A/N: I am rubbish at this, I'm so sorry. I said it wouldn't be another six months and it was... arrgh. One of the reasons it took me so long was because Sherlock series 2 came out in January and generally pre-empted all my attention, before gutting my muse and leaving it crying in the corner after Reichenbach. But then I recovered! And lord only knows how long it'll be until series 3 comes out (I don't even think they've started filming it, yet), so until then this fic will have more of my attention.
Also, this chapter is very long, which I hope in some small way makes up for the length of time between updates. I almost hacked this chapter into two bits, but then I said sod it and kept it as was because I just want to move on already. Anyway. This chapter is mostly Clara doing stuff and being awkward. Mostly awkward, actually. This chapter, if it had a real title, would probably be "A Study in Awkwardness".
Also also, many thanks go out to the marvellous Mercury Gray, who is always very quick to lend an ear when I need to hash things out. :D
Chapter 12:
22 March, 1529
Clara's second visit to Whitehall was much more restful than her first, though she liked it little better. While she was in no danger of being thrown out should she be discovered this time, as she had actually been invited in, it was still rife with whispers and murmurs and it still felt as though everyone was staring at her (possibly this time because everyone was, curious as they were about the newcomers to court).
Furthermore, her list of allies had been whittled down by one. Thomas Cromwell was still abroad in Rome. And she had to admit, she felt a lot less confident without knowing that he was somewhere within the palace, waiting to support her or advise her or help her should she need him.
But there was nothing for it. So Clara just kept her head down, ignored the calls and jeers from the men watching her and the other new ladies as they passed, and continued to follow William Blount, Baron Mountjoy and the Queen's Chamberlain, through the halls to the Queen's chambers. She did her best to shut her ears—there was so much noise! All whispers and words and footsteps and musicians and papers and animals and all of it pounding on her ears—and stole glances at her surroundings and the people she passed as she went. But there was also so much to see!
It was all so entirely overwhelming—the sights and sounds and smells, the knowledge that she was here to stay. If Thomas were here, he would no doubt advise her that she would get used to it eventually. And though she couldn't quite imagine it at the moment, he was also likely correct. She got used to London when she first came to the Duchess of Norfolk's household as a girl, after all.
Not that it made anything any less uncomfortable now.
The other three women who walked with her looked just as nervous as she did, though they, like she, did their best to hide it. The tall, slender girl with light brown hair tucked into a snood showed her nerves in her darting green eyes, flickering here, there, and everywhere as she chewed at her lower lip. The very buxom lady with blonde curls and rosy cheeks was breathing so deeply she looked as though she might burst forth from her bodice. The young maiden with freckles across her pointed nose who trailed after Clara was very pale, and her steps were clumsy and halting. Meanwhile, Clara herself could feel her hands trembling, and laced them tightly together so that it might not show.
Finally, they were led down a stone-walled corridor through a door and into a large suite of rooms, festooned with lovely hangings and fine wood panelling, and full of rich furniture and gleaming ornaments and crucifixes, many of which were probably worth at least as much as Clara's yearly income. There was also a monkey on a chain near the window, but she paid it little mind, casting her eyes around for the queen. But she didn't see any woman who met the description she'd got from Ben, and the other ladies around didn't seem to be attending on anyone in particular. Perhaps Her Majesty was elsewhere?
"Her Majesty is at prayer, but will be out to welcome you soon," Mountjoy assured them, answering her unspoken question as he moved towards a large book resting on a table.
Clara shared an uncertain glance with the buxom blonde—were they supposed to follow him?—but in the end they remained where they were, standing in a little group of four in the centre of the queen's chambers.
"Lady Elizabeth Geste," the blonde offered in a whisper with a smile.
"Lady Clara Tyrell," Clara murmured in return, ducking her head a little in a subtle acknowledgement. "A pleasure, Lady Geste."
Further introductions were stalled when a door opened, and an older woman wearing a sober black dress and a veil of fine black lace emerged from what appeared to be a private chapel, trailed by two attending ladies garbed in the black and silver that most of the ladies were wearing. Presumably, then, this was Katherine of Aragon, Queen of England.
This supposition was borne out when everyone in the room dropped into either curtsies or bows, the four newest ladies a beat after everyone else. Clara bent her knee with the others and lowered her eyes, but peered up through her lashes as best she could at the noble lady she was here to serve... and spy upon.
Katherine of Aragon was a handsome woman. She had even features, long dark hair not yet gone to grey, and a pair of clear blue-grey eyes. Though she was clearly past the prime of her life and her looks, it was equally clear that she had been very beautiful when she was younger. Even now she was striking and lovely... and sad. Clara discerned that immediately, through the merest glance. Queen Katherine was deeply sad. It was graven in the lines around her mouth and cut into her forehead.
Though Clara supposed she had ample reason to be sad.
"Welcome, ladies," the Queen said kindly, her English still flavoured by Spain, even after all these years. She gestured for them all to rise and approached the four newest occupants with a gentle smile on her face, which did little to lift the deep sadness underneath. "I hope you will enjoy your time here at court, and I am sure you were serve me loyally and well."
Clara curtsied with the others and murmured the obligatory, "Yes, your Majesty," while trying to shove back the guilt that welled up inside her at the queen's words. She would serve Katherine well, she would... she'd just be doing other things too.
The Queen had retired to a chair by the fire and picked up some sewing as her chamberlain finished with the four new ladies. They had to be sworn into the Queen's service and—for the others, at least—assigned their dormitories. Thankfully, Clara had a relative at court and was thus not obligated to share chambers with unknown maidens. She was to share Benedict's rooms, which she much preferred. Though the suite was very, very small, at least Ben knew how to be quiet. It had taken her months to learn to sleep in a dormitory with other people and all their noises when she first came to London as a girl. Besides, she was a woman grown and a widow besides, and the idea of sleeping in a chamber for maidens was distasteful.
Once the minutiae had been dealt with, Mountjoy shooed the new ladies over towards the Queen and took his leave. Her Majesty took the opportunity to question her new attendants, and then assign them a more veteran lady to guide them during their first weeks at court. Clara, as the eldest of the newcomers, had been the last to be sworn in and was thus the last to be addressed. But she kept her ears sharp and split her attention between the new ladies (aside from Elizabeth Geste, there was Catherine Darcy and Elizabeth Perris) and the rest of the people in the queen's chambers. This was made easier due to the fact that everyone was paying at least a little attention to the dialogues between the Queen and her new ladies-in-waiting.
Finally, it was Clara's turn to be beckoned forward, and she went with an inward cringe, feeling everyone's eyes on her like layers and layers of cobwebs. She sank into a curtsey. "Your Majesty," she murmured, keeping her eyes fixed on the hem of the Queen's gown.
"I see you are a widow, Lady Tyrell," Katherine commented mildly, gesturing for her to rise.
"Yes, your Majesty," Clara confirmed.
"For how long?" the Queen pressed gently.
Clara folded her fingers together so that their trembling would not be so apparent and tried in vain to relax. "Robin—that is, Sir Robert Tyrell—died in the Sweat this past summer, my Lady," she replied.
Katherine nodded, a sympathetic expression on her face. "And did you have children?" she queried, still attempting to coax more discourse out of her reticent new attendant.
"Yes, my Lady. Two, a son and a daughter," Clara replied.
"And where are they now?" Katherine pried delicately.
"Constance—my daughter—she died with her father," Clara said quietly, sadly. Poor sweet Constance, with her wide blue eyes and her chubby little hands. "But my son is still living," she offered with a smile, perking up slightly at the reminder of her son, despite how uncomfortable she still was.
Something flickered in the Queen's eyes even as her expression creased into an answering smile, and Clara realised a moment too late what a surviving son would mean to Katherine of Aragon, who had lost her sons and had only a daughter left living, and whose husband was trying to get rid of her for that very reason. Clara cringed a little, hunching her shoulders and ducking her head, aware of the other ladies sending slightly worried glances towards the Queen and slightly chastising glances to her. Yes, she'd put her foot in her mouth a bit, but what else could she have said? Katherine had asked. And it wasn't as though other women didn't have sons!
"Ladies, please," the Queen chided softly, and she must have made a gesture of some kind, since Clara could hear the soft whisper of expensive silk. "Lady Tyrell, you need not apologise for having a living son. Children are a blessing, and that I have no son is but the will of God. Thanks to His goodness, I have a living daughter, and I would trade Mary for nothing."
Clara nodded and kept her eyes on her hands, watching the sunlight streaming through the windows reflect against her garnet ring. Robin had given her this ring when he married her. It wasn't the flashiest jewel, nor the richest, but he'd told her, when he placed it on her finger, that it meant devotion and friendship, and to take it as a token of his loyalty to her. That, to her mind, was worth far more than any expensive ornament.
Queen Katherine's accented voice brought her back out of her contemplation, though Clara didn't raise her eyes much higher than the queen's lap, feeling far too unspeakably awkward to dare meet the lady's eyes. "How old is your son, Lady Tyrell?" the queen inquired.
"Four, your Majesty," Clara replied uneasily, wishing that they could get off the subject of her son. Not that she didn't enjoy talking about her child—because she did—but sons seemed as though they might be an awkward topic of conversation in this suite of rooms. Furthermore, if they kept much longer on the subject of Arthur, they'd inevitably stumble over the Boleyns, which she knew would be an awkward topic of conversation in this suite of rooms, and which would require Clara to arrange her face and hide her true feelings, and she wasn't sure she had the fortitude at the moment to do so credibly. Better to just change the subject and avoid that problem altogether.
However, it didn't seem as though the Queen would rest until she had drawn as much information from her reticent new attendant as she could, and she kept prying politely. "And his name?"
"Arthur, your Majesty," Clara replied, still feeling awkward and wondering what stars had aligned to make her family so rife with unfortunate associations. Arthur had been Queen Katherine's first husband, after all, and one of the reasons for the ongoing annulment campaign to sunder her from her second. Hoping that the Queen would stop asking questions if she overcame her nervousness and provided more information, Clara added, "For King Arthur. Those were some of my favourite stories to read as a child."
"Ah, so you like to read?" Katherine asked with a kindly smile, seemingly pleased that Clara was offering information of her own volition. Either that, or she was happy that the subject was changing to something much less potentially painful.
"Yes, your Majesty, very much," Clara replied earnestly. Mindful that providing information on her own forestalled more questions, she swallowed nervously and went on, knowing that Queen Katherine was a patron of several humanist writers and therefore hoping that this subject would cause her no pain, "My favourites are the humanists. And Christine de Pisan. And Bocaccio. And St. Augustine." She bit her tongue before she could continue listing all the authors she enjoyed. With as discomfited as she was feeling now, it wouldn't take much to slip up and include 'Martin Luther' or 'William Tyndale' among the list. Better to just stop talking now.
Still, Katherine seemed cheered by this initiative, and gave Clara a maternal beam. "A learned lady," the Queen commented warmly. "Well, I am glad you have brought your learning to court, Lady Tyrell, and hope you will enjoy your time here."
"Thank you, your Majesty," Clara returned with a curtsey.
Katherine smiled again, and beckoned to someone standing behind Clara. Clara fought the urge to turn and see who it was, knowing she mustn't turn her back to the queen, and felt her shoulders tense as she heard someone come up behind her; she hated the feeling of someone approaching her unseen. But then the lady entered into Clara's peripheral vision, and she relaxed slightly.
Only to tense once more when Queen Katherine announced, "This is Lady Maud Knivert; she shall be your mentor as you adjust to life at court, for I hear there is to be a closer connected between you one day soon."
Lady Maud Knivert. There was a name she hadn't heard for a while—since Christmas, in fact. Maud Knivert, Benedict's betrothed. She was the reason he'd tried to defy their father, which had sparked off the argument which had left Arthur dazed and bleeding at John Gage's hand, inspiring Clara to flee to Austin Friars and Thomas Cromwell. Afterwards, Ben seemed inclined to pretend that he didn't have a fiancée, and for the most part Maud Knivert had been wholly ignored by the Gage siblings. But now she was here and real and standing beside Clara and meant to guide her through her first weeks as a lady-in-waiting and hell, what was she supposed to do?
Clara felt all the blood drain from her cheeks and fought to keep the discomfort from expressing itself on her face. Something must've shown, though, since the queen looked a bit confused, her brow furrowing slightly. Nevertheless, Katherine waved them away, and Clara immediately ducked her head, curtsied, and scurried away to a more peripheral position, wanting to get away from the scrutiny of the entire room, and not wanting to look at her future sister-in-law.
"Lady Tyrell?" Maud Knivert asked tentatively, once Clara had taken up a position near a window, almost-but-not-quite hiding behind the curtains. "Are you all right?" Her voice was a mellow sort of alto, flavoured with a Norfolk accent. Well, that explained how and why Sir John Gage had known the family enough to choose Maud as a bride for his only son.
Clara looked up, then, and met Maud's eyes. Her first impression was that Maud was not as pretty as Agnes. She immediately scolded herself for being so catty, but it couldn't change the truth, either. Maud Knivert was not as beautiful as Agnes Keriell; in fact, she was quite plain. Her hair was a mousey brown a few shades lighter than Clara's, and her smallish eyes were a clear grey-blue, surrounded by eyelashes so fair it was almost as though she didn't have any. And while her features weren't hideous, there was no marked beauty in them, either. Compared to Agnes...
"I..." Clara began suddenly, remembering that she'd been asked a question. "Forgive me, Lady Knivert—my manners have gone begging. I'm quite all right, thank you, I just... don't like being looked at."
Maud seemed to relax a little, and gave Clara a cheerful smile that, though friendly, did nothing for her looks, cutting deeper lines around her mouth and making her eyes even smaller. But her voice was warm and cordial as she said, "I'm afraid you'll have to get used to being looked at, Lady Tyrell, at least for a while." She laughed lightly at the face Clara made, and added, "I'm very glad to meet you, at last. Or rather, any Gage," she elaborated at Clara's confused expression. "I... well, Master Gage and I have been betrothed for nearly four months, and I've never met him, or anyone of the family, and the wedding is intended for June..."
Clara felt immediately contrite. She could imagine how Maud must feel, being told that she was to marry a man but having no communication from him or his family for months. It must be absolutely nerve-wracking. At least after Clara had been betrothed to Robert Tyrell, he'd written her a letter of introduction as soon as things were finalised, and come to present himself in person the next time he was in London. Maud had received no such acknowledgement from Benedict, and it must be driving her mad.
"Forgive us, Lady Knivert," Clara apologised, feeling ashamed. "I... it has been a very eventful winter, and other things took precedence—not that you're not important—but there was the wardship hearing and Ben switched households and I had to arrange for Marion to go to the nunnery in Kent and we've been very busy—not that it excuses us, but we just... forgot..." she finished weakly, feeling her face heat with embarrassment.
Maud, however, was smiling tolerantly, and once Clara had stammered to a halt, reached out to put a consoling hand on her arm. "I quite understand, Lady Tyrell. At least you're here now," she assured her with a bright smile. "And please, do call me Maud."
Clara felt like scum. "Clara," she offered in return, trying to respond to Maud's warmth with her own. She didn't succeed, and suspected she looked a little ill and very uncomfortable.
But Maud just reached out a hand and grasped Clara's trembling, chilly one firmly. "Don't be afraid, Clara," she offered softly. "The Queen is truly a wonderful mistress, and you'll get used to all the people soon enough."
The smile on her face turned more genuine, and Clara took a deep breath and tried to shove her more negative feelings—among them included her fear, guilt, shyness, and awkwardness—away. This was the path she'd chosen to walk, discomforts and all, and there was now nothing to do but grit her teeth and walk it. "Well then," she said resolutely, "I suppose I had better get started. What shall we do first?"
Apparently a tour of the queen's rooms was first on the agenda. Clara did her best to memorise the layout of the royal chambers, and she instinctively checked for blind spots, corners, doors, alcoves, rugs, curtains, and other such things which, if she was trying to discreetly move around the chambers (to escape an angry father, a snappish mother, a heavy-handed priest), would offer concealment and muffle noise. Or, since she was supposed to be here as a spy as well, would offer opportunities to listen unobtrusively.
If she could listen, anyway. There was so much noise, even here in the queen's rooms. There were quite sounds of the household going about their business, but the household was so large that even the rustle of brocade and the quiet chatting of the women at work became loud. There was the crackles and pops of the fires, the hisses of candles, and Clara's sharp ears could hear beyond the panelled walls to the footsteps in the corridors outside. She knew she'd get used to it eventually—she always did, sooner or later; how else was she to live in London?—but at the beginning it always seemed so overwhelming.
"How do you manage?" she asked Maud suddenly, flinching away from a shout which seeped through the walls. The King was on the move, it seemed—Lord, was he coming here?
Maud replied and distracted her before she could descend into a panic. "Manage what?" she wanted to know.
"All the noise."
This appeared to slightly confused Clara's future sister-in-law. "What noise?"
Too late, Clara remembered Thomas' adjunction to conceal the sensitivity of her hearing, and wished she could take her words back. But... well, Maud was going to be her sister, wasn't she? She'd find out sooner or later anyway, wouldn't she? "I... well, Ben and I, we have very sensitive ears," Clara explained lamely. "Mine more so than his. And we hear... more." The tromp of boots caught her attention, and she took the opportunity to ask, "The King isn't coming here, is he? I don't think I can handle meeting more than one monarch a day."
"I doubt it," Maud replied, with a slight measure of bitterness, turning unconsciously to look back towards where the queen sat quietly sewing. "He almost never does, anymore." Clara couldn't think of anything to say, and so bit her lip and kept quiet. And soon enough, Maud shook off her scowl and continued the tour, thankfully forgetting the query about the noise.
Once Clara was oriented a little better inside the palace (and aware of where the important things such as privies and kitchens were), Maud brought her back to the queen's privy chambers, where they settled down with the majority of the other ladies clustered around the queen, all working on piles of sewing. Maud settled down immediately with a shirt whose collar and cuffs she was embroidering with the same blackwork that the queen was so proficient in, and Clara was left to follow suit, unenthusiastically taking up a shift which needed hemming. She was no kind of needlewoman at all, and could only manage hemming and other functional work if she was trying very, very hard.
But between the curious looks from the other ladies and the unfamiliarity of the surroundings, Clara found it hard to concentrate. Even though Maud seemed to sense her uneasiness (not terribly difficult, that; Clara's discomfort was practically a physical presence in the room) and did her best to draw the tense brunette into quiet conversation and shield her from the curiosity of the other ladies, Clara kept pricking her fingers with the needle she was wielding, and the hem of the shift she was stitching was speckled with her blood.
"You're not very good at that, are you," Maud commented mildly when Clara pricked her finger for the sixth time and hissed in a sharp, audible breath through her teeth.
"No," Clara replied tightly, sticking her bleeding finger into her mouth. "Nor have I ever been," she added once the digit had stopped aching so fiercely. "Marion does the sewing in our family."
"Is Marion your sister?" Maud asked casually, looking back down at her embroidery.
"Yes," Clara said, looking down at her finger, which was a bit swollen and red. Expectedly, perhaps, given how many times she'd stabbed it with a needle in the past hour.
"I had heard your sister died," Maud went on, voice still studiedly careless.
"She did." Suddenly, she realised where Maud's questions were tending. "Oh, that was Rosamond—our younger sister, Ben's and mine. Marion is my husband's sister."
"Ah." Maud threaded her needle through the fine wool a few more times before remarking idly, "So there are just the two of you left, then? You and Benedict?"
"And our father, Sir John, and some cousins," Clara answered, realising that Maud was digging for information on the family.
"Do they all live at... what is the house called? Croxhall? Croxworth?"
"Croxton Hall?" Clara supplied, picking up her needle now that the ache in her finger had subsided to a dull throb.
"That's the one. Is that the main seat of the family?"
"Well, our line of it, anyway. Originally, the Gages were from Essex—that's where the family originated, as far as I know, back before the Normans came—and the Norfolk Gages are a cadet branch," Clara explained, frowning down at the shift in her lap as she carefully pushed the needle through the fabric. "Why, where is your family from?"
"Norfolk as well," Maud replied. "Buckenham. It's a bit further east from your family's lands."
Clara just nodded, trying to focus on her sewing (at least the hem was mostly straight thus far) and listen to the other conversations taking place around the room. But Maud pulled her attention back as she spoke once more about her family, saying, "We don't hear much about your family, though we all know you exist. It is only you and your father and your brother?"
"Only Father, actually; Ben spends most of his time in London nowadays, and I... haven't been back to Croxton since my marriage," Clara replied with a shrug.
"No mother?"
"Mother died of the Sweat this past summer."
"My condolences," Maud murmured, sounding sincerely sympathetic. "It must be very lonely for your father, all alone in the hall."
"I don't think he minds," Clara assured her, somewhat sardonically. Though in all likelihood Father did miss Mother—possibly because Lady Mary was as demanding of quiet as Sir John—it was just as likely that he was ecstatic that there were fewer people living now at Croxton Hall to make noise to grate on his sensitive ears.
"Mmm. Well, Papa did say he was... a bit brusque."
That's one word for it, thought Clara.
Maud went on, her needle sliding gracefully through the linen in her hands, "Does he not like London, your father?"
"He loathes it," Clara replied wryly.
"I heard he'd come down for Christmas, though," Maud persisted.
At the memory of that most miserable holiday, her voice went flat as she answered, "He did. He loathed it then as well." And he spread his unhappiness around with a liberal hand. Like always.
Maud's blue eyes flickered over to her face, and whatever she saw there was enough to make her bite her lip and change the subject away from Sir John Gage. "And your brother?"
"I don't think he minds London," Clara said with a shrug that turned into a flinch as she accidentally drove her needle into the pad of her finger again. She hissed a swift breath through her teeth as a drop of scarlet bloomed on the pale wool. Perhaps only because she was distracted by the pain—again—she didn't guard herself well enough to remember not to say what she said next: "He certainly seems to enjoy the company."
As she straightened up and stuck her finger in her mouth, thus catching sight of Maud's pinched expression, Clara realised two things. One, she'd just stuck her foot in her mouth. And two, Maud had been pumping her for information.
She'd been doing it subtly and carefully and in a very roundabout manner, but Clara could see in retrospect that Maud had been digging for information on Ben and his reaction to their betrothal (and the reason he had not introduced himself), and the sort of life she could expect when she married him (no other women to challenge her authority over the household, but with a stern father-in-law and an apparently-indifferent husband). And Clara... had been led around like a puppy on a string.
This whole courtier thing was going to be harder than it seemed.
Clara cast around for something she could say—that she hadn't meant it like that, that there was a good reason Ben hadn't presented himself, that she was sure everything would be just fine—but they all had the flavour of lies, given that what she'd just said had implied that Ben was enjoying London and avoiding Maud on purpose. Which he was. But she hadn't wanted to tell Maud that—not only was it unkind, it was also not Clara's place. She was only Benedict's widowed sister, with a life and a son and a responsibility to her own family. It wasn't her place to interfere with her brother's marriage.
"You could've just asked me, you know," Clara said, slightly wounded that Maud would treat with her like that.
Maud looked a little sheepish, and a faint blush rose in her cheeks. "Well, we've only just met," she demurred, making no apologies but offering an acceptable reason.
"In the future, just ask," Clara advised, bending her head back to her sewing in an effort to hide her face and conceal her hurt and her sudden trepidation. She felt naïve and stupid and wholly unprepared for this new direction her life was taking. If Maud, disposed to be friendly, had such an easy time getting information out of her and leading her to say things she didn't necessarily want known, what hope would she have with other, unknown, less friendly courtiers?
She wished Thomas was here.
But he wasn't, Clara reminded herself sternly as she jabbed her needle violently through the wool. Thomas was in Rome, Ben was on the other side of the palace, Marion was in Kent, Arthur was in Berkshire, Robin was in the ground, and she was on her own. Besides, she was a woman grown, and Thomas Cromwell would not always be around to hold her hand. She'd just have to handle this on her own, and learn how to be an asset to the cause instead of a liability (which was obviously what she was right now). She could start by not trusting everyone she encountered (even her future sister-in-law) and by guarding her tongue much more rigidly from here on out.
Thus resolved, Clara passed rest of the afternoon in relative silence, only speaking when questions were address to her directly, and then speaking as little as possible while keeping her head lowered and her eyes fixed on the pile of wool in her lap, the hem of which grew increasingly speckled with her blood. The Queen attended mass in the evening, so thankfully the ladies were able to put away the sewing. However, that did send Clara from one uncomfortable situation to another; while mass didn't require her to bleed, it did make her grind her teeth so hard a headache began to gather in her temples.
Deciding she wasn't feeling up to taking a meal in the great hall, where the noise would be overwhelming and where she would be under everyone's eye, she broke off from the other ladies when they were dismissed (making her awkward excuses to the few women, Maud included, who wanted to know where she was going and why she wasn't going to accompany them), and made her way to the small set of rooms allocated to Ben (and now occupied by her as well). They were thankfully empty, and she settled in with some bread and ale, and sat down to write some letters. She wrote to Marion, who seemed to settling in comfortably at the priory in Kent; she wrote to her steward, back in Leicestershire, who was overseeing the lands while she was in London; and she wrote to Arthur, living out in Peasemore.
Clara knew full well that Arthur could likely not read more than a fraction of the letters she sent, but she wanted to assure her son that he was always in her thoughts and that she loved him. It was also a way to indirectly pass information along to Spencer—such as the fact that she was now one of Queen Katherine's ladies of the bedchamber, and that he would therefore have a much harder time menacing her or cooking up a scandal out of nothing now that she was under the Queen's protection.
Take that, Spencer, she thought smugly, signing her name with a flourish. Spencer might have custody of her son and the friendship (however lukewarm) of the Boleyns, but Clara was now living at court, close to the beating heart of the kingdom. And she was richer, too. She had no doubt that these facts would grate on George Spencer's pride.
Though she would trade it all if she could only have her son back in her care.
Once the letters were sealed, Clara sat back for a moment and bit nervously at her lip. Should she write to Cromwell? She hadn't heard anything from him—but then, he was a busy man, and who knew how long it had taken him to get to Rome, and what occupied him there now. But he had said he'd write to her... should she wait until she heard from him, wait for him to move first? She didn't want to seem overeager, or pester him when he was busy with other important matters, or chase after him like a lovesick girl—especially not given her behaviour that night back in February.
But she missed him.
Clara hunched over and rested her forehead on the hard wood of her desk, groaning softly at the back of her throat. She'd been going round and round in her head about this for weeks, with no resolution in sight. Did she want to put herself out there, write to Thomas before she heard from him, and possibly show herself a fool? Or did she want to wait for him to take the first step? Or would that give him the impression that she didn't care? Was he waiting for her, perhaps mired in the same miserable uncertainty as she? Or was he just... busy? Had he forgotten her, and replaced her with a charming, beautiful, cultured Italian? She'd heard about the courtesans in Rome; how could she—shy, quiet, mousey—compare to such women?
But he said he'd wait, hadn't he? In his oblique way? He'd said he'd think about what he wanted from her, which implied he wouldn't replace her with another until he returned.
Unless he decided he didn't want anything from her.
Clara clenched her eyes shut, and banged her head once on the table. This was hellish. She thought she was done with this kind of uncertainty, that it had passed with her girlhood and been packed away upon her marriage. A naive thought, apparently; it seemed the heart's doubts were restricted to no age and afflicted matrons along with maidens. Did he, didn't he; should she, shouldn't she? A pas de deux as old as time.
Distracted as she was with her own conflict and by the pervasive noises of a new place, Clara did not hear her brother's approach until he was already opening the door.
She jerked upright and looked over at her brother, who was raising his eyebrows at her as he shut the door. "What are you doing?" Benedict wondered, coming over and plopping into the chair opposite and tossing his cap onto the table.
"Writing letters," Clara replied, indicating the stack of letters next to her portable desk.
"I can see that, Clara," Ben replied dryly, apparently unimpressed by her new tendency to answer questions as shortly as possible. "What with the desk and the ink and... you know, the letters. What I meant was, what are you doing here, alone, writings letters on your first night here at court when you ought to be dancing or socialising or making friends?"
"Because it's loud," Clara replied shortly, keeping true to her newly resolved shortness. Then, because this was her brother, she added tartly, "And because one of the ladies with whom you would have me socialise is Maud Knivert. You remember her, do you not? Your betrothed?"
Ben froze, and stared at her like a startled rabbit for a moment. Then he grimaced, and winced a little. "Er," said he. "Sorry, Clare. I didn't think... er. I didn't think she'd be an issue."
"Just because you never think of her does not mean she never thinks of you," Clara snapped, feeling vexed with her brother for putting her in this situation and unsettled enough to let him know it. If Ben had warned her, if he'd taken some responsibility and talked to Maud before it came to this... but he hadn't, he'd ignored the problem, hoping it would go away, until it exploded onto the first Gage to come along: Clara.
She felt a little bit bad for thinking of Maud, who had been generally friendly and welcoming, in such unkind terms, but Clara wasn't feeling very charitable at the moment after being so skilfully played.
The hot feeling of embarrassment rose back up at the memory, and Clara lashed out at her brother again, hissing, "She spent the afternoon pumping me for information, and trying to find out why you've yet to introduce yourself to her despite being betrothed for nearly four months. You'd best thank God that I eventually realised what she was doing, or Lord only knows what I might've been led into saying." The humiliation nearly choked her, and she bent double to bang her head on the table again. "It was so embarrassing!" she wailed into the wood. "She played me like a lute, and I let her! I didn't realise what she was doing until I said something stupid, and I felt even more of an idiot after that."
When she straightened up, she saw Ben looking at her compassionately, with an understanding, slightly sheepish, expression on his face. "Welcome to court, sister," was all he was able to offer. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry you were put in that position." He paused a moment, then asked, "You didn't say anything... er, impolitic to the Knivert woman, did you?"
Clara gave her brother a flat sort of glower. "Other than confirming that yes, you're purposefully avoiding her and are not at all eager to marry her? No," she answered snidely. Then her irritation bled away, and she let her shoulders slump with a sigh. "Why did I ever think I should come here?" she lamented. "How am I ever going to manage?"
"You'll learn, Clare," Ben assured her, standing and moving around to press a kiss to her forehead. "You'll never be a mover or a shaker or one of the most powerful and successful courtiers, so it won't matter if you're cripplingly honest. Just keep your head down and do as you always do, and you'll manage just fine."
Torn between appreciation for her brother's encouragement, annoyance that he didn't think she'd be successful, and curious as to how and why honesty was some kind of disability, Clara just smiled and kept her mouth shut. That seemed to be equally important to success at court.
But as she bedded down for the night in her narrow quarters and listened to the movements and the speech and the lives of the people on the other side of the walls, she couldn't help but wonder what it was she'd gotten herself into, and if Thomas had really known what he was about when he encouraged her in her quest to come to court.
26 March, 1530
Katherine of Aragon rose from her prayers with a final genuflection, and entrusted her rosary to Lady Anne Clifford, one of her most trusted attendants of late, since her household had been slowly stripped of her Spanish ladies by time, marriage, and Wolsey. Then she emerged from her private chapel back into her rooms, where the rest of her ladies were still bent diligently over their sewing.
Her eyes sought out the faces of her newest attendants as the lot of them rose to curtsey to her as she moved to take a seat. Elizabeth Geste was over there by Jane Percy, embroidering some shirt cuffs; Catherine Darcy was bent over a doublet with Anne Dormer; Elizabeth Perris was doing something with a length of linen under the eyes of Alice Talbot; Maud Knivert, however, was sitting alone, stitching at a tapestry. Katherine cast her eyes about the room, searching for the last of the newcomers, wondering if the two of them had failed to get on. However, Clara Tyrell was nowhere to be seen.
Frankly, this concerned Katherine. She hated that her new ladies and their loyalty were always presumed suspect, but such were the times she was living in, at the centre of such a lonely, hostile court, forced to harbour potential vipers in her bosom. She had no suspicions about Geste or Darcy; their fathers were known to be devoted to her, and to Princess Mary. Perris, though, was potentially dangerous—a relation to the Howard family somewhere on the distaff side, and therefore with a connection, however, distant, to those Boleyn upstarts. Tyrell, likewise, had suspect connections (her brother had been one of Wolsey's creatures, and that particular branch of the Gage family had long been associated with the Dukes of Norfolk) and that she was missing now was... worrisome.
The Queen was about to call Lady Knivert over and inquire as to the whereabouts of Lady Tyrell—perhaps, to be fair to the lady, she had simply stepped out to use the privy—when one of her ushers stepped in and announced Sir Thomas More.
Katherine felt a true smile spreading her face, and welcomed Sir Thomas into her presence with an extended hand. "Sir Thomas, how good to see you."
Sir Thomas bent his knee to her as he took her hand, smiling up at her, and Katherine spared a moment for a swift, silent prayer of thanks that she at least had some true, loyal, honest men who were willing to follow their consciences and assist her. "God give you good afternoon, most gracious Majesty," he said warmly.
She gestured for him to rise, and led him over to a chair by the fire. "What brings you into my company today, Sir Thomas?" she inquired kindly as she gestured for one of her ladies to bring some wine. "Is there news? Are there new developments for the hearing?"
More shook his head. "None as such, my lady. Cardinal Campeggio is still laid low with gout, and nothing will happen until he is healthy once more. Nor is there any word from the embassy His Majesty sent to Rome, for good or ill. It seems, Majesty, that we are to wait upon Campeggio's health," he replied, sipping at the wine brought to him by Elizabeth Darrell.
"Little has changed, then," Katherine surmised, drinking her own wine and feeling slightly discouraged at how long this was taking, and how vexing it was to be stuck in this uncomfortable limbo, watching her husband fawn over that grasping Boleyn harlot. But however uncomfortable it was, she could—and would—endure. Patience was a skill she had learnt long ago, back in those dark days of her widowhood, after Prince Arthur had died and when no one could say with any certitude whether she would be the next Queen of England or sent back to Spain. If those years of waiting, in uncertainty and poverty, hadn't broken her, this wait would not either.
Even if it was terribly annoying.
"Indeed," agreed Sir Thomas, and it took Katherine a moment to realise he was agreeing with her statement about changes, and not with how annoying the wait was. Though it was possible he concurred with both. "I'm sorry I could not bring you better tidings."
Katherine smiled mildly. "I do not blame the messenger if the message is not to my liking," she assured him.
"Your Majesty is most gracious," Sir Thomas said earnestly. "As I have assured a young friend of mine who has recently joined your household. I came today not only to bring my greetings to your most august self, but also to see how she fares in her new occupation."
That piqued her curiosity, and Katherine arched her eyebrows upwards. She hadn't known that any of her new ladies were known to Thomas More. How reassuring! "Who is the lady, Sir Thomas? I shall have brought here to tell you herself how she fares," she offered with a warm smile, quite interested in knowing which lady it was. Surely a woman who had More's favour would be wholly trustable.
"Little Clara Tyrell," More replied, thoroughly surprising the Queen. She had not expected to hear that name pass his lips.
But she hid her scepticism and gave her visitor an apologetic look. "I am afraid at this moment I do not know where she is," Katherine admitted. She craned her neck and called, "Lady Knivert?"
Maud's head snapped up, and she immediately made her way over at the Queen's gesture. She dropped into a deep curtsey, then made a shallower one to Sir Thomas. "Your Majesty?" she said inquisitively.
"Do you know where is Lady Tyrell, Lady Knivert?" Katherine asked. "Sir Thomas wishes to speak with her."
"I must confess, Your Majesty, that I do not," Maud admitted sheepishly, looking embarrassed, a slow flush crept across her cheeks as she confessed to having lost the lady she was intended to mentor. "I fear I offended her," she added awkwardly after a moment. "Your Majesty may find more intelligence from another lady with whom she is less upset."
Katherine made a mental note to sort out whatever problems were between the Ladies Tyrell and Knivert later, once Sir Thomas had gone, and was about to ask if Maud was aware if Lady Tyrell got on better with anyone else when Sir Thomas spoke first. "I wouldn't worry overmuch, Lady Knivert. Clara is unable to hold a grudge, and will likely forgive you within the week," he assured her kindly. "And if you cannot find her, check in the window seats or behind the curtains. If she is not within these rooms, check the chapel next. According to my daughter, and from what I know of her habits, you will find our Mistress Mouse hiding somewhere there."
With a nod, Katherine dispatched Maud to check the hidden alcoves and see if Clara Tyrell had secreted herself there. Then she turned back to Sir Thomas. "You know her well, do you, Sir Thomas? This 'mistress mouse', you call her?" she asked curiously, wanting as much information on this lady as she could gather from a reputable source. Yes, she trusted Sir Thomas' judgment, but she could not forget that she had suspected the lady at first, and wanted to know more to inform her own judgement.
"Perhaps not 'well', but she has been known to me for many years, and has written faithfully to my daughter for at least that long," Sir Thomas replied with a knowing smile, apparently understanding Katherine's unspoken desires as he kept speaking. "To my knowledge, she is terribly shy, equally awkward and as naive and baldly honest as a child of six, but clever enough otherwise. She can't hold a candle to my Meg, of course, despite her own ambitions; but she has sense enough to look up to her and take her as a model," he said, practically glowing with pride for his daughter. Katherine could well understand how he could be fond of a lady who so recognised the worth of and deferred to the wisdom of one's beloved child. Upon a moment of reflection, Sir Thomas added, talking once more of Lady Tyrell, "She can be as timid as a mouse, but will dig in her heels like a mule if it concerns her son."
"Yes, what happened to her son?" Katherine queried immediately, glad that Sir Thomas had brought up a subject about which she was very curious. "I asked her about him, but she was not very forthcoming. Though this might be because she is, as you say, so shy."
"I also suspect she was wary of injuring your Majesty's feelings," Sir Thomas offered quietly. "Her son's wardship was sold to Master George Spencer only through the offices and intervention of Lord Rochford."
And suddenly, Lady Tyrell's reticence was beginning to make a little more sense—especially as Sir Thomas elaborated about the circumstances which had brought Lady Tyrell to London. Once he was finished with his tale, Katherine was feeling much more charitably inclined towards Clara Tyrell, and was resolved to go and seek her out as soon as possible.
Sir Thomas, having finished his illumination of Lady Tyrell's character as he knew it, made some inquiries about the health and educational progress of Princess Mary, and the Queen happily expounded on what she'd heard about her beloved daughter, who to all accounts was growing into a most accomplished young lady. Soon after, More took his leave and departed, asking that his greetings and well-wishes be passed along to Lady Tyrell, whenever they found her.
Once he had left, Katherine turned to look at Lady Knivert, who was hovering discreetly in the background. "Did you find her?" the Queen asked.
Maud gave a curtsey and shook her head. "She was not anywhere within your apartments, Your Majesty," she replied, "and I wished to wait to check the chapel until I obtained leave."
Katherine rose and straightened her brocade skirts as all her ladies stood likewise, and then gathered her entourage of ushers, grooms, and ladies (including Maud Knivert) and swept out of her rooms, making a swift beeline towards the chapel. She stepped through the doors accompanied only by her ladies, and took a moment to dip her fingers in the holy water and genuflect before bending her knee towards the altar and the host thereon. Only after she had done so did she pause to look around the chapel in search of her missing lady.
It took the Queen a moment to find her, though the chapel was nearly empty at this time of day; being so empty, it was poorly lit and shadowy, and Lady Tyrell was still clad wholly in black. But eventually her eyes alighted on the only figure in the pews near the left side of the chapel, knee bent and head lowered, on the very edge of a circle of light cast by a candelabra. There was her wayward attendant.
Signalling for her ladies to remain where they were, Katherine made her way over to where Lady Tyrell stood, knee still bent and eyes lowered. "Here you are, Lady Tyrell," the Queen commented quietly, gesturing for the younger woman to sit before taking her own seat beside her. "Sir Thomas suggested that this was likely where you were. He stopped by to see you, and was most disappointed when you were not there."
"Forgive me, your Majesty," Lady Tyrell squeaked quietly, keeping her eyes trained on the stone floor and fidgeting a little in the pew. "I know I should not have been absent, I know I should've been in your apartments with the others, and I'm very sorry, I didn't mean to shirk my duties, but I received some news from my son and needed some spiritual comfort... not that it excuses me, I know I did wrong, please forgive me..."
The Queen was beginning to understand how Sir Thomas More could describe a woman grown and a mother as a 'child of six'. Lady Tyrell's nervous apologies had the flavour of a disobedient child about to be called on the carpet. Katherine moved quickly to assuage her anxiety, soothing gently, "I am not angry, Lady Tyrell. Of course you are allowed to seek the comfort of Our Lord whenever you feel the need for it. Was it very bad news, from your child?" she asked sympathetically. "Is he ill?"
Lady Tyrell looked down again, and this time Katherine followed her gaze to a letter clutched in her hands—hands which the queen noticed were trembling a little. Her heart softened towards this young widow, so painfully frightened and trying so hard not to show it.
"No, he's not ill, praise God," Lady Tyrell replied.
"Then why do you sound so unhappy?" Katherine probed gently, trying to draw the lady out of her shyness. Perhaps she would come to be more open, now that it was only the two of them alone in the quiet, relative privacy of the chapel?
Lady Tyrell bit her lower lip and seemed to struggle with herself, flicking her dark eyes up to the Queen's face and then back to the letter in her hands. "I... my son is unhappy, your Majesty," she finally said, voice whispery and quiet. "He is miserable, and thus so am I."
Queen Katherine nodded in understanding. Though she was unhappy to see the lady so sad, she was slightly pleased that Lady Tyrell was beginning to open up. It seemed Sir Thomas was right, and that the lady was very timid, presenting herself better when there were fewer eyes on her.
"Why did you come to court, then?" she asked, wanting to test her new lady, and see if she was as true as Sir Thomas implied. "Why did you not stay with your child?"
"I wanted to," Lady Tyrell said miserably. "But they took him away from me. I... did Sir Thomas not tell you, my lady?" she wondered, tilting her head to the side and actually meeting Katherine's eyes for the first time since their introduction. They were wide, dark eyes; very clear, and very open, with her nervousness and her curiosity shining bright in them.
"He told some things," Katherine demurred, wanting to hear things from Lady Tyrell herself, and to see how closely her account matched Sir Thomas'. "But he did not say much."
Lady Tyrell's face fell, though she immediately tried to hide it and paste on an expression of unconcern. "Oh," she said, and she couldn't quite hide the glum note in her voice, either.
"Perhaps you might tell me?" Katherine prompted softly. "Sir Thomas did mention something about the Boleyn family, so you need have no fears about bringing up that name."
That made Lady Tyrell's tense shoulders relax a little. "Yes, your Majesty. I... well, I suppose the whole matter began with the death of my husband. A few months after his passing, I received a letter which informed me that, contrary to Robin's will, our son was to be sent to Berkshire as the ward of George Spencer, who is kin to the Boleyn family through Mary's husband," she began. "I challenged that decision, and came to London to fight. Sir Thomas and some other... friends gave me good advice, and helped me with the legal jargon, but it came to naught. Well, perhaps not naught," she allowed, frowning a little. "I... well. I scored some points, and so did Spencer, but no one was really the victor."
"How so?" Katherine inquired, hoping to spur Lady Tyrell onwards. Thus far, her account was matched with what she'd heard from More.
"Spencer got the wardship of my son, and his physical person—which was all that I wanted," Lady Tyrell explained, her soft voice going rather sour. "But I received control of the Tyrell lands, held in trust for Arthur until he's of age—and that was all that Spencer wanted. He's rather a spendthrift, Master Spencer. So much so that he couldn't afford the wardship fees.
"But Spencer went running to Lord Rochford." Lady Tyrell made a face, wrinkling her nose and scowling. "If Rochford hadn't stuck his nose into it, I would've won. If he hadn't been there, I could've convinced Spencer to cede full guardianship to me, or perhaps paid him some kind of pension from the lands as long as he left Arthur to me... or perhaps even if I'd done nothing, he just wouldn't have been able to afford the fees and nothing would've come of it. But Spencer brought Rochford into it and ruined everything!" complained the lady.
"In return for joint custody, I paid the wardship fees myself. But when we set down our agreement Spencer—with Rochford's support—threw in a caveat," she said hotly, her plain face twisting with anger. "He said that any immoral behaviour on my part would revoke our agreement and loose me my rights. And then he threatened to start whatever rumours he needed—out of nothing—if I 'threw my weight around'! The cheek of him!" she fumed, clearly indignant. Katherine well understood her anger, and sympathised wholeheartedly, though she found the visible signs of it to be rather amusing and oddly adorable—a fierce little mouse, just like Sir Thomas had said.
Lady Tyrell kept speaking, her pale fingers twisting and fiddling with the parchment letter. "A friend advised me to seek a place at court in your Majesty's household, so that Spencer would be unable to start pernicious rumours out of nothing. Even such a stupid man as he would think twice before attacking, without cause or evidence, one of the queen's ladies!" Then her brain seemed to catch up with her mouth, and she went red. "Er, begging your Majesty's pardon," she squeaked. "Of course I mean to serve you loyally, my lady, I meant no disrespect, but... well, I can't let that man take my son from me. Any more than he already has," she added in a low grumble.
Katherine couldn't keep from smiling. As baldly honest as a child of six indeed. Thankfully, Lady Tyrell's account of things matched Sir Thomas' nearly perfectly (though she had left out the part about being personally menaced by Lord Rochford to the point of swooning). And thus it seemed that she could indeed trust this young woman; Sir Thomas had vouched for her, and she had proved herself honest. Katherine was pleased; at least she wouldn't have to worry about this one turning out to be a spy, especially given her feelings towards the Boleyn family, who had conspired to take away her only child.
"I understand," Katherine said sympathetically. "And I certainly do not blame you for whatever you need to do to protect your rights to your child. Though I of course do not need to worry about my daughter being raised by someone I dislike, or worry about being kept away from her, I do understand how you feel."
Lady Tyrell looked up, blinking a few times, and a small answering smile began to curve her lips. It was still tentative and nervous, but at least progress was being made. "Does it ever get easier?" she asked frankly. "Being away from your child? Letting him or her be raised by strangers?"
"Not really, no," Katherine replied, answering Lady Tyrell's honesty with her own, now that she had established that the odds were very good on this new attendant being trustworthy. "Perhaps the pain dulls with time, but it never leaves. All you can do is write, and visit." Privately, the Queen considered that she was in a better circumstance than Lady Tyrell; at least Mary was being raised and cared for by people she trusted and esteemed, rather than someone she hated.
The lady sighed inaudibly, and folded her letter back into a more compact form before shoving it into her pocket and looking up at the altar. Though Lady Tyrell was trying to adopt an expression of courtly cordiality, the conflict she was feeling was very apparent on her face, and Katherine was once more reassured that she was in no danger from this woman, not when her feelings showed so clearly in her face and eyes.
"It is hard, sometimes, is it not, Lady Tyrell? To reconcile yourself to God's will," the Queen commented softly. "Especially when it hurts you so."
Lady Tyrell nodded silently, understanding gleaming in her dark eyes. "Yes, Your Majesty," she agreed.
The two of them sat in silence for a few moments more before Katherine stood. "Come now, Lady Tyrell," she said as the woman stood with her, "let us return. I hope, in time, you will come to be more comfortable at court, and even enjoy your service here. And friends, I think, will help you," Katherine added leadingly, cutting her eyes to where Maud Knivert sat in the back of the chapel with the other ladies. Judging by the way Lady Tyrell's cheeks flushed, she'd understood the Queen's subtle encouragement. With a smile, Katherine added, "I will pray for your son."
"Thank you, Your Majesty," Lady Tyrell murmured, and followed the Queen meekly and quietly out of the chapel, and back to her apartments.
And though Katherine knew that little had changed, she felt a little more hopeful now than she had in the morning.
Though it was often a burden as well as a blessing, Clara currently had cause to be deeply grateful for her hypersensitive hearing. Without it, she would not have been able to hear the Queen's approach before Her Majesty entered the chapel, and thus would've been caught reading a book of John Skelton's poetry in church. Which was probably not the best impression to make on the extremely devout queen.
But thankfully, her hearing was hypersensitive, and she'd been able to hear Queen Katherine's approach and stuff the book into her pocket before the lady even passed the door of the chapel. (Though perhaps that wasn't very hard, given the way the Queen's presence was announced at every doorway she passed.) The fortnight-old letter from Berkshire (which she was carrying around as both a bookmark and an oft-needed reminder as to why she was even bothering to live at court in the first place) didn't fit, though it had provided a useful reason as to why she was shirking her duties (truthfully, because she was sick to death of sewing and had probably lost at least a pint of blood through her fingertips during the past few days). And while Clara did feel a little bit guilty about misleading Her Majesty about her reasons for seeking solitude... well, it wasn't as though she'd never done it before.
She'd been very young when she realised that the church was quieter than most other places, and barely seven when she realised that if she did most of her reading in said church, people would think she was praying and be much less likely to drag her away to do other, less interesting things. Like her tendency to gossip, it wasn't an element of her character that Clara was particularly proud of, but it was one that she found too useful to overcome.
She was a bit sorry she'd missed seeing Thomas More, though. She would've liked to have said hello, and showed him that she was much as she always was, and that she was behaving well and was thus far in no danger. The fact that he'd remembered her and stopped to see her at all made her feel a bit giddy, like she had bubbles rising up from her stomach and tickling her heart. Though her ebullience was slightly restrained by the knowledge that he apparently hadn't said much about her at all—the Queen hadn't known anything about her, and thus hadn't heard anything from Sir Thomas at all.
Well, at least he'd thought of her.
Unlike some Thomases she could name.
"So, Mistress Mouse," Maud Knivert, who had been walking beside her as they returned to the Queen's apartments, began tentatively, voice kind, "have you any skill with tapestries? I am working on one at the moment, and would be grateful for your help."
Clara bit back a scowl. Why on earth did Sir Thomas have to resurrect that old nickname? And here at court, too, of all places, where she'd hoped to have a fresh start? What would it take to lay that epithet in the ground for good?
"I will gladly help you with your tapestry, Lady Knivert, provided you never call me Mistress Mouse again," she eventually replied, deciding to respond to Maud's overture, shed her resentment, and try to make friends. The Queen was right, she did need some (and want some; she'd been rather lonely thus far, when she wasn't terrified and uncomfortable). Besides, it wasn't Maud's fault Clara had learnt a harsh lesson at her hands; better Maud than someone less welcoming, Clara supposed.
Maud looked a little surprised at Clara's reply, and her cheeks flushed with embarrassment as they passed through a doorway behind the Queen. "Forgive me, I didn't know... Sir Thomas said," she fumbled awkwardly as Her Majesty and the rest of them spilled back into the royal apartments.
"I met Sir Thomas when I was a maid of honour to the Duchess of Norfolk, and everyone was still calling me 'Mouse'," Clara explained as she followed Maud back to her tapestry. "But that was more than a decade ago, and no one really calls me that anymore. Except Sir Thomas. I wish he would not," she confessed. "It was a childish name, and I have long since put away childish things. And I dislike being called 'mouse'," she added sourly.
"I can quite understand. Some things are like that," Maud commiserated, her plain face creasing with understanding. "My cousins still call me 'Maudy Thursday'. Just when you think everyone's forgotten, someone brings it back and starts the whole mess over again. If only they would let such names die a natural death."
Clara nodded in fervent agreement, and accepted the needle Maud offered her as they settled down by the tapestry frame. Their conversation was still tentative, avoiding any mention of Benedict Gage or Arthur Tyrell, and centred mainly around the past and their respective childhoods. Maud had come to court to serve the Queen as a Maid of Honour nearly seven years ago, thanks to a cousin of hers who was one of the King's closest companions.
But even as they laughed quietly together (especially when Maud finally took the needle from Clara's hand and banished her to untangle the embroidery floss), Clara was still mindful of her resolution towards greater reticence and ensured that she took care to mind the words that passed her lips. It wasn't really something she'd ever had to worry about before, and it made her feel tired, like she'd aged years in the span of a few days.
There was also the awareness that she wasn't as good at arranging her face and hiding her inner feelings as she thought she was. Clara knew that during her tête-à-tête with the queen, she'd been displaying far too much of her actual thoughts on her face and in her eyes; there was, apparently, a world of difference between arranging your face when you were alone with a trusted friend, and arranging your face when you were sitting an arm's length away from the Queen of England while she had all her attention focussed entirely on you. She hoped this would be something that would improve with practise. It was... humbling, Clara supposed was the word, to realise how very inexperienced and insignificant and altogether unready for this life she was.
I suppose this is part of putting away childish things, she thought inwardly, trying to unknot a skein of green thread from a tangle of yellow. I just didn't know growing up would make me feel so small.
28 March, 1529
Clara missed Thomas Cromwell most on Sundays. Oh, she missed him during other times of the week as well (and especially on the days when she sallied forth from Whitehall to tutor Alice and Joan), but Sundays were the days when his absence stung the most. They had used to spend Sundays together, attending Lutheran sermons before retiring back to Austin Friars to discuss them. Those were good days.
This—her first Sunday at court—was not a good day. Not only was she bereft of Thomas Cromwell, she was also forced to suffer far too much noise, far too much incense, far too many people... far too much Catholicism. And, worst of all, Lord Rochford had looked at her.
Clara and Thomas Boleyn hadn't crossed paths much at all since she had come to court. This wasn't precisely a surprise; after all, Clara was in the Queen's service and Boleyn was the father of the woman who was attempting to replace her. When they were in the same room (usually when Clara was passing through one gallery or another on an errand or trailing along after someone else), Boleyn didn't deign to notice her at all, his arctic gaze sliding past her as though she was scenery. But today, as he passed by the pew she occupied with the other ladies-in-waiting, Thomas Boleyn paused in his steps, met her eyes for a moment, and smiled.
It had made her shiver.
Thankfully, no one had asked her about it, and Rochford hadn't looked at her again. But still, Clara found it very discomfiting. She fidgeted all through mass, and the moment the Queen dismissed her ladies to do as they pleased, she made her excuses to the others and headed for the apartment she shared with Benedict, where she could be alone and escape the scrutiny of the courtiers—including Thomas Boleyn, Viscount Rochford. What was he doing, looking at her like that? Was he trying to frighten her, or send her a message, or imply some kind of oblique threat? She didn't know, and resolutely put the matter out of her mind as she settled down with Christine de Pizan's Book of the City of Ladies and kicked off her shoes.
Which was how Ralph Sadler found her, later.
She was so engrossed in her book (one of her old favourites) that she didn't realise the footsteps she was hearing in the corridor were coming towards her own door until she heard the soft knock on the wood. With a hissed oath, she quickly marked her place in the book with a bit of ribbon and grabbed for her shoes. Lord only knew who was at the door, and she couldn't very well greet him (or her, she supposed) without being fully dressed. Perhaps in Leicestershire she could've gotten away with such informality (especially if she took care to make sure her skirts hid her feet), but never, ever at court.
She only had one shoe laced when the person at the door knocked again, and called, "Lady Tyrell?" through the door.
"One moment, I pray you!" Clara called back, shoving her foot into her other shoe and forgoing the laces as she stood and tried to straighten her dress and her hood before hurrying over to the door. The voice sounded vaguely familiar to her, but she couldn't quite recall whose it was, and she didn't have time to try and figure it out, either.
Of course, when she finally opened the door, she wished she'd realised who it was sooner, and pretended not to be there.
She froze like a spooked deer when she registered Ralph Sadler's ginger hair and lanky body in the doorway. The memory of their last encounter surged forth, and Clara realised that the last time Thomas Cromwell's chief clerk had laid eyes on her, she'd had her skirts up around her waist and her hand halfway down his master's breeches.
Her cheeks went brick red and she dropped her eyes down to the floor. "Master Sadler," she squeaked after a long moment of awkward silence.
"Lady Tyrell," was Sadler's reply, and he sounded at least as awkward as she felt. "I... have a message for you, madam. If I might..."
He trailed off, and Clara suddenly realised that they were in full view of anyone who might wander by, and that any letter Sadler was giving her was likely something she didn't want anyone else knowing about. With a quick glance around her surroundings as she listened for anyone coming or going or being near, Clara ushered Ralph into the room quickly and shut the door behind him. It was only after she'd latched it behind him did she realise that she was once again alone in a room with a single man unrelated to her, and that this was the exact kind of behaviour she ought to be avoiding.
Judging by Ralph's tense posture and the way he was pointedly not looking at her when she turned around, he was aware of it as well. Or perhaps he, too, was remembering the circumstances of their last meeting. Once the door was closed, he immediately produced a letter from his doublet. "This arrived for you, Lady Tyrell," he said quietly, extending it towards her.
Clara approached him slowly and cautiously, wondering what he was thinking, whether or not he scorned her inwardly as some kind of wanton harlot. But Ralph Sadler was pushed to the back of her mind as soon as she saw the direction written on the front of the letter, and realised who had written it, and where it had come from.
Thomas had written to her.
She whisked the letter out of Ralph's hand immediately, a happy grin overtaking the mortified blush on her face. The letter felt as though it was more than one leaf of parchment, and she brought it to her nose, wondering if it would have the scent of Rome clinging to it still (although, admittedly, she did not know, personally, what Rome smelled like). She wanted to break the seal now and start reading... except Ralph was still here... and he was watching her sniff her letter.
Her face went red again, and she wished she could sink into the floor and disappear when he arched a brow over a pale eye. Thankfully, he didn't make any quips or jests, since she probably would've keeled over dead from embarrassment, though his lips quirked upwards slightly at one corner. However, his voice was even as he said, "When you have your reply ready, find a way to place it in my hands, and I will have it included with the dispatches. The next one will be sent on Wednesday."
"Thank you," Clara managed around her constricted vocal chords, feeling the heat still lingering in her face. Though Master Sadler was being courteous and kind, she still felt violently uncomfortable and wished he'd just go away. His presence reminded her of her prior bad behaviour, and how her current behaviour might be seen as bad behaviour, and especially how she would continue to behave badly if she only had the opportunity. And mostly, he was keeping her from reading her letter.
Ralph either read something off her face or understood that she wanted to read her letter in privacy. He opened his mouth; then seemed to reconsider, and shut it again and offered her a bow before moving towards the door. Clara trailed after him, wanting to listen and make sure that there was no one in the corridor to see him emerging from the room, and thus nearly careened into his chest when he stopped suddenly and turned back around to face her.
"What are you doing?" he demanded abruptly, looking down at her. She hadn't realised how much taller than her he was; by her reckoning, Ralph was at least as tall as Thomas. "What do you want?"
What? "I'm just seeing you to the door," Clara replied confusedly. "I... er, I don't want anyone seeing you leave and realise that we were alone..."
Ralph blinked at her a few times, leading her to conclude that they were apparently having two different conversations, before shaking his head. "That isn't what I meant."
Clara bit her tongue before she could retort, well, you weren't very clear. It must have showed on her face, though, since Ralph's expression took on a wry cast. "My apologies, Lady Tyrell," he said contritely, but his generous mouth was still pressed into a firm line and his jaw was set. He was still adamant about getting an answer to whatever question he hadn't been clear about. "What I meant was, what are you doing with Master Cromwell?"
Her subsiding blush roared right back, and Clara gave Ralph the haughtiest glare she was capable of. It probably wasn't much of a glare, considering she was mortified and her face was brick-red, but the general gist was conveyed fluently. Especially when she replied coldly, "I don't think that's any of your business, Master Sadler."
Master Sadler's glare was much more impressive—especially since he drew himself up to his full height and towered over her, glowering down at her with eyes as hard and cold as chips of ice—and when he spoke his voice was deep and flat. "I have been in the Cromwell household for more than ten years, and Master Cromwell is as much a father to me as my own. If you mean to use him or hurt him or trifle with his affections in any manner, I will do everything in my power to destroy you."
Though she had no intentions of doing any of these things and knew Ralph would have no cause to carry through with his threat, it still made her shiver. "I have no such intentions," she assured him, craning her neck a little to meet those icy blue-grey-green eyes, which thawed as she spoke without artifice. "He is one of my friends, you know; I wouldn't knowingly hurt him." Then something Ralph had said to her registered, and she smiled hopefully. "He has affections for me?"
Ralph squinted at her for a moment, as though trying to ascertain if she was in earnest, before he rolled his eyes, his face creasing in a faint smile. "I assure you, Lady Tyrell, that if he had no affections for you, he would not have dared put his hands where he... put his hands," he said, slightly halting at the oblique reference to the clinch of months past. Reassuringly, as well, a pink flush crept across his sharp cheekbones; at least Clara wasn't the only one blushing, although Ralph didn't flush with the same violence.
Then again, he hadn't been the one spread out on the floor, either.
She ducked her head and smiled sheepishly, wishing she didn't have to wear these hoods at court because now her flushed cheeks were visible to all, whereas before her hair would've given her a measure of concealment. She turned the letter over and over in her hands, wondering what Thomas had written to her. Wondering what she might write back. Wondering if he made reference to the nature of his affections, and what he intended to do with them.
"He likes you," Ralph said again, bringing her out of her contemplation. Clara raised her gaze from the floor and looked up at him, and he was still smiling a little, though his brow was a little creased yet. "Don't hurt him."
The request was quiet and earnest, and Clara suddenly realised just how much Ralph Sadler cared about Thomas Cromwell—how much all Thomas' family did. If she did decide that she wanted him, in whatever capacity, she had better be certain about it, because if she hurt Thomas or pulled away from him or changed her mind, she'd also lose her friendships at Austin Friars, and leave herself open to whatever vengeance Ralph would extract. (And Richard would probably help him, too.)
She wasn't sure what to say about it, though, since she wasn't certain what she wanted to do. To be with Thomas was to risk losing her son, and Arthur was everything to her.
But... Thomas.
This was the same conundrum she'd been faced with for months, and it didn't seem to be resolving itself any time soon. Still, she nodded silently, in acknowledgement of Ralph's point.
Ralph either noticed something on her face (she really had to work on that) or perhaps tacitly understood that she'd given him all she could. He smiled faintly at her and said, "Enjoy your letter. Remember, the dispatches leave on Wednesday." Then he carefully opened the door a crack, peered out at the corridor, and then slipped quietly out of the room.
Clara silently blew out a breath before going back to the bed and collapsing down onto it, still clutching her letter. She kicked her shoes back off and moved Christine de Pizan before settling back in and looking at the letter on her lap, running her finger over the writing, before flipping it over and breaking the seal and unfolding the parchment.
My very dear Clara, it began, and a smile spread across her face as she let Thomas' words wrap around her, and looked at Rome through his eyes.
22 March, 1529
Rome was not at all as Thomas Cromwell remembered it. Perhaps Rome was the Eternal City, as the poets said, but that didn't mean it didn't change.
It wasn't only the passage of time which had changed the city, though of course it had. Nor was it the fact that he himself had changed, though of course he had. The last time he'd trod these streets, he'd been a young man of no real account, whereas now he was an established man and a father and here on important business for the king of England. And back then, he'd been a devout Catholic, while now he was a devout Lutheran. It even went beyond the marks left by the marauding Imperial troops, two years ago, though it did have something to do with it. Because the most striking change, for Cromwell, was the feel of the city in the wake of its sacking.
It was... more tense in Rome, now—more harried, more defensive and defiant. This was a city that was even now under attack, and which was also very aware of just how vulnerable it was. The air of bravado and unashamed decadence he remembered was much diminished; the Romans were now all too aware of their own mortality—how easily their walls could be breached and their city laid waste—and of how tenuous a grasp they now kept on the hearts and minds of Christendom, what with the rise of Lutheranism and the challenge they issued, taking the Catholic Church to account for its poor morals.
But at the same time... the more things changed, the more they remained the same. Nihil sub sole novum—nothing new under the sun. Rome was still Rome: still controlled by the Church, still sporting a veil of virtue over its greed and opportunism. And if you wanted results, you still had to grease palms with liberal amounts of money.
He'd been in Rome for nearly a fortnight, now. It had taken him three weeks to arrive—weeks of cold and rain and frozen mud as he rode hard across France. Once he arrived, he settled into a small set of rooms that was set aside for English ambassadors, which was part of a larger palazzo in a part of the city with which he was rather unfamiliar. It was far more affluent than the sections of Rome he'd previously visited.
Once he was settled in, he presented himself at the Vatican as an embassy from His Majesty the King of England. To his complete lack of surprise, he was fobbed off by one of the Pope's household, who gave him pretty promises and assurances of friendship, but led him in a merry dance and did not permit him access to Clement. His Holiness was at prayer; he was eating; he was resting; he was with another ambassador; he was hunting; he was riding; he was hearing confession. He was doing anything and everything under the sun, but he was not available to meet with the Englishman right now.
Cromwell had rather expected such a thing, and admired the cleverness behind such a strategy even as he was annoyed at the delay. He wrote as much to the king in his reports back to England, which he composed after the seventh time he was denied access to the Pope. Thus stymied (at least for the moment), he instead began to make contacts and revive old friendships.
Naturally, the first place he went to was the Frescobaldi family, his old friends. Their fortunes had much fallen in the years he'd been away, since the ascendancy of the Medici had pushed out many of the other merchant and banking families, both from Rome and from Florence, from whence both families came. Franceso Frescobaldi was there still; the ranking member of the family in Rome was Giovanni, Franceso's nephew.
Though Cromwell had never met Giovanni Frescobaldi, and Frescobaldi had never met Thomas Cromwell, they both knew Francesco Frescobaldi, and that was enough to gain the Englishman welcome into the house. Though the fare was plain it was pleasant, and the conversation was enlightening—especially as his long-disused Italian was taken out for a run.
"Bah, Clement is an old waffler," Giovanni scoffed over a dish of wild boar. "He wants to please everyone, and so pleases no one. He'll give you the run-around until you give up and go home, you mark my words."
"And if I were to give chase to him down?" Cromwell inquired in what he knew was absolutely wretched Italian, offering another apologetic look to his host. His Italian was very rusty, but it was improving drastically the more he used it.
Thankfully, his repeated grammatical errors seemed to amuse his companions, and they all took turns correcting him. This time, it was Giovanni's wife Lucia's turn, and she chided him kindly, "'And if I were to chase him down'."
Cromwell repeated her words, and Giovanni eyed him for a moment. His eyes were like keen black buttons, and he idly rubbed his rather weak chin as he took his guest's measure. "You would need to go through the Cardinals and officers of the Curia, if you were to chase down the Pope," he finally replied.
"The King of England is prepared to very generous," Cromwell replied, implying directly that he was prepared to pay for access to the Pope, and more obliquely that he knew well enough how these things worked.
Giovanni seemed to understand, and he grinned and saluted Cromwell with his goblet. "That is good."
"And do you know who the King need to be generous with?" Cromwell inquired delicately.
"Anyone without the surname of Medici," Giovanni grumbled, before giving more specific names. There were the usual Roman families still holding sway in the Curia—Orsini, Farnese, Sforza, della Rovere, Colonna... "But on second thought, don't talk to the Colonnas," he decided. "Clement's still out of sorts with the lot, after what Pompeo Colonna did while he was Vice-Chancellor. He wouldn't likely listen to anything a Colonna had to say, even if they were telling him where to find the Holy Grail," he snorted.
"Nihil sub sole novum," Cromwell pointed out dryly, making Frescobaldi snort. The great Roman families were always falling in and out with the Pope, and with one another. "Who's Vice-Chancellor now?" he wanted to know. The Vice-Chancellor of the Holy Roman Church was one of the highest-ranking officials of the Curia, and naturally a very obvious avenue to take for access to the pontiff.
"Ippolito de Medici, the Pope's nephew," Giovanni replied. "But don't look for him for help."
"Why, is he so loyal to his family?" Cromwell asked, eyebrows flying upwards.
"No, but he is off in Hungary," was the answer.
"Ah."
The subject shifted then in another direction, towards the cloth trade in which both Cromwell and Frescobaldi had a stake, and remained among less loaded topics for the rest of the meal. But later, when Giovanni and Thomas were sitting by the fire alone, the conversation shifted slowly back around, as they could be less delicate now that the women were gone.
"Your house came through the Sack well," Cromwell commented, drawing his glance away from a broken window which had not yet been mended. "Were you here?"
"Mother Mary, no," Giovanni replied vehemently. "We left the city the minute that German army came within twenty leagues. Lucia has family in L'Aquila, so we closed up the house and left."
"Was it very messy when you returned?"
Giovanni threw up his hands. "Like you wouldn't believe. All the windows broken, the yard all torn up, most of the furniture had been chopped up for firewood... and it seems those German beasts don't understand the use of a proper privy, since there was enough shit around to fertilize all the fields of Naples. It took us months to get the house fit for habitation again. Thanks be to God, though, that they didn't find the strongboxes."
"And the rest of your household? Did they live through it well enough?"
"For the most part. A few of our grooms vanished and never returned, and a few maidservants likewise vanished," Giovanni admitted. He heaved a sigh. "Requiescat in pace," he intoned, crossing himself. Cromwell mirrored his gesture after a moment, and then took another swig of wine to wash the Catholicism out of his mouth.
The two men were silent for a moment, before Giovanni broke the peace with an extremely blunt question: "Is it true your king wants to marry his whore?"
Cromwell had a feeling that this would not be the last time he'd have to answer this question. Thankfully, he'd prepared an answer for it long before he arrived in Rome: "The lady of whom you've heard is not his whore, and has nothing to do with this matter. King Henry means to annul his marriage due to the demands of his own conscience and his need for an heir male. He is of a mind to make a French alliance and will likely remarry accordingly, once he's got his annulment."
Giovanni didn't seem to believe him, but Cromwell ensured that nothing other than polite cordiality showed on his face. Finally, the Italian gave an amused huff of laughter and subsided. "You know this will not be easy, this errand of yours," he remarked. "Not with things in Italy being what they are. English gold might not speak louder than Imperial swords."
"Churchmen are always short on cash," Cromwell pointed out.
"And what use is gold if you're not alive to spend it?" was Frescobaldi's retort.
"I'm hoping the men I talk to do not follow that thread of thought to its logical end," Cromwell admitted with a slight grimace, making his host chortle with laughter again. "How likely is that, Signor Frescobaldi?"
"It depends on who you ask," Giovanni shrugged. "I, personally, would talk to the Camerlengo, Agostino Spinola." The Camerlengo of the Holy Roman See was one of the high-ranking officers of the Curia who was essentially in charge of the treasury, and therefore very powerful and important indeed. "He has the Pope's ear, and he will be very open to your king's generosity after the treasury was drained nearly dry by his predecessor."
"Who was that? His predecessor?"
"Francesco Armellini de Medici." Giovanni snorted and rolled his eyes. "You'd think a Medici would be better with figures."
"Non tutti quelli che hanno lettere sono savi," offered Cromwell wryly—'not all those who are learned are wise'—and Giovanni threw his head back and laughed.
"Truth," the Italian agreed. "We all hated him, anyway—and the Romans themselves hated him the most. Spinola's decent, though... and probably in dire need of ready cash, after de Medici's mismanagement, and with that courtesan of his."
"Courtesan?" Cromwell repeated curiously.
"Mistress," Giovanni supplied, as though he hadn't understood the word.
"No, no, I understand the concept," Cromwell assured him. "Who is she, this courtesan of his? I may have to send her some presents, and see if I can't get to him through her. It's a pity Clement doesn't have a mistress himself, or I'd be sending her presents, too," he added dryly.
Giovanni grinned and reached over to slap a hand to Cromwell's shoulder. "Signor Cromwell, you think like an Italian."
Cromwell came away from the dinner with Frescobaldi with a list of names and the location of the villa where the Camerlengo kept his courtesan, and over the next few days, when he wasn't checking in at the Vatican and being promptly rebuffed, he was meeting with Cardinals and greasing palms. He heard lots of pretty promises and the gold fell swiftly from his fingers; only time would tell if his efforts would bear fruit. At least he was well-schooled in patience.
Besides, what other options did he have? Wait for the Pope to see him? That would be a long time in coming; he'd likely be forced to return home to England with his tail between his legs long before the Pope willingly granted him an audience. No, he had to be proactive if he wanted to prove himself to the King. He only hoped that his master could be patient.
Oddly enough, his efforts with the Camerlengo's courtesan bore fruit most quickly. He'd learnt, after making inquiries in the area, that the woman's name was Sabina de Risi and that she was a celebrated beauty. Every single man with whom he spoke was in agreement on that. He also learned that she loved larks, fine pastries, and marzipan—though not together. So he found these things, and sent them to her with the compliments of the English embassy.
After a few of these presents were sent to her home, she replied with a letter thanking him for his gifts and an invitation to wait upon her at his soonest convenience. Cromwell presumed this would be a preliminary meeting, wherein she sounded him out and decided whether or not he would be fit to grace her table and interact with her patron. So he washed himself, donned his best, brushed his hair (as much as he could, anyway), and made his way to her villa off the Via Aurelia on the east bank of the Tiber.
He spoke Italian to the manservant who showed him into the villa's courtyard, but Latin when he was presented to the villa's mistress, strolling lazily around a fountain.
It was true what they said, he discerned instantly, when they said Sabina de Risi was one of the most beautiful women in Rome. It would be equally fair to say she was one of the most beautiful women in all of Italy, and possibly Christendom as well. Cromwell had seen many women during his travels, and he had seldom seen her equal.
She had thick, lustrous hair of the fair golden-blonde that was so prized among women, which framed a white-skinned, oval face in which was set a pair of big, long-lashed eyes which were a clear greenish-gold colour that put him in mind of a wheat field on the cusp of autumn, which sat over a straight, patrician nose and a pair of full, soft red lips. Lips which curved into a lovely, practised smile as Cromwell bowed before her and said, "Felix praecipuus est, cum talis pulchritudine habitare."
"You speak well, for an Englishman," Sabina replied in Latin.
"I passed many years of my youth abroad, Signorina de Risi," Cromwell replied.
"Poi parli italiano, Signor Cromwell?" Sabina riposted with an arch of her pale brow.
"Sì, Donna de Risi, ma molto male," he replied in the same language.
"Then we shall speak Italian," Sabina decreed. "It is a beautiful language."
"Nearly as beautiful as the lips it falls from," Cromwell complimented lightly. Such pretty words were expected of diplomats, especially when they were trying to ingratiate themselves with such women. That it was true didn't hurt at all.
Sabina gave a light shrug and a lazy smile as she accepted the flattery as her due, and beckoned him to approach. He fell into step with her as she meandered slowly around the fountain, basking in the weak winter sunlight. His eyes took in the marble benches and antique statues that decorated the yard, and he caught a glimpse of a room hung with tapestry and ornaments that glinted with jewels. Clearly Spinola kept his courtesan in rich estate.
"Is that an antique?" he inquired of the lady as they wandered past a white marble statue of a young woman with drapery falling around her waist and legs and flowers carved onto the stone around her bare feet. It was possible that was a real Roman antiquity... and it was also possible that the statue's missing nose and arm were something done by the dealer, trying to drive the price up with a false history.
"Yes," Sabina replied with a smile, glancing at the statue in question and giving Cromwell a clear view of her profile before taking his arm and leading him closer so they might view it more closely. "My Cardinal acquired it from a farmer from Perugia who found it in his fields. We think it is perhaps meant to be Persephone."
"Due to the flowers," Cromwell presumed. He glanced up at the missing shoulder of the statue, and leaned in to take a closer look. "It could also be a Venus, if there was once a Cupid perched here. You can see where time has worn away what was once a support," he added, gesturing to a mark on the side of the statue.
Sabina bent to look where he indicated, and her golden hair tumbled over her shoulder, bringing with it the fragrance of cloves and ambergris. It also gave him an excellent view of her creamy white breasts, pushed up by her bodice. She was very... obvious about her physical charms; then again, he supposed, she was a courtesan. Not that her beauty was the only reason; as they continued to discuss possible identities of the statue, which then moved into a conversation about the re-emerging classics and the Greek language, Sabina proved to be intelligent, learned, and witty as well.
Evidently he comported himself well enough to be accepted as a dinner partner; Sabina offered him a place at her table next week when she, her Cardinal, and a few other members of the Curia would be supping and having a look at another antique statue that had been found—a bust of an older man. "I have not yet seen it myself, of course," she demurred. "Agostino does so love his little secrets. And then you will have a chance to speak with him about your master's Great Matter," she added with a sly smile.
Cromwell answered her jab with a smile of his own that was both admiring and a touch long-suffering. "Am I so transparent, madonna?"
Sabina tossed her golden hair with an arch of her neck and a slight undulation of her shoulders which gave him another very flattering view of her décolletage. Cromwell wondered if she was trying to entice him in particular or if this was just how she acted with every man who crossed her path... until he caught a glimpse of her amber-green eyes watching him from under her long lashes, and realised it was something different, and she was trying to draw a reaction from him.
He allowed an amused grin to spread across his face, and gave her a deep bow in acknowledgement. The woman herself gave a light, tinkling laugh and stepped forward to take his arm, leading him out of the courtyard and into the columned promenade. "I assure you, Signor, that you are no such thing," she assured him sweetly. "But you are English and you are come to Rome; you ask to see His Holiness and are rebuffed, and then seek out the mistress of the Camerlengo. One cannot help but make... assumptions."
"'Assumptions' is far too weak a word, madonna; better they should be called 'insights'," he replied. "Your eyes are as watchful and keen as they are beautiful."
"And my ears as well," Sabina said, tilting her head to let her hair slide away to reveal one of the aforementioned ears, before steering him around the covered walkway. She drew him to a stop near the gate, and Cromwell subtly read that his audience with her was nearly at an end—something for which he was thankful. "Come to dine on Thursday," she bid him with a pretty smile, looking up through her lashes. "I will expect you."
Cromwell bid her farewell and thanked her for seeing him with the appropriate flatteries and courtesies, but his mind was only half-present with the golden-haired courtesan. And once he'd taken leave of her and turned his steps back towards his lodgings, the rest of his mind flew away from Sabini de Risi, with her golden beauty and her seductive charms, and back to England, where waited a soft, quiet, honest brunette as different from the courtesan as night was from day.
For the most part, Thomas tried not to think about Clara; he needed to keep his focus here and now and keep his mind as sharp as possible to fence with the many schemers in Rome—one of whom he'd just spoken with. But sometimes, someone or something would catch his attention and bring her roaring back to prominence. This time, it was Sabina's reference to her ears.
He wondered what Clara was doing. He'd heard from Ralph that she was to have a position at court, and by now she was surely established therein; how was she finding it? Had her ears—keener by far than Sabina de Risi's—adjusted to the noise? Had she heard anything of use yet? Why had she not yet written to him? He'd sent her a letter a few weeks back; had it arrived? Perhaps it hadn't, and that was why he'd not yet had a reply. Or perhaps she was too busy with her new duties, and blinded by the splendour of the King's court. Had she been swept off her feet by some younger son with good connections but no prospects who had noticed her graceful body and pretty face and wanted to take the wealthy widow to wife?
But no, he chastised himself as he passed the portal of the palazzo and moved to his chambers, no, Clara would not do that. She gave her word to wait for me, and wait she will. Her word is good.
Unless she chose against you, hissed a voice in his mind. If she chose to be nothing to you, if she wants nothing from you but friendship, she could even now be married elsewhere and you would never know.
No, he said firmly to himself. No, that way lies madness. All I can do is trust to her honour and her honesty.
But if he included in his next letter to her rather more information about Sabini de Risi and her beauty and intelligence and charm than was necessarily warranted... well, it would be well for Clara to realise that she wasn't the only woman in his life. Perhaps it would torment her, as the idea that he was not the only man in hers tormented him.
Cromwell spared a moment to pause at the window and look out over the city of Rome. He allowed himself a bare moment to think of how Clara would love to be here, how she would look out at this same vista with wide brown eyes and an excited beam, for he knew she dearly wanted to see foreign lands. He imagined her following along in his wake as they went about the city on business, imagined her nibbling at pastries and pastas at supper beside him, imagined her listening intently to the language spoken around them and mimicking the sounds and speech after. Imagined her snuggling up to him in bed at night, and resting her dark head on his shoulder.
But then the moment passed, and Cromwell shoved Clara's spectre back into the depths of his mind. She was not here, she could not be here, and if he wanted to see her again he needed to spend his time on working around the obstacles in his path, and not on useless pipe dreams.
That Thursday, he once again put on his best clothing and made his way back to the house of Sabina de Risi. The house was well-lit by torches and braziers set all along the columned promenade, and he was shown into a very loud and merry salon in the centre of which was the golden figure of Sabina herself, surrounded by red-clad churchmen and a few other well-dressed men and women, all in varying hues of the rainbow. Cromwell felt rather drab and dull in his grey velvet and wondered if the colourful crowd around him would scorn him for that, but gave a mental shrug. Perhaps it would please the Italians to look down on him, and if they were pleased, perhaps they would assist him. As for himself, he cared not what they thought of him.
He made his way through the throng to where his hostess held court near a brazier, a man with tousled brown hair and a neatly-trimmed goatee standing close at her side. That must be the man himself: Cardinal Agostino Spinola, the Camerlengo of the Holy See. He was not a bad-looking man, and was wearing a slashed doublet made of blue velvet and pale green hose instead of a Cardinal's red robe. But he was wholly eclipsed by the woman at his side.
Sabina looked particularly well this evening, with her golden hair pulled back with a gold comb and left to tumble freely around her shoulders and arms. Her gown was a rich amber velvet chased with gold and russet embroidery. It made her look warm and real and wholly touchable, for it made a man wonder what she would feel like in his arms, with the velvet soft and warmed by the woman it adorned. And she smiled coquettishly as he approached, and held out her hand. "Ah, Signor Cromwell," she purred. "How good to see you again. I must thank you for the fine brace of pheasants you sent me. My dear," she said, turning to the man at her side and laying a delicate white hand on his arm, "this is the Englishman I told you about—the one who sent us those larks you so enjoyed, and who speaks Italian so well. Signor Cromwell, this is Cardinal Agostino Spinola," she introduced.
Spinola extended his hand, and Cromwell bent to kiss his ring, as was proper for a layman to a cardinal. When he straightened, Spinola's blue eyes were fixed evenly on his face. Cromwell could almost hear the thoughts whizzing and clicking behind those eyes—was this foreigner too close to Sabina, was he good for gold as the rumour went, would he ask for things he couldn't give? But Spinola just gave him a mild smile and greeted him in Italian—a test?
Cromwell replied in the same tongue, and made inquires about the marble bust they were come to view tonight. That set the churchman off about his finding of the bust and how marvellous it was and the revival of the old Roman arts and the standards thereof. Soon enough it shifted into a conversation between himself, the Cardinal, and Sabina which soon enough drew the attention and contributions of the other guests. And once they were all gathered around the host and hostess, Sabina smoothly garnered their attention and led them all into another chamber, lit by a great many torches and candles, wherein rested the bust in question.
Though his attention was focussed elsewhere, Cromwell still took some time to marvel at the bust. It was a portrait made of a middle-aged man with close-cropped curls, a nose that had probably been very hawkish, and very sharp cheekbones. It was missing the tip of the nose and the left ear, though the imperfections did not take away from the overall impression of the carvings. He marvelled at how lifelike it was, even as he always kept a measure of his attention on Spinola.
Cromwell fell back after a few minutes examining the bust, making way for others to take a closer look, and moved slowly but deliberately over to where Spinola stood with Sabina, proudly watching the guests marvel over his new acquisition.
"It is a marvel, your Eminence," he complimented once he'd caught the cardinal's attention. "Have you any idea to the identity of the man?"
"A senator, I believe," Spinola replied with a shrug. "Beyond that, I cannot tell. There don't seem to be any identifying inscriptions."
"Nevertheless, it is still quite magnificent."
Sabina glanced between the two of them and then excused herself, trailing her tapered fingers along Spinola's slashed sleeve slowly as she went, hips swaying. She cast a look over her shoulder, catching her patron staring at her, and their eyes met with an almost-palpable jolt of chemistry. Cromwell was more interested in watching Spinola than Sabina, and therefore caught the expression on his face.
He loves her, Cromwell realised instantly, a shaft of pity lancing through his heart. Because of the Catholic Church's wrong-headed, outdated stance on priests, Spinola would never be able to marry the woman he loved, and Sabina herself would forever be lambasted as a whore because the man who loved her was unable to marry her. He felt a sudden upwelling of determination to see the Church brought down as low as he could, so that such pairings would in the future have a chance to live in the light of day, and not be shoved shamefully into the shadows. And though they would likely never thank him for it—and would probably curse his name—he would think of Spinola and Sabina while he did.
"How is His Holiness?" Cromwell inquired innocently. "I heard he had some digestive complaints today, when I called on him."
Spinola gave him a sideways look and a dry grin. "Who can say? I doubt His Holiness is any danger, though he may be in some discomfort," he replied obliquely.
"Perhaps he will be well enough for me to see him tomorrow," Cromwell said mildly. "I very much wish to do so—as does my master, the King of England, who desires to have friends in the Curia." Thus saying, he slid a hand into his pocket, and pointedly shifted the pouch therein, letting the contents clink against one another in a very distinctive way.
Judging by the interest which lit in the Cardinal's eyes, Cromwell's point had been well made. "I will see what I can do, Signor," he assured him.
The purse discreetly changed hands. "My thanks, Your Eminence. I'm certain His Majesty the King would convey his gratitude as well. Perhaps he might yet have the chance," Cromwell added leadingly.
"I would welcome the chance to earn the King's... gratitude," Spinola returned, just as leading. The two men smiled at each other, sharing a moment of perfect understanding, before Spinola clapped Cromwell on the shoulder and gestured to the throng. "Come, let us join the others. Sabina will be having supper served soon."
And, like a filing moving towards a magnet, Spinola made his way towards his sparkling, golden mistress. Sabina turned and smiled at him as he approached, and Cromwell, following in the cardinal's wake, felt Clara's absence like an ache.
Despite buying the assistance of the Camerlengo, it still took another fortnight until Cromwell was allowed access to the Pope. He spent the time writing reports back to England, doing his best to bribe more Cardinals, dining with his friends, and, oddly enough, dancing attendance upon Sabina de Risi.
The courtesan seemed to have taken a shine to him, for whatever reason, and often invited him to dinners and parties at her house. He'd more than once thanked God that he was a decent gambler, since her card parties were apparently quite infamous. He'd lost quite a bit of money that first night, but was able to win it back a few nights later. And though he accepted the necessity of playing the game while he was a guest, these parties did nothing to disabuse him of his belief that gambling was both dangerous and wasteful.
At least, gambling with cards, for fun.
The sort of gamble he was currently involved in had much higher stakes. There was the Pope on one side, being evasive, and backed by his noncommittal Curia; on the other side was the King of England, who was growing increasingly impatient, as the tone of his missives conveyed. And there in the middle sat Cromwell, needing to put pressure on one and pacify the other.
He was finally shown into the Pope's presence chamber in the first week in April, in the middle of St. Peter's. As expected, he knelt before the pontiff and kissed the proffered foot, shoving down his revulsion and scorn to a place in the farthest back corner of his mind as he arranged his face into an expression of quiet reverence and respect.
"Welcome, my son," Pope Clement VII said grandly, sitting back in his throne.
Cromwell murmured something appropriately courtly while thinking, in the back of his head, that Jesus Christ himself had never occupied a throne. Show me in scripture where it says 'pope', he thought—a wisp of contemplation that was there and then swiftly tucked away.
The Pope made no mention of his evasiveness and the fact that he'd rather not be talking to any English embassy, and Cromwell made no mention of the fact that he'd had to resort to bribing cardinals to get an audience. Instead, Clement spread his hands and asked magnanimously, "Now, what news from our beloved son the King of England, the Defender of the Faith?"
Clever reminder of what Henry owed the Vatican, though that had been Leo X who bestowed the title—this pope's elder cousin. Perhaps Clement had been hearing the rumours that the King was threatening to withdraw his allegiance from Rome? Cromwell didn't bat an eye, however, and merely replied, "His Majesty begs Your Holiness to write to Cardinal Campeggio and bid him hurry the legatine hearing along. His conscience torments him with the thought of living any longer in sin with his brother's wife."
There, that was diplomatic and carrying the essential points of King Henry's argument. Although it was amusing to imagine how the Pope would respond if he marched in and repeated Henry's injunction word-for-word (vulgarities included), it would also be intensely counterproductive.
Clement had an expression of benevolent understanding on his face which did not quite conceal the irritation hidden in the corners of his eyes or pursed in the corners of his lips. "I well understand my beloved English son's troubles, and I pray daily that our most gracious and mighty God may give him peace," he said piously.
Cromwell nodded soberly. "And His Majesty is grateful for your prayers. However, he was also rather hoping your Holiness might take a more... active part in the resolution of his dilemma," he hinted. "Bearing in mind that King Henry is indeed your most beloved son, the Defender of the Faith. Against both heretics and even... other Christians, as needed.." There, that was a nice oblique reference to the Emperor.
The Pope did not react to that, though, and kept that mild expression on his face. "I will act as God guides me, my son," he replied lightly, but with a hint of steel in his tones. "And I will continue to pray that everything will be resolve to the satisfaction of all parties involved."
Impossible, Cromwell thought scornfully. Henry would only be happy if he got his annulment; Katherine would only be happy if Henry left off the whole idea and let Princess Mary stand as heir; Anne Boleyn would only be happy if she were Queen; the Emperor would only be happy if his aunt remained on the throne and his cousin, presumably, continued on as heiress. Most of these things fell into two distinct categories which were mutually exclusive to one another. Only one party would be truly content with the outcome of this matter, and the way the Pope was carrying on right now he was angering both and satisfying neither.
He gave voice to his thoughts quietly and respectfully, though he felt more inclined to be sharp: "I fear, Your Holiness, that such a thing is quite impossible. The King of England will only be satisfied with a swift trial regarding his marriage to the Princess of Aragon, and a just annulment thereafter."
The Pope sighed slightly, his shoulders sagging a bit, as though weighed down with invisible burdens. Cromwell suppressed a jaundiced sneer; he supposed that balancing the anger of the King of England with the anger of the Emperor was indeed a weighty burden. But the remedy was at hand; should the Pope make a choice one way or another, the burdens would vanish. Admittedly, they would likely be replaced with new ones, since no matter what he chose one monarch would be furious. But that was what diplomacy was for.
"The King, your master, will have to be satisfied with the hearing of his nullity suit in England, and the prayers of Christ's Vicar on Earth," the Pope replied firmly. "We are all in the hands of God, Master Cromwell. God be with you, my son," he added, moving his hand in the traditional motions of a papal blessing.
Apparently, that was the end of it; the audience was now over. As Cromwell bent again to kiss the Pope's toe, he couldn't help but think he hadn't got his money's worth at all. Admittedly, that was part of being in diplomatic service. But the taste of failure still sat bitterly in his mouth.
As he exited St. Peter's, he paused in the shadow of a pillar to look out over the basilica. He noticed the construction taking place in the centre of the square, where was being built a new cathedral, begun by Leo X; he noticed the movements of crimson-clad cardinals and purple-draped bishops; but mostly he noticed the ebb and flow of poor pilgrims coming into and out of the Vatican. Many were clad in sackcloth, and crawled up the stairs on their knees, praying for blessings and salvation and peace.
And suddenly, Cromwell was furious. He hated this whole city and the churchmen who ruled it, hated them for so perverting the original ideals as set down in Holy Scripture, hated them for taking advantage of the faithful believers who had earnest faith in the promises of a decaying institution, which used the tithes and offerings of its flock to enrich its own princes. He hated Rome and all it stood for. He hated it, and vowed inwardly that he would do anything and everything he could to tear it down.
He turned away sharply and walked back to his lodgings, eyes cast down and teeth clenched, feeling the burn of his failure with the Pope and the humiliation at the memory of his old piety and devotion. The black cloud followed him up to his study in the palazzo, where he sat down at the desk and settled in to write a report back to England. He hoped he adequately conveyed the truth of the issue—that the Pope would pray, but do nothing else—while ensuring that the King understood that his servants had done their best.
Cromwell wasn't certain how King Henry would take the Pope's lukewarm reply to his pleas. Oh, the king said he would break with Rome and reject papal authority, but Cromwell wasn't sure if His Majesty was truly serious. He certainly hoped so, because such an England that would be created after would an England he could truly be at home within, and could love with every fibre of his heart. He hoped so, but he also knew that Henry VIII had been a devout Catholic for all his life, taking pride in being the Defender of the Faith.
Then again, Thomas Cromwell had also once been devout, too.
All it took was the right lever to lift a man out of his faith. And if Cromwell were to judge by the frequency of the king's threats to dispatch with the Pope, his enduring passion for Anne Boleyn and his determination to have her at all costs, and Queen Katherine's equal determination not to be put aside... this Great Matter might just be the lever to lift the King—and England—free of this Catholic yoke. So perhaps his failure with the Pope was not such a bad thing after all. No matter how little he enjoyed the feeling now, it was possible that it served a higher purpose, and prove to be fortuitous in the future.
Cromwell sent his report back to England with the fastest courier the embassy had. Spring was blooming across the continent, so the roads would likely be much more passable than they'd been when he came to Rome in winter. One man on horseback could possibly make it from Rome to London and back again within a fortnight, if the man rode hard and switched mounts often and if the weather was good. That was what he hoped; he very much wanted to receive new orders from the King as soon as possible. Since the Pope had stated his neutrality, he would serve no more purpose here, and he wanted to return to England.
While he waited for his new orders, Cromwell carried on much as he had in the weeks before. He made contacts and friends among the merchants and bankers of Rome, avoided the Vatican at all costs, and spent a few more evenings in the company of Sabina de Risi and her glittering circle.
One warm spring evening at the end of March, Cromwell retired from the gaming tables inside and walked out into the courtyard. It was lit by torches and moonlight, and the reflected light from the water in the fountain cast strange shadows on the marble statue of the woman who was either Persephone or Venus. He stood before the stone goddess and looked up at her face, serene and graceful in the pale gleam, and thought about Clara.
He'd had a letter from her a few days ago, tucked in along the dispatches from Ralph. She was indeed at court now, serving the Queen; she wrote of the noise, of the conflicts and compromises she encountered as she settled in, of the new friends she was making and how she missed his guidance and his friendship. The only questions she answered, though, were those contained in his first letter he'd sent to her; apparently his second had not yet reached London.
She was uncertain of him, he could tell; she was just as open in writing as she was in person. She was happy to hear from him and begged him to write again, but she said little of substance and moved delicately around more sensitive subjects. Was it just the distance? Or was this inward reticence a trend that would carry on once they were once again in company together?
He hoped not. He missed her company.
"Should I be offended, Signor Cromwell, that you prefer the company of a marble woman to one of flesh and blood?"
Cromwell turned to see the beautiful Sabina de Risi approaching him, like an apparition out of the moonlight. Tonight, her gown was a deep blue silk sewn with pearls, and it flowed around her like the water in her fountain; her golden hair was bleached nearly white by the moon, and caught back in a silvery net that winked with diamonds. She was one of the finest specimens of womanhood he'd ever seen in all his life; she was witty, and clever, and charming.
And yet she stirred nothing in him but dispassionate admiration.
"Donna Sabina," he acknowledged with a smile and a bow. "Forgive me, it became close inside and I wished to take a breath of fresh air and enjoy the beauty of the spring night."
"But of course," Sabina agreed, sidling up beside him and looking up at the statue. Her fair hair shone luminous in the faint light and the diamonds twinkled at him, but Cromwell could not help but think of another head of hair, soft and dark and tucked away modestly into a snood. "So, Signor, you have talked with the Pope, like your master wanted. How much longer will you be in Rome?"
"So eager to be rid of my company, madonna?" Cromwell quipped. "Why, you were pining for me not five minutes ago."
Sabina let out a twinkling little laugh and tossed her golden curls with a flick of her neck. Cromwell thought of silent mirth shaking in a pair of narrow shoulders, and shy smiles hidden behind a wave of loose brown hair. "Well, you did abandon me for my artwork," she riposted lightly. "Hardly gallant, Signor."
She turned more fully and fixed her green-gold eyes piercingly onto his face; he was unsure of her purpose in doing so, but met her eyes calmly. Even as he held her gaze, however, he still couldn't escape the memory of clear, open dark eyes, and wondered it meant that even when in the presence of a beautiful, charming courtesan he still couldn't get Clara out of his mind.
"Who is she?" Sabina asked him suddenly. "Does she," indicating the statue, "remind you of her?"
"Madonna?" Cromwell asked, his wits startled into flight. How had she divined his thoughts? Had she divined his thoughts, or had something shown on his face? Had his absence from court thrown him off his game? (He didn't think that particularly likely; if anything, the Roman Curia was even worse than Whitehall.) Or was it Clara who was addling his mind?
"Who is she, the woman who has such a hold on your heart?" Sabina asked again.
"What makes you think there's a woman, Donna Sabina? Other than yourself, of course," Cromwell equivocated with a half-smile.
Sabina gave him a flat look. "Please, Signor Cromwell, give me more credit," she chided. She sent him a flirtatious look from under her eyelashes and moved closer to him with a swaying gait. Cromwell raised his eyebrows politely, but otherwise didn't react. "That is how I know," she said, dropping the act and stepping away, her expression amused instead of coquettish.
"I might just be able to control my expression," Cromwell posited mildly, recalling a similar conversation with Clara that had taken place a few months ago.
"You do, at that," Sabina agreed. "But I look with a woman's eyes, Signor, and a woman's heart." She looked evenly at him, the aforementioned woman's eyes huge and liquid in the moonlight. "And my heart tells me that yours lies elsewhere." She pouted at him, and Cromwell wondered if that was why the courtesan kept seeking him out, and apparently favouring him and his company: because he didn't react to her as other men did, since his heart lay leagues and leagues away. "Is she prettier than me?"
Cromwell let the corner of his mouth curl upwards as he answered Sabina honestly in the negative, indulging the courtesan's vanity. No, Clara was not prettier than Sabina, nor more educated, nor more charming. But it was Clara whom he wanted.
He wondered if that meant he was in love.
"Then it must be love," Sabina concluded with an arch smile, echoing his thoughts once more.
"Perhaps it is," Cromwell murmured thoughtfully, looking up once more into the face of the marble goddess, who had lain in the earth for centuries untold, forgotten and neglected, until she was unearthed once more. He craned his neck still further to look up at the moon—the same moon that was surely shining down upon Clara back in England.
Perhaps he was in love with Clara Tyrell. Perhaps Henry VIII would truly break with Rome and preside over an England where faith and the gospel held more sway than idolatry and superstition. Perhaps Anne Boleyn would truly become Queen of England. Perhaps the base-born son of a Putney brewer could take to wife the daughter of a family that had been gentry since the Normans.
The world seemed to spread out before Thomas Cromwell in that moment like a rich carpet, with possibilities gleaming like golden threads running through the weave. Everything seemed possible—a Lutheran England, a Queen Anne Boleyn... a Lady Clara Cromwell.
Perhaps.
A/N part deux: Well, that's that chapter done, finally. I have got to start outlining shorter chapters.
Anyway, I can't make any promises about the timeline of future updates (other than "within six months"); I may have to get a second job to pay for things like health insurance and rent and food, which will cut very deeply into my writing time. But the next chapter will come hopefully a little sooner than this one did; back to England with everyone!
Also, Agostino Spinola was a real person, and actually was Camerlengo under Clement VII. Sabina de Risi, though, is entirely made up; I borrowed some inspiration from In the Company of the Courtesan by Sarah Dunant, and the name was contributed by Mercury Gray. Donna/Madonna is not making reference to the singer or the Virgin Mary; it was an Italian form of address around the time which just means lady/my lady. Same with "signor"; it's Italian for "mister".
Anyway, let me know how/if you liked this chapter! My poor beta's computer broke, so I had to edit this one all on my own. So if I missed anything, it's my fault!
