Cecily smiles. Edmund, her studious son, and Edward, who learns by throwing himself against every obstacle until it falls before him. Look at him, there’s down on his cheek and muscle at his shoulder. None of Edmund’s rangy thinness. They share a chamber still, of their own choice. Edmund runs faster, but when they wrestle, or practise swords, Edward can’t help but win.

The little ones are asleep when she comes to them: George, her Irish dragon, and baby Richard, who everyone’s taken to calling Dickon to mark a difference from his father. She watches them breathe. The evening is warm and there’s sweat in the folds of the baby’s neck, dampness in the curls at George’s temple. She kisses their heads, gives an Ave for each, and goodnights their nurses. Sons and daughters. God-given for a purpose.

The next morning she calls her secretary again. This time, at her order, he writes.

In good black ink she has it set down that she is Marguerite’s obedient servant and beadswoman; makes much of the honour of being received by her at Walsingham. She says she would rejoice to come to her again, but begs leave, for she suffers still under the same sickness that assailed her there. She doesn’t mention the lost child. No mother-in-waiting wants to hear of that. She speaks instead of her great sorrow, and her lord’s, at being estranged from their most Christian king, their merciful sovereign. A grief so deep, she calls it, that it is sure to shorten their days. She begs Marguerite to reconcile them to her husband’s favour. Pretends to believe it’s his opinion that matters.

On the subject of the royal pregnancy, she must be effusive. ‘I pray daily for Your Grace’s safe delivery,’ she bids her secretary write. Though whether from childbed or this mortal life she doesn’t specify.

The scratching of his quill ceases as she thinks and takes to pacing again. When she passes the window for the third time, she stops by it and looks down on to castle green, where Edward and Edmund stretch growing sinews to fire arrows into butts. She sighs. Alright.

‘Set this down. I beseech God and his mother, to whom we lately prayed together, to prosper you and the child you carry …’

Window to fireplace and back again. The thunk of an arrow meeting its mark.

‘… and to send the blessed fruit of your body into this world with speed and felicity, for the safety of England and the joy of its people …’

Thunk.

‘… and for the longed-for solace of my simple heart.’

Dear God. Even her secretary looks askance at that one. She stares him down for a final flourish.

‘Be assured, Your Grace, that though my body is wretched, I will not spare its pains to entreat God for the continuance and prosperity of your queenly estate in all honour, joy and … so on.’