I glanced across at Edmund, whose knees were doubtless suffering as mine were, but his eyes remained closed. I wondered if he prayed. But I did not think it could be God or the Virgin or any particular saint that was sustaining him. Perhaps like me he was considering his sins, itemizing them so that he could make a full confession in the morning. As he rarely managed to resist a weekly trip across the river to the Southwark stews I calculated that his time spent with the priest might be longer than mine; unless of course, as he often boasted, he genuinely did not consider it a sin to cross a whore’s palm with silver. Queen Marguerite had been right; although close as brothers, Edmund and I were very different.

One of the candles on the altar guttered and I was glad of the excuse to stand up in order to light a fresh candle from the failing one. I rubbed my kneecaps briskly as I stood. In the flaring of the new flame the pristine steel of our swords cut across my eyes and the gleaming crests of our shields leapt out between them, strangely close. The leopards and lilies of England and France emblazoned there, the very emblems of the royal arms, felt dream-like, but in the sudden brightness Edmund had opened his eyes and reality resumed. Mindful of the presence of the priest who sat sentinel in the choir stalls behind us we did not speak but Edmund aimed a wink at me and slightly lifted the hem of his white tunic. Hidden beneath its folds was an embroidered prayer cushion, one of those laid out for ladies who used the chapel. He had managed to sneak it past the priest and it was clear that his knees were nothing like as cold, cramped and bruised as mine. There were times when I had to admire my brother’s ability to bend the rules but on this occasion I could not help thinking that keeping vigil before an altar on the eve of knighthood, when honour and integrity should actually count for something, was not the right time to cheat the system.