A SERVANT opens the chest. JAMES looks into it. He lifts a superb, jewel-encrusted dress.

JAMES. An old style.

He holds the dress against himself. He sweeps a half turn.

Now this is glory. Made, no doubt, for some great occasion?

CECIL (embarrassed by JAMES holding the dress). Yes. A coronation.

JAMES. This is Elizabeth’s coronation dress? (Caresses it.)

CECIL. No. Her mother’s.

JAMES (holding the dress against him). Anne Boleyn, the harlot Queen herself, crowned in this?

CECIL. There was a miniature with it…

He holds out a miniature on a chain. JAMES steadies it for a moment, peering.

JAMES. Ah. The Boleyn swan neck, still in the night thoughts of young men. The pure white curve of skin, across it the line of the blade blossoming with blood.

JAMES stares on. CECIL coughs. JAMES comes out of it.

She was crowned in this? That witch’s body, folded within these very creases? (Laughs.) Think… (Lifting the hem up his leg.) The hem slid up to the thigh by the hand of the great Henry himself. There could even be… (Lifts the dress right up, looking on the underside.) interesting stains.

JAMES ruffles through the underside of the skirt, intent on what he is doing.

CECIL. Your Majesty, er…

He is ignored. JAMES suddenly buries his face in the dress and sniffs, deeply.

(Aside.) I put this man on the throne of England. What have I done?

JAMES. Vile! Vile! The stink of witchcraft! (Throws the dress down on the chest.) Burn it.

CECIL. At once, Your Majesty.

JAMES. No, leave it! (Peering into the chest.) What else is in there? The Boleyn woman’s head? (Laughs.)

CECIL. Nothing else was found…

But the hyperactive JAMES is all over the chest, kicking it, thumping it, kneeling beside it, hitting the inside with a dagger.

JAMES. All our secrets in hiding places, through the dangerous years. The lies we think are truths, behind tapestries, loose stones in stairwells, false drawers…

CECIL. Your Majesty, perhaps help…

JAMES rips out the bottom of the chest and throws it away. He stands, two small books, bound in black leather, in his hands. He opens one.

JAMES. A New Testament? (Turns to the title page.) This is William Tyndale’s translation! And she has written her name within: ‘Anne B. by the mercy of Christ…’

CECIL. Tyndale? He was a fanatic.

JAMES. But a great scholar. (Flicking through the small book, intent on it.) He translated from the original Greek. Erasmus’s fine edition, I have it…

CECIL. Scholar or not, the man was a dangerous agitator, Sire. They did burn him, when they caught him…