‘Because the king has ruled how the church services are to be arranged,’ John said firmly. ‘And they are to be done by a certified vicar in church on Sunday.’

‘But Buckingham’s own mother is a Papist,’ Elizabeth pointed out. ‘And the queen herself. They do not obey the king and the archbishop. And they do far worse than simple men reading their Bible and praying in their own language to God.’

‘You cannot compare Her Majesty with simple men, with J!’

She turned her calm face to him. ‘I can, and I do,’ she said. ‘Except that my son is a godly young man who prays twice a day and lives soberly and cleanly while the queen …’

‘Not another word!’ Tradescant interrupted her.

She shook her head. ‘I was only going to say that the queen’s conscience is her own concern. I know that my son takes nothing but what is his own, bows to no graven idols, avoids priests and their wickedness, and says nothing against the king.’

John said nothing. It was undeniable that the queen did all of these things. It was undeniable that the queen was a wilful Papist who had sworn that she hated her husband and hated his country, and would speak neither the language nor smile at the people.

‘Whatever his conscience, J has taken the duke’s wage,’ John pointed out. ‘He is his man while he draws that wage. The duke, right or wrong.’

Elizabeth got up from the table and stacked the dinner platters for washing. ‘No,’ she said gently. ‘He works for the duke until he can find himself another, better master. Then he can leave him, he can leave without a moment’s regret. He has sworn no loyalty, he has given no promise. He does not belong to the duke until he is released by death. He does not follow the duke, right or wrong.’

She looked across at John. The candle on the table showed the heaviness around his eyes, and the determination in her face. ‘It is only you who are so bound,’ she said. ‘By your own love for him. And by an oath of your own making. Not J. You have bound yourself, John; but my son, thank God, is free.’

John heard in the kitchen of New Hall that the duke’s homecoming had been sweeter than his own. The whole royal court had ridden out of London to meet him in a great cavalcade of riders with seventy coaches carrying the ladies to throw rose petals and rose water and greet the returning hero. The queen alone had avoided his triumphal return, but only her immediate household had stayed away and sulked. The king had thrown a great dinner to celebrate the triumphal return, and after dinner he had drawn Buckingham away from the crowds and into his private bedchamber and the two men had spent the night together, alone.