‘The evening together, you mean,’ John suggested. ‘The duke will have gone to his wife, the Duchess Kate, at night, when the dinner was over.’

The messenger from London shook his head. ‘He lay that night with the king,’ he said firmly. ‘In the king’s own bed in the king’s own bedchamber.’

John nodded briefly and turned away. He did not want to hear more.

‘And he sent a letter for you,’ the man went on, digging into his pocket.

Tradescant wheeled around. ‘A letter! You damned fool, why did you not say so at once?’

‘I did not think it was urgent –’

‘Of course it’s urgent. He may want me at a moment’s notice, you may have delayed me with your kitchen gossip and your nonsense about beds and nights and rose petals –’

John dragged the letter from the man’s hand and took two stumbling strides to be away from him, so no-one could see the words on the page. He glanced at the seal, the duke’s own familiar seal, broke it and unfurled the page. He had written in his own hand. John tightened his grip on the paper. It was in his own idiosyncratic spiky handwriting, and it was headed ‘John –’

The relief was almost too much. He could hardly see the words as the paper shook in his hand. The duke had summoned him, the sharp word on the quayside meant nothing. Buckingham wanted him at his side and now their life would begin together as they had planned.

‘Grave news?’ the messenger enquired from behind John.

John flattened the letter to his body. ‘Private,’ he said shortly and took the letter out into the garden like a stolen sweetmeat to devour on his own. He found the knot garden deserted and he walked down one of his own neat paths and sat on a small stone seat at the end of a miniature avenue. Then, and only then, he opened the letter for his lord’s commands.

John –

A ship, the Good Fortune, is in the Pool of London with a dozen boxes of curiosities for my rarities room. They are goods from India, carved ivory and worked rugs and the like, some gold and some silver cabinets. Also there is a small box of seeds which will be of interest to you. Do fetch them to New Hall for me, or send someone you can trust. I shall be at Whitehall for Christmas with my king. – Villiers.

That was all. There was no message bidding him to Whitehall, no summons. There was no word of love or even remembrance. He was not cast off, he was not a spurned lover. He did not stand high enough for rejection. Buckingham had simply forgotten the promises, forgotten the nights, and moved on to other things.