.”
“Hello Thomasin,” said Jane Boleyn gently. “It is good to see you here.”
“Jane, I hope you are well.” Thomasin thought of the child she knew Jane had carried and lost. At least one that she knew of, although she suspected there may have been more. And yet here she was now, at her sister-in-law’s side, to help her through her delivery.
“I am not unwell.” Jane smiled wanly. “We are all praying for a swift delivery.”
“Do you know the others?” asked Lady Elizabeth. “Mary and Nan are inside with her, but there are many new faces here today. New appointments. Everyone wants to be here to witness the birth of the next king.”
Thomasin looked around the room. “Not so many, no, although I see Lady Kingston at the far end.”
“Yes, Mary Kingston is one of Anne’s ladies now, and that’s Margaret Dymoke with her, with the dark hair, and that pale one is Seymour’s daughter, Jane, and that small one…”
“Is Bess Holland,” Thomasin finished for her, looking at the little red-haired firecracker with the pursed mouth. “Our paths have crossed before.”
At that moment, the door to Anne’s chamber opened to allow Mary Boleyn to slip out. She approached her mother without even glancing at Thomasin.
“She is still restless, but I am trying to get her to sleep a little. She will dine in her inner chamber, although at other times she may eat in the hall, before the formal retiring.”
“Still restless?” asked her mother.
Mary rolled her eyes. “It is this nonsense about the baptismal cloth. She will not let it go.”
“The cloth Catherine brought from Spain?”
“Yes, she insists that her child be wrapped in it, but Catherine will not yield it. Henry has sent to Buckden again to ask her for it.”
“But it was Catherine’s own?” said Jane timidly. “From her mother in Spain?”
“Yes, yes, but when she married, it became part of the royal treasury. No longer her own.”
“There are other cloths,” said Jane. “A new one could be specially made.”
“I have told her all this,” said Mary in frustration, “but she insists she must have Catherine’s. It is personal. A battle of wills after Catherine was forced to hand over her jewels.”
Thomasin thought Anne already had so much, she might leave Catherine her personal mementoes, but she thought it wise not to say so.
Her heart ached for her former mistress, shut away in the countryside, clinging to the relics of her former life.
And yet here Thomasin was, serving another queen.
Just as Rafe had once said, she thought, almost hating herself for it, the people at the top might change, but the servants kept on with the same work.
“May I go to her?” she asked.
Mary turned abruptly. “You? Go to her?”
“Yes. You are aware your father has engaged me for the purpose?”
“She is resting.”
“You just said she is restless, and I have lavender and camomile.” Thomasin held out the two bundles she had received from the cook on her way up to the queen.
“Do what you will!” Mary flounced away.
It was quiet inside the chamber as Thomasin approached the door. She knocked softly, then entered at once, without waiting for a reply. The curtains were pulled across the window and the fire glowed dimly. Anne was a dim shape in the golden bed, lying atop the embroidered coverlet.
“My lady?” Thomasin bowed.
“Who is that? I can’t see you. Come closer.”
Thomasin obeyed, moving right to the side of the bed. “It is Thomasin, Lady Waterson, brought here at your father’s command to be of assistance.”
Anne was quiet. “He seeks to surround me with enemies.”
“I am not your enemy. I will do all I can to help you through your ordeal.”
“I have women enough for that, and doctors and midwives. The whole world waits outside my chamber door. Besides, you hate me, along with half of England.”
“Do not speak that way, my lady. You must remain calm for the sake of the child.”
“My son.”