At that moment a shout from the gallery made us turn, as did other courtiers in the doorway, to be met by the extraordinary sight of Robert Carr marching as if to fight a fire. He was flushed, his silk hose splashed with mud and his cape hanging askew from his shoulder. Frankie walked quickly toward him.

“My love, what are you about?” she said, forcing him to a halt. Carr stared through her.

“I’ve no time to talk,” he said, “there’s rumors that the King’s new cur is to be knighted. I’ve to stop it.”

“Stop it?” said Frankie, rearranging his cloak and poking his frizzed hair into place. “No, Robin, you must not. The whole Court is gathered. He is only to be made a gentleman of the bedchamber, it’s nothing to…”

“Him in the bedchamber? I’ll not have it!”

“Think of the child, do not go in!” whispered Frankie with furious urgency, trying to hold on to her husband, but he barged past her, dislodging his cloak again from his shoulder. The Queen’s guard barred the door to him, which was as shocking to see as Carr’s panic, but he forced his way through and plunged into the crowd.

The King scowled at this dramatic arrival and no one bowed, perhaps unwilling to disturb the proceedings, perhaps because they could see which way the King’s favor was streaming.

“Sire,” said Carr, “any gentleman of the bedchamber must be a knight. This one’s too lowborn to be by your side.” Frankie and I were not alone in staring at him in horror. His wits appeared to have been entirely overridden by fury. Robin Carr would surely be arrested for challenging his monarch in so public and insolent a manner, but the King’s voice was calm when he spoke.

“Tha’s a good notion, my dear Somerset, a good notion indeed.”

Carr blanched. The King did not look at him but at his wife.

“It is St. George’s Day,” announced Queen Anna, loudly, “the best of days to knight our George.”

“Have we a sword?” asked the King, looking about theatrically, as if a sword might appear from behind a courtier’s ear. Carr turned his head from one monarch to the other, stupid with rage.

“God help us,” whispered Frankie. We were pressed close by the crowd and I could feel her hands fidgeting. “The King will not suffer this much longer. Robin will ruin us.”

“Here, my lord,” said the Queen, her voice clear and bright in the embarrassed silence within the chamber. I could see only her hand as she drew a large ceremonial sword from its hiding place on her bed, struggling with its weight. The knighthood had been planned all along and Carr looked even more the fool for not knowing of it.

“This cannot be,” he said. “I’m head of the bedchamber and I do not approve it…”