When the King finally appeared on the arm of a gentleman of the bedchamber, he opened his arms wide and cried, “My dear lad!”

Stiffly, he climbed the wooden steps to the marital bed and settled against the barrow of his favorite’s legs. These he patted and rubbed, making the groom shift about like a schoolboy. For all his carping about the King’s demands, I could see that Carr sought the love of this man who was, at the least, both sovereign and father to him. Two weeks previously, he had been made Earl of Somerset so that Frankie would suffer no loss of rank when they married. From page to earl in six years; I did not wonder that he appeared dazed on occasion, and sometimes afraid.

That this moment had arrived was a miracle, dearly bought. At the back of my mind I could still hear Weston reciting a ditty sung in every ale shop, tavern and marketplace between here and Dover, since news of Frankie’s annulment became known.

There was at Court a lady of late,

That none could enter she was so straight,

But now with use she is grown so wide,

There is a passage for Carr to ride.

When I was young, there was no news. Gossip perhaps, about neighbors, but nothing of high persons. Since then, a great hunger has arisen in the bellies of ordinary people to know everything that happens beyond their own parish. The streets are littered with the ballads and broadsides ripped from the doors of churches and walls of taverns to make way for the next. No person is safe from the libelers and intelligencers, not even the King, and especially not the Howards. It was printed that Frances had depraved habits, suffered from the French pox, could not contain her lust and so on, all for the scandal of her escaping a cruel husband not of her own choosing. The only good thing was that Sir Thomas Overbury’s death was never mentioned in the broadsheets.

The King reached out and took the silk of Robin’s nightshirt in his fingertips. “How fine worm-spit can look on a man,” he said. “Eh, lassie?” he addressed Frankie. “Are ye content? Rid of yer gelding and riding a stallion now, eh? Is he going to make a mother of ye? Did ye do yer duty, Rabbie? Got over yer cold feet?” The King’s eyes were damp at their red corners.

“Aye, Sire,” said Robin, looking down at the King’s hand on his leg. Frankie made to take out the bloodied cloth that I had put there the night before, but the King waved this away with an expression of distaste. “No need, no need,” he said. “Ah feared it was an omen when the mechanics of yer masque failed last night.”

“My own machine works fine, Sire,” said Robin, grinning.