Buckingham went swiftly through the door to the antechamber but the guards barred John’s way.

‘I’m with my lord,’ John said.

‘No-one goes in but the prince and the Villiers: mother and son,’ the guard replied. ‘His orders.’

John fell back and waited.

The door opened and Buckingham looked out. His face was pale and grave. ‘Oh, John. Good. Send someone you can trust to fetch His Grace the Bishop of Winchester. The king needs him.’

John bowed and turned on his heel.

‘And come back here,’ Buckingham ordered. ‘I have need of you.’

‘Of course,’ John said.

The court was subdued all day. The king was worse, there could be no doubt of it. But the countess was said to be confident. She was applying another plaster, the king was feverish, she was certain her cure would draw the heat from him.

In the evening a message came that the Bishop of Winchester was too ill to travel. ‘Get me another bishop,’ Buckingham said to John. ‘Any bloody bishop will do. Get me the nearest, get me the quickest. But get me a bishop!’

John ran down to the stables and sent three menservants riding out to different palaces, with three urgent summonses, and then went back to the gallery outside the king’s rooms to wait for the duke.

He heard the long low groan of a man in much pain. The door opened and Lady Villiers came out. ‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded sharply. ‘What are you listening for?’

‘I am waiting for my lord,’ John said quietly. ‘As he bid me.’

‘Well, keep others off,’ she ordered. ‘The king is in pain, he does not want eavesdroppers.’

‘Is he getting better?’ John asked. ‘Has his fever broken?’

She gave him an odd, sideways smile. ‘He is doing well,’ she said.

The fever did not break. The king lay sweating and calling for help for two more days. Buckingham said that John could go back to New Hall but he could not bear to go until he had seen the end. The court went everywhere on tiptoe, the flirting and gambling had ceased. Around the sombre young prince was an aura of silence – everywhere he went people fell quiet and bowed their heads. The courtiers longed to recommend themselves to him; some of them had sided with his father against him, some of them had laughed at him when he had been a tongue-tied weakly younger son. Now he was the king-to-be, and only Buckingham had completely accomplished the great balancing act of being the greatest friend of the father and the greatest friend of the son.

Buckingham was everywhere. In the sick room, watching at the king’s bedside, walking with Prince Charles in the garden, moving among the men at court giving a word of reassurance here, a carefully judged snub there.