Chapter 30 #2
Thomasin considered telling her what Henry had said about another child being born in a year’s time, but it would not have been helpful. It was the duty of a queen to conceive again as soon as possible, and that was the path Anne had chosen.
“I am sure God will bless you and the king, and that the princess will continue to thrive.”
“Amen to that,” said Anne, although her dark eyes still looked tired.
Thomasin was about to say her final goodbye, but one more thing tugged at her conscience. “My lady, Lady Elizabeth, forgive me, but there is something I must speak of, if you will be so kind as to grant me your patience. My mind is not easy about this matter.”
The ladies waited, silently.
Thomasin swallowed and pushed on. “I could leave now and say nothing, but from my heart, truly, I wish to make an appeal on behalf of your new daughter’s sister — her half-sister, Princess Mary, for whom her mother feels that strong, passionate defence and love that you now understand.
At the present, they are not permitted to see each other, or to correspond.
” She watched Anne’s face tauten but persisted.
“I do humbly ask that their pain be alleviated, that the restriction upon their correspondence be lifted at least, or that they may be allowed to visit one another, once in a while, as is natural for mother and daughter. This is my plea to you, my lady, both as a daughter and a mother.”
Thomasin thought she sensed some softness towards her request in the eyes of Lady Elizabeth, who now turned to her daughter.
Anne lifted her chin. “I cannot deny that your sentiments move me. Yet what you ask is not within my command. I have never ruled against their correspondence; it is entirely the king’s doing as punishment for their continued disobedience.”
“And yet you might influence him,” Thomasin urged, “to reconsider, to show kindness and mercy amid their pain.”
“Anne?” said her mother. “Might you do so?”
Anne breathed deeply. “Give me a little time. When I am living with the king as his wife again, in his chambers, in his bed, he will be more inclined to listen. The moment will arise.”
“Thank you,” said Thomasin. “I cannot thank you enough for this kindness. No harm will come to you from it, only the eased sufferings of two poor souls.”
“When do you depart?”
“As soon as I have your leave, my lady.”
“You already have the king’s permission?”
“I do. I will go to my house in Thames Street tonight and set out for Suffolk first thing in the morning.”
“Fetch me the box in the window.”
Thomasin knew the ornate carved wooden box inlaid with mother of pearl. She lifted it, despite its weight, and set it down beside Anne, who rifled briefly inside, then held out her hand.
“Take this for your pains. I know my father will pay you, but I insist.”
A ruby pendant glittered in her palm.
“My lady, this is too generous.”
“No, it is not. We have come to see your worth, Thomasin. Farewell, and may my happiness soon be yours.”
Now it only remained for Thomasin to find Sir Thomas, a task she was not relishing.
He was not in his chambers, the guard outside informed her, but had gone to seek an audience with the king.
She headed down to the walled garden, alongside the palace’s main rooms, where she might wait for him to finish his business and spare her a few moments.
It was actually better, she reasoned, to have their final interview outside in such a place as this, instead of hidden away, where he might say or do anything.
Out in the garden, he would at least have to observe formalities, and there would be no more propositions. Or so she hoped.
But it was not Sir Thomas who appeared in the garden. As Thomasin sat and waited, Eustace Chapuys emerged from the side door that led to the chapel. He gave the appearance of not having seen her, seated among the flowers, so she rose and met him where their paths crossed.
“I have done as you asked, Chapuys,” she said in a low voice. “I spoke to the queen about the Lady Mary and I am confident that soon she will receive permission to correspond once again with her mother.”
“That is most generous of you. You have acted in God’s service.”
Thomasin thought of the girl she had once known, whom she had tried to protect as long as possible from having her heart broken by her father’s cruelty. “It was for the love I bear Mary and Catherine.”
“I shall mention you today when I write to my lady.”
“Please give her my love. But now I am to leave court and return to the country.”
He raised his eyebrows. “You will no longer serve in that woman’s household?”
“It was only a temporary measure, until the child arrived.”
“Ah,” he said, with a waspish smile. “The girl who was supposed to be a boy.”
Thomasin did not wish to engage with that comment, which he had no doubt gleefully sent out to his friends in courts across Europe.
“Good day to you,” she said briefly and headed away.
Thomas Boleyn was coming out of the great hall with Rafe at his side. For once, Thomasin was grateful for Rafe’s presence, as a shield against Sir Thomas.
“My lord,” she greeted, curtseying low.
“Lady Waterson,” Sir Thomas replied, offering a short bow, taking his cue from her formality.
“I have come to bid you farewell. My commission is complete and I wish now to return to my husband in the country.”
His eyes made it clear that he had understood the rejection in her statement. “Very well,” he said slowly, “I cannot refuse your request, although it would be the preference of my family that you remain at court. We are most grateful for your service to the queen.”
“I am glad to see her safely delivered and content.”
“When will you depart?”
“At once. I will stay at Monk’s Place tonight and put all in order, then leave first thing in the morning.”
“I have recompenses for your time which I will ensure are sent on to you. In the meantime, I wish you a safe and quick journey. I do hope we shall see you at court again before long.”
Thomasin concealed her smile as she curtseyed again. “And I bid you farewell, Rafe Danvers.”
Those chestnut eyes looked as if they had much to say. Perhaps Rafe was recalling their last quarrel, the bitter way things had ended between them, but he was not one to open up, especially not before Sir Thomas.
“God speed you on your journey,” was all that he would offer her.
Thomasin climbed into the barge, feeling its solid wooden slats moving gently to the rhythm of the Thames.
Ahead, around the twisty part of the river, lay London, with its spires and streets, past the Tower and the quays, where she would alight for Monk’s Place.
As the oarsmen pulled away, the current assisting them, she turned to watch as Greenwich Palace receded.
A month ago, she had gone there unwillingly, her heart full of trepidation, but fortunately, it had ended with much celebration.
Leaving Anne, Henry, Sir Thomas and Rafe behind, she hoped she would not be returning any time soon.