We drove across the inner courtyard to a gracious sweep of stone steps up which we ran to get out of the rain, the footman hurrying behind with the large linen bag I had brought with me. At the top, just inside the doors, our way was again blocked, this time by Sir Robert Carr, rubbing his arms against the cold. He bowed.

“Silk is a brave choice for so foul a day,” teased Frankie, ignoring the need for an introduction. I loved how carelessly she broke the rules of engagement.

“Overbury took my cloak,” he said, “and my coach too. I’m sorry he tried to barge through, he’s always in a hurry.” At least I think that is what he said. He seemed to be making great efforts at clarity, yet his accent remained somewhat unfathomable to me. England’s Court had to learn a new language to understand their King and his Scottish nobles. “Sir Robert Carr, your servant,” he said. Perhaps in Scotland you are allowed to introduce yourself to others? I prefer the English way. It is occasionally frustrating but deters strangers who would pester you for favors.

Frankie swept past him and Robert Carr followed us up the stairs, his presence somehow welcome; perhaps it was his unguarded enthusiasm that made him appealing. He was also exceedingly handsome. He tugged the bag from my hand as we climbed, hoisting it over his shoulder like produce. It was said that the King had started to involve Carr in affairs of state, but I found it hard to see that he would contribute much; the man had no cunning. Perhaps that was why he kept company with Sir Thomas Overbury, who had wiles enough for them both.

At the top of the stairs was a very large chamber with long windows looking down onto a formal garden that stretched all the way to the Thames. The walls were hung with tapestries and the floor covered with woven rush, I could smell the meadowsweet in them, but still the place was noisy. There were at least a hundred people gathered, all of them hoping to gain something for themselves. It was thanks to Frankie that I was among them.