“Every county will buy ten thousand mulberry trees at a shilling a hundredweight,” the King announced, “and I expect you courtiers to do the same. Sir Robert will be the first.” The youth at his side bowed and the clapping grew strained; this was applause with hatred its rhythm. I gadded very often to the theater, it was my greatest pleasure after fashioning, but here was a performance finer than any I had seen, and it thrilled me to have a walk-on part.

“That is the King’s new favorite. Sir Robert Carr. Everyone hates him,” whispered Frankie.

I remembered George’s response when I had quizzed him about rumors that pursued the King. “Sodomy is punishable with death, even to mention it is a crime. The King has written at length to condemn it in the strongest terms,” he had said, as if from a pulpit.

“Of course. But what have you observed?”

My husband paused for a long time. He and I were ever honest with each other.

“He has decried drinking and swearing with equal fervor yet indulges prodigiously in both.”

“That Sir Robert might have ample space in which to plant his mulberries,” the King continued, “it pleases us to grant upon him royal lands abutting his estate of Sherbourne.”

Sir Robert Carr looked abashed, as if the King’s gifts were heaped upon him whether he sought them or not. At his side, however, was a man who appeared vexed.

“Who is the cockerel?” I asked quietly.

Frankie smothered a smile to save her paint. “Sir Thomas Overbury, Carr’s bosom friend,” she whispered. “He is hated even more.”

His head was unusually narrow with deeply indented temples, the divine fingers that pulled him out so thin from his original clay having left their mark. On top was a cockscomb of red hair and his beard was clipped to a sharp point. The avian impression was completed by a very thin nose and small, darting eyes that missed nothing and disdained all. He seemed like a fighting cock on his post, surveying his territory for intruders. I wondered at the King’s favorite wanting the protection of this strutting companion.

We moved into the final room and came to a halt before simmering vats. Thousands of cocoons danced on the surface.

“When boiled sufficiently,” explained Stallenge, “the end of a cocoon comes free, is caught and threaded on to a wheel, unravelling in a single filament as long as St. James’s Park.” The sight of dead caterpillars floating on the heaving water appeared to disturb Frankie but I did not share her dismay. I thought the beauty of silk worth the lives of a few grubs.

“Is there a use for the dead worms?” asked one.

“They could grace your table!”

“Would you like that better than beef?”

“The poor could eat them!”

“A feast for orphans!”

Eventually Master Stallenge made himself heard above the braying courtiers.