NINE
Catherine wielded the piece of paper, standing before the hearth in regal purple and white.
“Alive!” she cried. “The Pope is not dead, he is alive and well! Confound these infernal rumours. What absolute nonsense.”
“He is alive?” echoed Maria.
“I have it here, by my messenger, who saw him in Rome just four days earlier. He has recovered from his illness, God be praised. The court may continue.”
Thomasin shot Ellen a look, partly of relief, partly of disappointment that her duties must resume.
“Call my supporters!” demanded Catherine. “Call them all here — Fisher, Clerk, Tunstall, Warham, More, Dudley, West, Standish, Shorter. All whom I can trust to speak for me. Summon them here this afternoon and let no others be admitted.”
A few days had passed since the opening of the Papal Court.
With her father at Chelsea, and no sign of Rafe, Thomasin had whiled away the time in service to her queen, helping her in and out of her heavy dresses, lacing her undergarments, draping her with jewels and pinning her headdresses in place.
The hours had passed in prayer, reading from the lives of saints, embroidery and cards, until the women in the queen’s chamber began to wonder whether the outside world still existed.
Thomasin and Ellen had made a game of spotting people from the window: the occasional stable boy, or a maid carrying wood. But the court felt very quiet, despite the presence of many important people under its roof.
That morning, Catherine had emerged from her chapel with a mission.
Inspired by her prayers, she was calling a meeting of her closest counsel and learned friends.
Lately her prayers had been full of her daughter, and Thomasin could not help but wonder if this action had been prompted by concern for Mary’s welfare.
“They must be here at one of the clock, or as soon after as possible, unless they are from the city. Send messengers at once, and prepare my great chamber.”
Thomasin pictured the letter being carried through green fields and along leafy May lanes, towards Chelsea. It would interrupt More in his garden, where he bent over herbs and flowers, and offered up their scents to her parents. But the queen’s will had to be obeyed.
Maria approached Thomasin, her face concerned.
“Take the order down to the kitchen for wine and spices, and a few plates for good cheer. You know the kind of things the queen likes — Spanish cheeses, marmalade, figs and strawberries if they have any in season. Saffron and honey cakes, whatever can be produced at short notice. Have them delivered up here at one.”
Thomasin hesitated, unused to such a request, which was usually passed to the guards outside.
“I want to be certain that this goes well for her,” explained Maria, “as well as possible. I don’t trust the guards to make the right requests.”
“Very well, I understand.”
“Ellen, I am sending you to the laundry for fresh linen and then to the cellar for more wine, both to arrive by one.”
Ellen nodded, understanding at once.
They headed out, closing the door upon the bustle inside.
“If this meeting can give her a little hope, a little courage,” mused Thomasin, as they parted ways, “I would venture into hell itself to bring back logs for the fire.”
Thomasin was crossing the courtyard when she heard the sound of footsteps.
Echoing under the archway, they rose up from the river landing, where the special visitors to Bridewell alighted.
Yet there seemed to be something secretive about the way they were moving, with muffled voices and quick steps.
She guessed there might be four or five of them, and drew back as they approached the arch.
In silhouette, Thomasin saw them appear: an unmistakeable woman in green, and a group of tall men, walking tall and proud, knowing where they were headed, certain of their welcome.
Anne strode at the front, with a waiting woman beside her, perhaps Nan Gainsford, Thomasin thought, although she had a hood pulled over her face.
Flanking them were George Boleyn and Francis Bryan, as might have been predicted, as well as the new French ambassador, Jean du Bellay, his lips set in a wry smile.
Behind them came the distinctive figure of Rafe.
Her heart leapt when she saw him, although his dark brows were furrowed and his lips pursed.
They quickly paced through the court, past the place where she stood in the shadows, and hurried up the steps to the king’s apartments.
Of course, Anne was visiting Henry, Thomasin realised.
That meant she might steal a few moments with Rafe when the king’s head was turned.
And she had to see him soon, in order to get this nonsense between them resolved.
When their feet were out of sight, she cautiously climbed the first step, looking up to where torches burned bright in the darkness.
At the top, the figures entered the outer chamber, and the hum of noise within floated down the steps.
Thomasin was left with a dilemma. She could either turn away and deliver the queen’s messages, which would summon their recipients to the palace by one, or she could follow.
As one of Catherine’s ladies, she could probably talk the guards into letting her inside the king’s antechamber, on the pretext of delivering some news.
Should she play safe, she mused, or take a risk?
Should she let herself be carried along by events, or take charge of them herself?
When she put it like that, she considered, there was no choice but to follow up the stairs.
And then it struck her. If she was lucky, she might kill two birds with one stone and need no excuse at all.
Here in her hands were letters addressed to Bishop Fisher, John Clerk and Archbishop Warham.
Whilst Fisher was probably at prayer, there was a good chance that Clerk and Warham were in the king’s apartments.
Destiny and desire had collided. She hurried up the steps.
“What business?” The guards looked at her with tired eyes.
“I have letters to deliver to those within.”
“Who for?”
“Oh, quite a few, who are probably with the king. You know me — I’m a gentlewoman of the queen.”
“Thomasin Marwood isn’t it?” said the other one, a shorter man.
“Is it?” said the other.
“I know those pretty eyes. You got a sweetheart, Thomasin?”
“I need to deliver the letters. Please let me in.”
“Is that a no? You can be my sweetheart if you want. I’ll meet you in the gardens after dinner.”
“When the queen hears of this, she’ll have you strung up for your insolence!” Thomasin warned, fixing him with her steeliest glare.
“Oh, let her pass,” said the other, standing aside.
Thomasin didn’t wait to be asked twice.
The antechamber was lit by a roaring fire in the grate and torches around the walls.
Tapestries and cloth of gold made the place seem rich and colourful.
A few people stood about, talking in groups or playing cards on a trestle, while a lute-player strummed softly in the corner.
Anne and her party had passed straight through into the next chamber.
Thomasin caught a glimpse of her green dress as the doors ahead of her closed.
She had come this far; it would be a shame to turn back now.
“I have letters to deliver, sent by the queen,” she said boldly, lifting her chin.
To her surprise, the guards stepped aside at once.
She hurried past them into the next room, which was much busier with people waiting to see the king.
A little pang of fear gripped Thomasin’s stomach: it reminded her of her family complaining to Henry at Greenwich last Christmas, on the occasion of Cecilia’s disgrace.
She was relieved to see Archbishop Warham seated on a chair by a low table, where a clerk was copying down a letter as he dictated.
Striding across the room boldly, she curtseyed before him.
Warham looked up, his ancient, pale eyes rimmed with red.
Approaching eighty, he had lived through decades of conflict, through the reigns of five kings, through famine, plague and fire, and now the weight of the world seemed to settle on his shoulders.
“Forgive the interruption, my lord.”
“You are the queen’s lady, are you not?” His voice was thin and reedy.
“Thomasin Marwood. She sends you this.”
She came closer and held out the letter. The back of the archbishop’s hand was a knot of blue veins. He took the paper and broke the seal.
“Tell her I will be there.”
Thomasin curtseyed again, then cast a look towards the next pair of closed doors, through which Anne had passed. “I was wondering if John Clerk or Bishop Fisher might be within.”
“I doubt it,” said the old man. “The king is at pleasure this morning, not the business he professed.”
Thomasin did not respond to the air of judgement, and just at that moment, a woman’s laugh was heard from within. This was really the point at which she should turn around and go and seek the others to fulfil her commission, but she had come this far.
She knew one of the men on the door. He was John of Hampshire, whom she had once spoken with in the stables while waiting for Catherine to mount her horse.
“Good morning, John,” she said with a smile, casting her eyes up at his tall frame. “Might you do something for me?”
He gazed at her, half interested, half suspicious. “Will it get me in trouble?”
“Not at all, or I should never ask. I just wondered if you might call Rafe Danvers out for me, for a moment. Say there is someone wishing to speak with him.”
“You’ve come a-courting here, in the king’s chambers?”
“No!” Thomasin said defensively, flushed with annoyance. “I just need to speak with him, if you would be so kind.”
“Very well, one moment.”
But at that moment, the doors swung wide. In a flurry of skirts, a vision of green came striding through and then stopped abruptly.
Anne Boleyn looked Thomasin right in the face. She was bold and dazzling as ever, holding herself with an ease and grace that surpassed all but royalty. Her cheeks were flushed and her dark, dancing eyes, framed by long lashes, caught the intruder.
“Well, well, what do we have here?”
Thomasin immediately dropped a curtsey.
“Thomasin Marwood. What on earth are you doing, creeping around the king’s apartments uninvited, listening at doors?”
The words came rushing to her defence before she could stop them. “It wasn’t that. Ask the guards — I was awaiting admittance.”
“But what on earth for? What business can you have here?”
Thomasin lifted her chin, refusing to be intimidated. “The queen’s business. I have letters to deliver.”
Jean du Bellay crept alongside them and stared down at the letters in Thomasin’s hand as if they might go up in flames. He leaned close and whispered something to Anne.
Anne’s hand shot out. “Give them to me and I shall see that they are delivered.”
Immediately, Thomasin drew the papers close to her chest. “Forgive me, madam, but I was enquiring of the guards whether the recipients are within. If they are not —” and she knew they were not — “then I must carry them away to deliver elsewhere.”
“Who are they for?”
Thomasin hesitated but could not ignore a question from someone of Anne’s status, no matter how much of the queen’s authority she carried with her. “John Clerk and Bishop Fisher.”
“Indeed.” Anne raised her eyes. “Give them to me and I shall see whether they are in the room.”
“I beg your pardon, madam, but I hope you would already know that, as you were in the room yourself.”
“But you will never know, will you, whether or not they are here?”
Anne’s eyes narrowed; she was clearly determined to have her fun. She caught du Bellay’s eye and some communication passed between them.
It was then that King Henry appeared beside her, tall and wide in royal blue and gold.
“Who is it? What is this talk? Have you given the order?”
Anne demurred, lowering her lashes. “An unexpected visitor.”
Henry stared down at Thomasin with his small, pale blue eyes. His presence was always imposing, but it no longer had the power to overwhelm her as it had when she’d first come to court.
“Mistress Marwood.”
“My good lord, forgive my intrusion.”
Behind Henry, Thomasin could see Rafe, hovering inside the chamber. He frowned as he saw her kneeling before the king and her heart sank. Her risk had been misjudged after all.
“Come,” said Henry, turning to Anne, “I intend to reach the bridge before high tide.”
He strode past the spot where Thomasin crouched, trying to make herself as small as possible, and Anne followed him without another word. Thomasin smoothed out her skirts and rose to her feet as they swept out of the chamber.
Rafe was left staring at her through the open door. Once the king had disappeared, he came forward.
“What are you doing here?”
There was a strain of annoyance in his voice that wounded Thomasin. She decided not to admit her true motives.
“I am delivering letters for the queen.”
“Who to?”
“Bishop Fisher and John Clerk. I had already found Archbishop Warham here, so I thought it best to ask before I went on my way.”
“What letters?”
“Private letters from the queen.”
“Well, they are not here.”
“No, I gathered that.”
They stood in awkward silence. Thomasin waited for him to speak, perhaps to offer a gentle word or an apology for the other night, but his mouth was set firm.
His chestnut eyes were hard. He seemed so contradictory to her, as if there were two Rafes, one kind and warm and the other hard and cold.
Shaking her head, she turned to walk away, still hoping to be called back. He said nothing.
As she reached the final set of doors, Thomasin was choking back the tears that had risen in her throat.
Just a few days before, they had been set to announce their engagement.
She had believed all these difficulties between them to have been resolved: Rafe had seemed to get past his insecurities and immaturities, but perhaps he had just been trying harder to conceal them.
How could he treat her this way? Was her heart, and her future, even safe with him?