John took another sip of rum. ‘This is not a woman of sense, this is the queen. She would rather that everything was fashioned to perfection. Even a wildflower meadow. It’s an old fashion in gardening, I did not think to plant one again. And although it is supposed to look wild and untouched, it takes unending work to keep it in flower and keep the weeds checked.’

‘I can do it,’ J said. ‘I’ve never worked on one before. I’d like to do it.’

John raised his glass to his son. ‘And you’ll have little or nothing to do with Her Majesty,’ he said. ‘Since she first showed me the garden and told me what she wanted I have hardly seen her. She is with the king most of the day or with the courtiers. She wants the garden as the backcloth to her theatre of being queen. She has no interest in planting.’

‘Well enough,’ J said. ‘For I have no interest in her.’

John had intended that J would miss the king and queen altogether, and timed the arrival of his son to the date when the court was due to have moved on. But there was the usual delay and confusion, and they were a week late in going. J, cutting the full-blown roses in the rose court and carefully shaking the petals into a broad flat basket for drying, looked up and saw that a short dark-haired woman was watching him.

He took in the wealth of jewels, the rich silk and lace of her gown, and the straggle of courtiers behind her, and pulled off his hat and bowed, as low as he should go for courtesy, but no lower.

‘Who are you?’ she asked abruptly.

‘I am John Tradescant, the younger John Tradescant, Your Highness,’ J said.

‘I want the white petals separated from the pink,’ she told him.

‘I am keeping them apart, Your Majesty,’ J said.

‘You may take them to the still room when they are dry,’ she said.

J bowed. They were to be dried in the silk house and the woman who ran the still room did not need them. These were for the masquing, and the Master of Revels and the Wardrobe Mistress would receive them, but there was little point in arguing when a queen wished to pretend that she understood the running of her palace.

‘I want a tree planted in the middle of this court,’ she announced suddenly. ‘A large tree, and roses growing up to the roots. It is to symbolise my husband’s care of his people. An oak tree, to symbolise his power and strength, and white roses to symbolise the innocent good people, clustered all around him.’

‘Roses don’t like shade, Your Majesty,’ J ventured cautiously. ‘Unfortunately I don’t think they will thrive under an oak tree.’

‘Surely you can plant some!’