J turned an innocent gaze on the man. ‘I, sir? No. I was talking of oak trees.’

The man met his gaze. ‘There are many who would think that it is as true of royal power as it is of plants,’ he said. ‘There are many who would think that the power of the monarch needs to be pruned and snipped to fit well in the garden and to look well alongside the other grand plants of Parliament and church.’

J was about to agree, his face relaxing from the mask of discretion which he had worn since his arrival; but he remembered his father’s warnings. ‘I don’t know about that,’ he said stolidly. ‘I’m just cutting the roses.’

The courtier nodded and moved away. J did not straighten up until the man was gone. Then he looked after him. ‘The Levellers are in good company then,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘If they’re in the very palace itself.’

J was right. Not everyone who danced in the masques and admired the growing collection of portraits which showed Charles as the fount of wisdom and Henrietta Maria as the greatest beauty believed the images they saw or the words they repeated. To some of them it was a game, to while away the leisure of a kingdom where governing was now done by default; local landlords enforced local laws, and national issues were only intermittently remembered. The young sons of nobility came to court and pretended to be in love with Henrietta Maria, writing sonnets to her dark curls, praising the whiteness of her skin. They hunted with Charles, they entertained him with singing, with dramas, with tableaux. It was an easy life, if inconsequential. Only the more intelligent or the more ambitious wanted more. Only the very few patriots thought that it was no way to run a kingdom which had once been thought of as a world power.

Henrietta Maria would have no talk of change. To assert English power abroad would need an effective army or navy and neither of these could be created without money. There was never any money in the royal coffers, and the only way to raise money was the invention of new and ingenious taxes which could create new revenue without recalling Parliament. The last thing either king or queen wanted was to recall Parliament and suffer the critical commentary of the House of Commons on their plans, on their expenditure, on their religious practices, on their household.

‘Or we could borrow,’ Henrietta Maria suggested at a meeting of the king’s council.

The men bowed. No-one liked to tell the king and queen that England’s credit was at rock bottom.

‘Yes, that’s it,’ Charles said, pleased. ‘See to it, my lord,’ and he smiled and went from the council meeting with the air of a man who has completed his work.