Chapter Twenty-Six #2
“I am no stranger than yourself, my lord, who has trod the same path, although I think your former master was Cardinal Wolsey, was it not?”
She had touched a nerve; she could see it in his face. He touched his cap to her. “Good day, my lady.”
Thomasin walked away, reminding herself too late that she could not afford to offend Cromwell any further. As the king’s right-hand man, he was too powerful an enemy.
At the entrance to Anne’s apartments, there was a confusion of voices and movement. It appeared that the queen was trying to leave her apartments, while others around her raised their voices to dissuade her.
“I will walk in the gardens,” Anne said firmly. “There is no harm in it. Why should I be prevented from doing so?”
“It is better for you to rest,” came the gentle voice of Lady Elizabeth, “at this late stage.”
“All I do is rest! Soon I will be confined for weeks. I must get some air and exercise.”
“Walking might bring on the child,” said Jane Boleyn.
“Then so be it! The sooner, the better; I am ready now. I will walk outside!”
“Ah, Lady Waterson,” said Jane, seeing her approach. “What is your view on this? The queen wishes to walk in the rose garden, but we fear it may be too much exercise for her at this late stage. There are many steps between here and the gardens.”
Thomasin looked at the concerned faces ringed around the queen. Isabel Danvers stood in the background, uncertain of her position.
“I have just come from the rose garden. It is very pleasant, and if the queen is feeling strong and well, I cannot see a reason why she should not take a little mild exercise, if she is accompanied.”
“That is well said,” said Anne, offering Thomasin her arm. “You will accompany me, and Nan Gainsford and Isabel. The rest of you can await me here.”
“But…” protested Lady Elizabeth.
“Never fear, my lady,” Thomasin reassured her. “I will make sure no harm comes to her.”
“Do not worry, Mother,” said Anne. “I am not going to deliver my child in a rose bed!”
They walked sedately along the corridor. Anne took some time on the stairs, more out of caution than anything, but soon they were back outside amid the bright gardens. They walked in pairs: Anne still holding Thomasin’s arm, Nan and Isabel behind.
“Thank you,” said Anne after a while, surprising Thomasin with a genuine smile. “A queen seems to lose all her power once she is carrying a child. Her wishes are overruled, her common sense ignored, and she must be hidden away and coddled as if she might break as easily as an egg.”
“A little exercise will do no harm.”
“And there are worse ways to bring on the child.”
“I would not know about that, my lady.”
“You have no children yet of your own?”
“None, my lady.” Thomasin thought how strange this conversation was, coming so soon after Anne’s own father had offered to share her bed, to give her that child she lacked — a child that would have been Anne’s own sibling. But she kept silent about it.
They headed along the main walk, then through the hedges to where the knots of roses grew in their bright, summery colours. Thomasin was relieved to see that the bench where Rafe had recently found her was now empty.
“It is pleasant here,” said Anne. “I always loved these gardens. I first came here the summer after I returned from France. 1522, it was. I was young then, full of excitement to come to court, to dance and see the king. There was a summer masque held, one of many that year. I played the part of Love; how strange that is. Mary was Jealousy, and my sister-in-law Jane was Soft Words, although she was not yet married. I had no idea how things would turn out. I could not have known I would be walking among these flowers again as queen.”
“It is strange how things turn out,” said Thomasin, thinking of the time that she too had arrived as a young woman, eager to see what court had to offer, taking her own place amid the masques, dressed in cloth of gold.
“Sometimes I wonder what would have happened had I remained in France,” mused Anne. “My old mistress, Queen Claude, died soon after I left, but I might have served the new French queen, had I stayed — Queen Eleanor, the sister of the Emperor, although she would not wish to know me now.”
There was an awkward silence. Thomasin realised that this Eleanor was the niece of Catherine of Aragon, so naturally she would not approve of Anne.
“Shall we walk towards the tiltyard?” Thomasin suggested brightly, to try and break the mood.
Anne let her lead the way, her weight heavy on Thomasin’s arm.
“My thoughts often turn to the future of this child,” she said.
“His life and reign, his childhood spent here and at Eltham and Windsor, for I shall not let him be sent to Ludlow. I think of the tutors we might engage, the jousts and tournaments held in his honour. And when he has brothers and sisters, the future of England shall lie in a whole royal nursery. I shall order them bonnets and gowns and jewels and dancing shoes, and teach them their prayers and to read and write.”
Thomasin said nothing, but wondered whether her own future would be as busy.
The tiltyard stretched out before them, with the stands swept and the floors freshly sanded in preparation for jousts to be held to celebrate the arrival of the prince. Anne ran a finger along the rail.
“It is quite a thing, carrying the heir to the throne. All the eyes of the world are upon me.”
“All that matters are God’s eyes,” said Nan, coming alongside her mistress. “Think nothing of the others, only your duty to God. He has blessed you with this child; you owe no one else.”
Anne nodded. “You are right as always, good Nan. I often fall into this trap of thinking too much of others. God has given me this child, and I will keep my thoughts upon him.”
As they turned back towards the palace, the figure of Thomas Cromwell stepped out from the bushes, where he had clearly been lingering from earlier and watching them. Thomasin looked away from him in distaste, but he was more interested in the queen.
“You are well, my lady?”
“I am, thank you, Master Cromwell.”
“And the child?”
“My son is strong and moves well within the womb. He is eager to be born.”
“That is excellent. I was wondering if you have given further thought to the date of your confinement?”
Anne stopped and frowned. “Is it so hard to wait until I give the instruction?”
“Well, there are arrangements to be made, supplies and provisions to be brought up to your chamber, the ceremony of withdrawal…”
“I will give you due notice, Master Cromwell. I shall not forget to inform you the second anything changes.”
“I will be most grateful to hear at the earliest opportunity, my lady.” He made an obsequious bow as they glided past.
“Is he not the son of a butcher?” asked Nan, whilst Cromwell was still in earshot.
“No,” said Anne, “that was Wolsey. Cromwell’s father was a blacksmith.”