It was dole day, and officials from the almonry stood at the main gate handing packets of food to a crowd of beggars, who were being closely watched by the guards. The remains of each palace meal, which consisted of far more than any one man could eat, were usually distributed daily to hospitals and charitable organizations, but twice a week the ‘broken meats’ were given out at the gate, a sign of the King’s generosity.

Though most in the courtyard ignored the scene, going about their business as usual, I saw that two men were watching. I recognized both from the burning four days ago. One, in silken cassock and brown fur stole, was Bishop Stephen Gardiner. Close to, his dour countenance was truly formidable: heavy, frowning brows, bulbous nose and wide, broad-lipped mouth. Standing with him was the King’s Secretary, William Paget. As usual, he wore a brown robe and cap; the robe had a long collar of miniver, thick snow-white fur with black spots. He ran the fingers of one square hand over it softly, as though stroking a pet.

I heard Gardiner say, ‘Look at that woman, shamelessly pushing her way past the men, thrusting out her claws at the food. Did this city not have sufficient demonstration at Smithfield that women must keep their place?’

Paget said, ‘We can show them again if need be.’ They made no attempt to lower their voices, quite happy to be overheard. Gardiner continued frowning at the beggar crowd; that glowering disposition seemed to be how this man of God turned his face to the world. Paget, though, seemed only half-interested in the scene. As I passed them I heard him say, ‘Thomas Seymour is back from the wars.’

‘That man of proud conceit,’ Gardiner replied contemptuously.

Paget smiled, a thin line of white teeth in his thick beard. ‘He will get himself in trouble before he’s done.’

I walked on. I remembered the ladies talking about Thomas Seymour in the Queen’s Privy Chamber. Brother of the leading reformist councillor, Edward Seymour, now Lord Hertford, Catherine Parr would have married him after her second husband died, had not the King intervened. I knew the Queen and Seymour had been carefully kept apart since, with Seymour often sent on naval or diplomatic missions. I had had dealings with him before, not pleasant ones. Paget was right, he was a foolish and dangerous man, a drag on his ambitious brother. I wondered what the Queen would be feeling about his return.