Chapter Twenty-Five
TWENTY-FIVE
The palace was finally silent. The last feet had ceased their shuffle, the final plates had been stacked, the floors swept, the gates bolted, the air filled with the steady breath of sleepers.
Outside, the hoot of a lone owl seemed to intensify the silence.
Thomasin lay on her back in the narrow bed, listening to the sounds of the women around her.
She had visited Anne again before she slept, to wish her goodnight and promise that all would be well.
Now the wait stretched before them: these dog days of summer from St Bartholomew’s Day, though to the feast of St John the Baptist and into September.
Thomasin fervently hoped that a healthy boy would arrive soon.
She rolled over, dug down under the coverlet and tried to sleep.
It was strange to see the queen like this, so vulnerable and afraid.
No wonder she was lashing out at Henry. Flashes of the old Anne came back to Thomasin as her mind started to drift: the golden-clad laughing woman who had danced and sung, the seductress in red with her eyes fixed on the king, the angry spirit who railed at Thomasin.
All these were the same person, precarious in her situation: a situation that was unprecedented and now risked Henry’s very soul.
As sleep was about to claim her, Thomasin heard a noise outside the door.
It cut through her clouded mind and roused her.
Footsteps along the corridor, approaching, coming close to the door, then moving past. That could be anyone, a maid in need of a drink perhaps.
But then there came a stifled sob. Thomasin opened her eyes.
Someone outside the room was crying. It could not be Anne: if she had roused herself from bed, distressed, there were women in her chamber to hear her, tend to her.
Nor could she move so fast and lightly at this stage of her pregnancy.
It could not be Lady Elizabeth either, as the footsteps also moved too quickly for her.
But it might be any one of the other women in the queen’s household.
Thomasin was faced with a dilemma: she could roll over and sleep, say that she had imagined it, or it was not her business, or she could rise and find out who was distressed.
She sighed and swung her feet out of the side of the truckle.
There was no sign of the morning light yet; dawn was still several hours’ away.
“Hello?” She whispered, closing the chamber door behind her.
The corridor was quiet and there was no sign of anyone about.
It sounded as if the feet had been travelling away from her, down towards the royal chamber, past the dressing room and anterooms, so Thomasin took a few cautious steps in that direction.
One of the doors on the right, halfway along, was standing ajar.
It was customary for all doors to be closed at night, to help prevent the spread of fire.
This was a room used to store Anne’s clothes and necessaries, and it should have been empty at that hour, but from inside there came a snuffling sound.
“Hello? Who’s there?”
A very small voice answered her. “I’m sorry, I… Sorry.”
Thomasin pushed open the door but it was dark inside. A figure came towards her, in a long white nightgown, unkempt hair streaming down its back. She recognised the tearstained face of Jane Boleyn.
“Jane? What is this? What’s the matter?”
“I’m so sorry to have woken you. I tried to keep quiet; I thought I might sleep in here and no one would notice.”
“But why? Why are you out of your bed tonight, so upset?”
She stared at the ground. “George and I quarrelled. Well, it was not so much a quarrel, as I took no part in it except to receive his harsh words.” Her voice was full of tears.
“I am sorry to hear that. What was the cause?”
“Oh, the usual cause. We have no child and it is me, only me, who is to blame. And now being here, while Anne is due to deliver hers, it is so much harder. Of course, she fell pregnant almost at once, just as she promised she would, and now she will deliver a son.”
Thomasin felt her pain. “Such things are very difficult. I have been married four years myself and have not been blessed with a child. I have to tell myself that it is God’s will, and will happen when he deems it best.”
“Do you really think so?”
“It’s what we must think, isn’t it? There are women who have borne a child after a long time. We must pray and not give up.”
“Would you, Thomasin, if you don’t mind … would you be so kind as to pray with me tomorrow, in the chapel here?”
Thomasin took her hand. “I would do so gladly.”
More tears appeared in Jane’s eyes. “Sometimes here it is hard to find a friend, when all are about their own business. I am glad you have come, Thomasin. I always felt you to be sympathetic. You were kind to my mother-in-law, too. I noticed that.”
“It is not difficult to be kind,” Thomasin said gently. “We all suffer in some ways. It is how we chose to navigate through difficult waters that matters.”
“You would be surprised,” Jane snuffled. “Not everyone is so. I will sleep in here tonight and see you in the morning.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, please don’t trouble yourself. Go back to bed.”
“Is there anything else you need?”
“No, I am quite well now, thank you.” Thomasin was returning to the women’s chamber when a door opened in the darkness behind her.
“Lady Waterson?”
Her heart sank to her Sir Thomas’s voice, and instinct told her to keep walking and get to safety.
“Wandering around at night?”
She turned slowly. He was dressed in a nightgown with a robe thrown over the top, his hair dishevelled. “I was assisting your daughter-in-law.”
“Was she in need of assistance?”
“Is there something I can help you with, my lord? I was just returning to bed.” She hoped her question would not invite more of his advances, but his rank and position as her employer demanded it.
“Were you unable to sleep?”
“Yes.”
“As was I. These are trying times.”
A noise from within his chamber caused him to turn. His demeanour changed. “My wife is restless. I heard that you had some lavender which you gave to Anne; I wonder if you have any left?”
“I do, sir,” Thomasin replied, relieved. “I will fetch it at once.”
She hurried back to the chamber, where she had tucked a bunch under her own pillow. Sir Thomas was still waiting in the half-open doorway, although a candle had been lit inside, lighting him from behind, casting his face into shadow.
“Here, my lord.”
He took the bunch, his fingers closing around her own for a moment.
His grey eyes met hers as he dropped his voice to almost a whisper.
“She has been unwell for years, unable to be a wife to me in the full sense. Thomasin, I could take any woman I wished, any laundry girl, like Norfolk did, but I do not wish for that. I want more.”
“I hope my lady sleeps well.” Thomasin turned away, leaving him standing at the door.
The following morning, she rose early and met Jane at the chapel.
The little stone building, once the shelter of the Greyfriars order, was a short walk through the walled garden; Thomasin remembered it from her previous visit.
Jane seemed calmer. She had slept a little and washed her face, ready for the comfort of prayer.
Thomasin did not ask whether she had seen her husband that morning, nor did Jane offer that information.
They passed through the bright green of the clipped beds and into the cool, simple chapel interior, where light filtered through a stained-glass window above the altar and two candlesticks were lit.
Side by side, they knelt in silence, lost in their thoughts.
Jane bowed her head, her eyes firmly closed, her palms pressed together, and Thomasin mirrored her actions.
It was a simple moment of peace, in which she allowed her mind to wander back to Suffolk and her life there with Giles.
When they were returning to the queen’s apartments, Thomasin could tell at once that something was wrong. Footsteps and voices flew out of the open windows along the side of Anne’s great chamber, and a low wailing could be heard.
“Let us hope this is her labours beginning,” said Jane, as they hurried up the staircase to find the room in disarray.
But it did not seem to be the case. Women stood in corners, whispering, their eyes concerned. Anne’s door was closed, but Thomasin strode towards it, mindful of her duty.
Anne was pacing with some discomfort, one hand wrapped about her belly. Her mother and sister were trying to calm her with soothing words, but to little effect.
“What has happened?” asked Thomasin. “Is it time?”
“Only this!” Anne pointed to a piece of paper, crumpled upon her bed.
Thomasin picked it up and saw upon it a drawn image of a crowned woman, with a viper curled about her, her head severed from her body and flames about her feet. “This is villainy, treason. How did it come to be here?”
“That is what I would like to know!” said Lady Elizabeth. “Some servant no doubt brought it in with the linen. My lord is questioning them now.”
“It is the nun Barton’s prophecy,” Thomasin said to Anne, “designed to upset you, but it is not the truth. It is only what some mad person has drawn upon a piece of paper, the ramblings of a diseased mind. You cannot let it upset you.”
“But it has. An image of me, burning, decapitated! Tell me it would not affect you the same way.”
“Whoever did this will be caught and punished. It is the lot of kings and queens to come under such fire.”
“But why? I never asked for any of this. I would have married Harry Percy and borne his children and lived in peace in the north. I never asked to be queen, not for this venom to be brought down on my head.”
“Hush!” said her mother. “You must not let the king hear you speak so. Thomasin is right. A drawing cannot hurt you.”