Apart from the building, there was little to do in the gardens in the cold spring days, but John liked to walk around and see that the streams and fountains were clear of leaves, and that the little green snouts of bulbs were pushing their way defiantly through the cold earth. When it was warmer he would plant a new bowling green for Their Majesties, and he watched the men digging, rolling, and harrowing the earth until every smallest stone was gone and the ground was ready for the seed. They grumbled when he made them dig in the old rotted dung from the stables and then water it till it froze and melted and froze again, but John insisted that the ground be rich and smooth before the seed was scattered.

When the snowdrops were thick as ice under the trees, snow-white and green, John thought of his lord Buckingham, who had loved to see the first snowdrops at New Hall. But when the daffodils came through he thought of Elizabeth, who had died with their golden colour all around her. There could be no doubt that Elizabeth had gone straight to heaven, he thought. She had lived a life which was as blameless as any woman’s, and she had died surrounded by that golden blaze of glory. At least he had been able to give her that.

As for the duke, it was impossible that there could be a God who loved beauty who could resist him. The king himself loved him and prayed for his soul every day. John felt that the two people in the world that he had truly loved were at peace, and he found he could bear the short cold days and the long cold nights.

He was thinking of the two loves of his life – his passion for the duke and his steady reliable affection for Elizabeth – and watching the water in the fountain of the great court when a shadow fell on the basin of the fountain and he looked around. It was the king. John pulled his hat from his head and dropped to his knee on the cold stone.

‘How many years is it now, since your master died?’ the king asked abruptly. He did not look at John, but kept his gaze on the cold water in the marble basin.

‘Five years and seven months,’ John said instantly. ‘He died towards the end of summer.’

‘You can get up,’ the king said. He turned from the fountain and started to walk down the path, a small gesture commanded John to follow him.

‘I don’t think a man like that can ever be r … r … replaced,’ the king said, half to himself. ‘Not in a king’s council, not in the heart.’

John felt the usual dull ache at the thought of Buckingham.