Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
It was late afternoon by the time Thomasin was able to leave the queen’s apartments.
Catherine was preparing to travel the short distance downriver to Baynard’s Castle, and although there were dresses and jewels and books to be packed away, she insisted that Thomasin take a few hours, with her blessing, to be about her important task.
Thomasin had gathered a few necessaries in a basket to ease her father’s suffering: wine, cheese, a venison pie, warming spices, and a jar of preserved oranges from Catherine’s own supply.
As she crossed the inner garden, anxiety seized her heart: what should she expect from such a place as the Tower of London?
In what condition would she find her father?
She hurried through the green space, alive with plants and scents, towards the gateway in the wall that led round the side and down to the riverbank.
But a figure was waiting there, appearing from behind the bushes, where he had been in conversation with a servant.
For a moment, she hoped it was Giles, waiting to accompany her, but the sun glinted in a pair of chestnut eyes and lit up a head of black hair.
The sight of Rafe drew Thomasin up short.
He looked weary, with dark circles under his eyes, his skin sallow and dull, far from the sparkling, vibrant figure he had once been.
Her annoyance was replaced by concern, which swiftly melted.
She had no time to stop and argue with him: her father was waiting in his cell.
“Excuse me, please. I must get to the river.”
“No time even to greet me now? Not a single kind word for your betrothed?”
“I am about a matter of the utmost urgency, and I do not think your recent conduct warrants any kind of greeting from me, nor do you merit the title of betrothed. Now please, let me pass.”
“So cold, Thomasin. Is this really you? Has that Giles turned your head so far that you see me now as only an inconvenience?”
At once her temper was roused. The words came out like daggers.
“I loved you. I would have married you, but your behaviour has repelled me. We will not be married. You will never be happy, nor will any woman in your life, while you remain eaten away by such bitter insecurity and jealousy. Now, let me pass!”
She pushed him to the side and hurried out of the gate.
Rafe made no reply, and she did not turn to see how her words had been received.
The realisation that he had no idea where she was going or why made her even more certain that she was doing the right thing in breaking with him.
He might have moments of insight, times when he could be the man she had hoped for, but these were far outweighed by the darkness in him that could not be repressed.
At the waterside, she hailed one of the small boats that always gathered around the steps of the palace, and directed the rowers downstream.
The tide was on the turn, high and full, but it meant that their passage was swift.
Soon, the formidable thick walls of the Tower’s precincts came into sight, with their huge gates and the keep rising into the sky.
She paid her fare and alighted at a slippery flight of steps, guarded at the top by a thick wooden gate and men in royal livery.
Catherine had had the foresight to provide her with a letter of recommendation, despite her father’s friendship with the constable, Sir William Kingston, and the queen’s signature immediately opened the gates and gained her admission.
A guard led her across the green towards the main apartments.
Kingston was an old man, but probably not much older than her father, Thomasin realised.
He had a sensible, sombre disposition, suitable to his post, and a slight stoop and limp.
His chamber was well furnished and comfortable, with a bright fire, a cupboard of silver plate and colourful wall hangings.
Thomasin hoped her father was accommodated in a similar fashion.
“Mistress Marwood,” he said, rising to greet her. “You are most welcome. I trust you have come to enquire about your father?”
Thomasin was grateful that he had got straight to the point. “I hope I may see him, if that is possible, and bring him this basket.”
“Of course. I can tell you that he fares well in spite of his confinement, and his spirits are still strong. He has been most fortunate in his friends; you are not the first visitor he has received today.”
“Am I not?”
“A young man came early, with a similar purpose to you. Come this way; you may have an hour with him.”
Thomasin followed Kingston gratefully, back outside and across the courtyard towards a solid block containing a central round tower.
Passing inside, her eyes took a moment to adjust to the dimness, but it was not as gloomy as she had feared, and torches lit the darkest parts.
She followed her guide through a corridor and up a flight of steps, past other locked doors where she imagined more unfortunates to be residing at the pleasure of the king.
Kingston paused outside a chamber door that had an iron grille set at head height, and peered inside.
“Another visitor for you, Sir Richard.”
Taking out a heavy iron set of keys from around his waist, he turned one in the large lock and the thick door creaked open.
“I’ll have to lock you in, miss, but I’ll be back in an hour to let you out. There is no cause for alarm, but I must check inside your basket before I admit you.”
“Oh, of course.” Thomasin held it out, watching as his hands made a quick search before he nodded in approval.
“People try and smuggle in all sorts; you wouldn’t believe it. Here you are.”
He stepped aside to reveal a round room with stone walls, a window in the far corner, a desk and chair and a narrow bed. However, she noted that there was no fire. Sir Richard was standing by the window, and came forward when he saw his daughter.
“Thomasin? Is it you? You should not have come to such a place!”
A second figure rose from a stool to her right. Giles had been reading aloud by the light of a lantern.
“Thomasin!” he echoed. “I would have accompanied you, if I had known you were coming.”
“I … I did not know you were here,” she said, momentarily overwhelmed.
“Come, come here, let me set eyes on you,” said Sir Richard, guiding his daughter into an embrace. “Are you well? And your mother and sister?”
“We are all well, thank you,” she replied, “but it was not the object of my visit to come and tell you that! We have been most concerned about you and how you fare in here.”
“As you see,” said Sir Richard, gesturing around him, “it is not the comfort to which I am accustomed, but I am hardly suffering as others here have.”
“He is stoic as ever,” said Giles. “He was just speaking of his eyes being weaker. I have told him to refrain from reading and writing letters, and to rest them. The poor light in here strains them.”
“It is nothing, just tiredness,” said Sir Richard, frowning. “I am well cared for and fortunate in my gaoler.”
“Here are a few items,” said Thomasin, placing the basket on the table. “And I can act as messenger or scribe, to save your eyes, should you wish to send word to those on the outside.”
“I am ably assisted in that already by Giles here, who has written and carried letters for me since my arrival.”
Thomasin felt mixed emotions at this news. She was grateful to Giles for his diligence and care of her father; after all, she’d hoped for his company on this visit, but he seemed to be acting a part that should be hers, as if he were Sir Richard’s son. It made her a little uneasy.
“I am pleased to hear you have been so well served. I apologise that I was not able to come sooner, but the queen delivered her speech this morning before the court, and I was required to assist her. Now I am here, I may perform any office you require, as well as any man, I hope.”
Giles got to his feet and put down the book. “I should leave you to have some time together, as family. I will wait with Sir William until you are ready to depart, Thomasin.”
She felt a little churlish as she watched him go, but he was right to allow her time alone with her father. Distant relative he might be, but he should still not come between them at a delicate time like this. As soon as he had gone, she relaxed a little.
“Tell me, Father, how do you really fare? Are you managing to sleep in here? Do they feed you well?”
“I can hardly complain. My nights are troubled, but that is the curse of any unfamiliar place, and I dine as well as Sir William, sometimes in his chamber.”
“That is a blessing.”
“I am more fortunate than many, but I long for news and the speedy resolution of this matter. Is your sister behaving herself? Does she suffer with the child?”
“She is managing as well as possible. But I must tell you that when I went to Monk’s Place, Cromwell’s men were there searching every room for books and papers. They removed your correspondence with the Abbot of Guisnes; I hope there was nothing of importance to you in it.”
“Those letters? I wonder why. No, they were merely exchanges between old friends, about the harvest and local appointments on his part, and news of court on mine. Goodness, I wonder what I wrote now. Some of it was about the king’s business, this marriage trouble and the court, but it was nothing that I would not admit to, nor that the whole of London already whispers. ”
“I am sure it was nothing.” But Thomasin felt a chill at the possibility that her father had been indiscreet.
“I may have written in support of the queen, but that is hardly a crime. We spoke of the old days and the queen’s good character. You say Cromwell has these letters?”
“Sadler took them for him.”