John looked deliberately vague. He was disinclined to gossip and in any case he had seen more than enough of the royal princes and princess. Princess Mary was only a baby and not yet at court but Prince Henry, the heir and the darling of the whole court, was an arrogant boy whose charm could be blown away in a moment’s rage. His sister, Elizabeth, had all the Tudor temper and all the Tudor hastiness, and poor little Prince Charles, the second surplus heir, the rickety-legged runt of the litter, ran behind his stronger, older, more attractive siblings all the day, breathless with his weak chest, stammering with his tied tongue, longing for them to turn and pay him attention.

They never did. They were courted beloved spoiled children, the first children of four kingdoms, and they had no time for him. John would see them boating on the lake or riding across the park and never looking back as poor little Charles struggled to keep up.

‘I scarcely see Their Highnesses,’ he said.

‘Oh, well!’ Gertrude leaped to her feet in frustration. ‘Tell Elizabeth I called in to wish her well. I’m surprised she is not downstairs by now. Tell her that I said she should stir herself. And tell her that the baby should be called George David.’

‘No, I don’t think so,’ John said in the same quiet tone of voice.

‘What?’

‘I will not tell her any of that. And you shall not tell her either.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

John smiled his easy smile. ‘Elizabeth shall stay in bed until she is well again,’ he said. ‘We were lucky not to lose her. It was a hard birth for her, and she was hurt inside. She shall rest as long as she wants. And we won’t be calling the child George or Robert or James or Charles or Henry or David. He’ll be John, after my grandfather, and after my father, and me.’

Gertrude flounced towards the door. ‘It’s very dull!’ she exclaimed. ‘You should save your name for another child. The first child should be named in such a way as to encourage a sponsor!’

John’s smile never wavered but his face was dark with regret. ‘There won’t be another child,’ he said. ‘There will only ever be this one. So we will name him as we wish, and he will be John Tradescant, and I will teach him how to garden.’

Gertrude paused. ‘Not another child?’ she asked. ‘How can you say such a thing?’

He nodded. ‘I called the apothecary from Gravesend. He said that she could not manage another birth, so we shall only ever have this, our son.’