two men were unknown to me. The elder was large, careless in his dress, with a high complexion and, I judged, a short temper. Already he was tapping his fingers impatiently. I did not care for the look of him.
The other was indeed my cousin Edward Seymour. Throughout my time at Wolf Hall, Edward had been an elusive presence, often rumoured to be about to visit us, but never appearing. Our house of misfits and orphans had been beneath his notice. But now he was here.
My cousin Edward had gloss. He had been brought up with the boy King Edward, our cousin, and it showed. He was only a young man but confidence cloaked him. He was handsome too and, as I entered the room, he stood and he took my hand and kissed it, courtly fashion.
‘Lady Mary. Cousin. I am happy to meet you.’
I could have pointed out to him that he appeared to have been in no great hurry to do so but I did not, bobbing a curtsey, which gained a nod of approval from Liz.
‘Sit. Please.’ He led me to a chair that was placed directly before the circle of inquisitors. ‘Dame Margery and Mistress Aiglonby are known to you, of course.’ His smile was charming. ‘This is our uncle Sir Henry Seymour.’
‘Lady Mary.’ Sir Henry inclined his head with a wintry smile. I could tell at once that he thought me of no account, being a woman and a plain one at that, but because of my name and our kinship he was prepared to show courtesy at least. There were men who said that Henry Seymour lacked the ambition of his brothers, my late father and uncle, but since they had lost their heads for it whilst he had garnered lands and offices, he was self-evidently the wisest of the three. He was certainly too grand and too important to have visited Wolf Hall during my time there. Now I felt his shrewd gaze assessing me.
‘An ill-favoured maid to be the child of so handsome a man and so gracious a lady,’ he said now.
I saw Liz poker up with outrage but I felt nothing but amusement. Nothing could please me more than to be considered undistinguished. Notoriety had served my parents ill. Invisibility would suit me best.
‘Mary will grow to be a beauty,’ Liz said stoutly, although she sounded less than certain.
I settled myself in the chair, folding my hands demurely in my lap. Dame Margery’s frown deepened; she knew my docility was assumed and it was another reason she disliked me. She thought me sly when I was simply careful.
‘Lady Mary.’ My cousin Edward sat forward, pleasantries over. ‘You share a bedchamber with Mistress Banestre?’
I nodded. His gaze grew sharper. ‘Does she ever bring anyone else to your chamber?’
‘A man,’ Sir Henry snapped. ‘Has she brought men into her bed?’
I saw Edward shoot him a look of irritation. ‘Gently, sir. Mary is but a little maid—’
‘No,’ I said bluntly, interrupting, ‘she has not.’
‘Have you ever seen her with a man?’ Edward asked.
I thought of the night when I had seen Alison and her lover kissing on the terrace. I had seen nothing but shadows, no man.
‘No,’ I said.
Liz sat back, the tension in her shoulders slackening. ‘See?’ she said. It was directed more at Dame Margery than the men. ‘She knows nothing of it.’
‘Does Mistress Banestre ever slip out at night?’ Sir Henry demanded. His colour was vivid now, like spilt red wine. He was drumming the fingers of one hand on his knee.
I hesitated.
‘She does!’ Sir Henry said triumphantly. ‘I knew it!’
‘Since she is four months gone with child,’ Edward said with exasperation, ‘we all know she must have done.’
Liz was watching me and saw the shock reflected in my eyes. ‘You did not know, did you, Mary?’ she said gently. ‘You did not know that Alison was enceinte?’
‘No,’ I said for a third time. I hesitated again. I knew little of pregnancy and childbirth but I was not completely ignorant. I had grown up in the country. I had seen farm animals mating and knew that people did it too. I had also been with the others to the Midsummer Fair, where maids and men would slip away with much giggling and touching and disappear into the bushes together.
‘Has she been sick of a morning?’ Dame Margery asked sharply.
‘No,’ I said, once again. ‘Not that I am aware.’
Dame Margery gave a snort of disgust. ‘It seems you have seen and heard nothing! All manner of things might have occurred but you would be in ignorance of them.’
‘Which is precisely as it should be,’ Liz said sharply.
‘Has Mistress Banestre told you the name of her lover?’ Edward picked up the questioning again. ‘Has she mentioned any man’s name to you?’
I realised then that Alison must have refused to disclose the name of the child’s father to them. She had told me that he was handsome, and that she was in love with him, but she had never told me his name.
‘No,’ I said.
‘You are a woman of few words, Cousin,’ Edward teased me. ‘Or perhaps you are a loyal friend.’
‘Alison and Mary are not friends,’ Dame Margery said, as though it gave her pleasure.
‘Then she knows nothing,’ Liz said. ‘If it please you, sir—’ she glanced at Edward ‘—she should be allowed to go.’
Edward nodded. ‘I will see you at dinner, Coz,’ he said. ‘We have much to talk about.’
But it was apparent that both he and Sir Henry were far too busy and important to stay to dinner for less than an hour later they were gone in a spatter of summer dust and clatter of hooves, their entourage with them, and silence settled on Wolf Hall once more.
I found Alison up in our chamber, dragging clothes from a chest and throwing them furiously into a smaller travelling box. She did not look so radiant now. Her face was puffy and tearstained.
‘They’re sending me away,’ she said briefly, answering my unspoken question. ‘I have to go to my aunt in Kent until after the baby is born.’
‘I didn’t know you had an aunt in Kent,’ I said.
‘I don’t.’ She shrugged. ‘I made her up. I was damned if they were going to tell me what to do. I’ll go where I please.’
It sounded like bravado to me but I held my tongue. Alison in this mood was brittle and dangerous. I sat down on the edge of the bed and watched her take out her anger and frustration on her smocks and petticoats. ‘That disgusting old man—’ One of the smocks ripped in her busy hands. ‘Sir Henry. He wanted to beat the name of my baby’s father from me. He said I would scream it soon enough if they stripped me and whipped my back.’
I winced. I had sensed that streak of prurient cruelty in Sir Henry.
‘Why will you not tell them?’
