‘I will not dissemble with you,’ Henry tells Chapuys. ‘As an Englishman, I am always straight in my dealings. An Englishman never lies nor deceives, even for his own profit.’

‘It seems,’ Chapuys snaps, ‘that you are too good to live. If you cannot mind your country’s interests, I must mind them for you. They will not give you territory, whatever they say. May I remind you what poor friends the French have been to you these last months while you have not been able to feed your people? If it were not for the shipments of grain my master permits, your subjects would be corpses piled from here to the Scots border.’

Some exaggeration there. Lucky that Henry is in holiday humour. He likes feasts, pastimes, an hour in the lists, a masque in prospect; he likes even more the idea that his former wife is lying in the fens gasping her last. ‘Come, Chapuys,’ he says. ‘We will have private conference in my chamber.’ He draws the ambassador with him and, over his head, winks.

But Chapuys stops dead. The king must stop too. ‘Majesty, we can speak of this hereafter. My mission now brooks no delay. I beg for permission to ride where the…where Katherine is. And I implore you to allow her daughter to see her. It may be for the last time.’

‘Oh, I could not be moving the Lady Mary around without my council’s advice. And I see no hope of convening them today. The roads, you know. As for you, how do you propose to travel? Have you wings?’ The king chuckles. He reasserts his grip and bears the ambassador away. A door closes. He, Cromwell, stands glaring at it. What further lies will be told behind it? Chapuys will have to bargain his mother’s bones away to match these great offers Henry claims he has from the French.

He thinks, what would the cardinal do? Wolsey used to say, ‘Never let me hear you claim, “You don’t know what goes on behind closed doors.” Find out.’

So. He is going to think of some reason to follow them in there. But here is Norris blocking his path. In his Moorish drapery, his face blacked, he is playful, smiling, but still vigilant. Prime Christmas game: let’s fuck about with Cromwell. He is about to spin away Norris by his silken shoulder, when a small dragon comes waggling along. ‘Who is in that dragon?’ he asks.

Norris snorts. ‘Francis Weston.’ He pushes back his woolly wig to reveal his noble forehead. ‘Said dragon is going to waggle waggle to the queen’s apartments to beg for sweetmeats.’

He grins. ‘You sound bitter, Harry Norris.’

Why would he not? He’s served his time at the queen’s door. On her threshold.

Norris says, ‘She will play with him and pat his little rump. She’s fond of puppy dogs.’

‘Did you find out who killed Purkoy?’

‘Don’t say that,’ the Moor beseeches. ‘It was an accident.’

At his elbow, causing him to turn, is William Brereton. ‘Where’s that thrice-blasted dragon?’ he enquires. ‘I’m supposed to get after it.’