John grabbed her in his frustration and pushed her towards the anteroom. ‘A man would understand,’ he growled. ‘Women are too flighty. A man would understand that he will be comforted to know that I am still out there. That even when he is gone, his garden will still be there. That his mulberry tree will flower this year, that his chestnut saplings are growing straight, that the new velvet double anemone is thriving, that his bluebells are blowing under the trees of his woods. Go! And get those bluebells into his hands, or I shall have words to say to you!’

He thrust her with such force that she went at a little run to Thomas, who was standing outside the bedroom door, waiting for the orders from his master that never came.

‘Mr Tradescant wants these taken in to his lordship,’ she said, thrusting her armful of blossoms at him. Their slim whippy green stems oozed sap like the very juice of life. She wiped her hand on her apron. ‘He says they’re important.’

Thomas hesitated at the eccentric request.

‘D’you know what he said? He said that women are too flighty to understand,’ she sniffed resentfully. ‘Impertinence!’

Thomas’s sense of male importance was immediately stimulated. He took the flowers from her, turned at once to open the door and crept inside.

A doctor was at the foot of the bed, another at the window, and an old woman, part nurse, part layer-out, was at the fireside where a small fire of scented pine cones was crackling, pouring heat into the stuffy room.

Thomas came quietly forward. ‘Beg pardon,’ he said hoarsely. ‘But his lordship’s gardener insisted he had these.’

The doctor turned irritably. ‘What? What? Oh, nonsense! Nonsense!’

‘Nothing but folly and superstition,’ said the doctor from the window. ‘And likely to spread noxious fumes.’

Thomas stood his ground. ‘It was Mr Tradescant, sir. His Grace’s favourite. And he insisted, the maid said.’

Cecil turned his head a little. The dispute was instantly silenced. Cecil crooked a finger at Thomas.

The doctor waved him forward. ‘Quick. He wants them. But it won’t make a groat of difference.’

Awkwardly, Thomas stepped up to the bed. The aquiline face of the most powerful man in England was etched in sandstone and grooved by pain. He turned his dark eyes sightlessly towards the manservant. Thomas thrust the bluebells into the slack hands. They spilled on to the rich coverlet of the bed, blotting out the scarlet embroidery and the gold thread with blue, blue, nothing but sky blue.

‘From John Tradescant,’ Thomas said.