There was a roar of laughter and approval. Tradescant, sick and cold, turned away. The duke and his companions passed through the crowd and into the narrow corridor. One of the French officers bustled up.

‘My lord duke! I bring news! The best news in the world!’

Buckingham stopped, the crowd behind him pressing forward in the corridor to hear.

‘La Rochelle has broken out! The Protestants are free and the French army is defeated! The French are suing for terms.’

Buckingham reeled, fighting for sobriety. ‘Never!’

‘Indeed, yes!’ the man declared, his English becoming less and less clear in his own excitement. ‘We have won! We have won!’

‘Then we need not sail,’ John thought aloud. ‘My God, we need not sail.’

Buckingham was suddenly powerful and decisive. ‘This alters everything,’ he said.

‘It does,’ Tradescant agreed, pushing through to his side. ‘Thank God, yes. It does.’

‘I must speak with the king,’ Buckingham said. ‘Now is the time to strike against France, we need to go at once, we need to raise a greater army. We should go through the Netherlands, and then …’

‘My lord,’ John said desperately. ‘There is no need. Now we are excused. La Rochelle is free, our wrongs are avenged.’

Buckingham shook his head and laughed his wild boyish laugh. ‘John, after all the trouble I have taken to get here, d’you think I shall go peaceably home again without a cannon being fired! I am wild for a fight, and the men are wild for a fight! We will go to the very heart of France. Now is the time for an all-out attack, now they are failing. God knows how far we could go. We could take and keep French castles, French lands!’

He slapped the French officer on the back and stepped forward. Felton suddenly appeared at his side, pushing through the crowd. Tradescant recognised him with a gasp of fear, saw his eyes were wild and his hand was gripped on the knife in his pocket. He saw the officer who should protect the duke lounging in the doorway, his face buried in a cup of wine.

Buckingham turned to greet a new arrival and swept his graceful bow. There was a slice of time, which seemed to hold and wait, like a petal from a blossom lingering on its fall.

Tradescant saw Felton’s determined face and knew that the great love of his life, his master, was not, after all, untouchable.

‘Save us from him,’ Tradescant said softly. ‘Do it, Felton.’

Late Summer 1628