‘Yes, indeed.’ I changed the subject. ‘It seems, Master Cecil, that we shall be working closely, perhaps even facing danger together.’

He nodded seriously. ‘Yes. I did not know things would come so far as this.’

‘Nor I.’ I looked round curiously. ‘Why is everyone gathered here?’

‘Do you not know? When the King is in residence at Whitehall he always makes a public procession to the chapel on Sunday mornings.’

‘The Queen too?’

‘Yes. Observe.’

As I watched, a group of guards exited the ornate door of the King’s Guard Chamber and took up places before it. Then another group, Gentlemen Pensioners in their black livery decorated with gold, marched out with their halberds. Then came the King. As he was on the side nearest to me, I could only catch a glimpse of the Queen on the other side of that vast bulk, a quick view of a brightly coloured dress. Those who wore caps took them off and then loud cheers erupted from the crowd.

I looked at Henry. Today he was dressed in formal finery: a long cream satin robe with broad padded shoulders furred with marten. He looked slightly less obese than when I had seen him last, and I wondered if he was corseted, as he was said to be when he went abroad in public. Those huge bandaged legs were covered with black hose. He walked very stiffly, leaning on a thick, gold-headed walking stick, his other arm through that of a Gentleman Pensioner.

The King walked round the courtyard and turned to smile at the crowd, at one point doffing his black cap embossed with little diamonds. I saw, though, how his lips were clenched together and sweat stood out on his red brow and cheeks. I could not help but admire his courage in still presenting himself to his public as a man who could walk. It must cost him great pain. He doffed his cap once more, his little eyes darting round the courtyard, and for a moment I thought they rested on me. He passed on slowly, down the other side of the courtyard and in through the doorway of the Great Hall. Senior officials and councillors followed: I saw the stern bearded face of Paget; thin-faced, red-bearded Wriothesley; the red-robed Duke of Norfolk in the procession.

‘I thought he looked at me for a second,’ I whispered to Cecil.

‘I didn’t see. I should think he was concentrating on keeping his feet. They’ll put him in his wheeled chair as soon as he’s out of sight.’ He shook his head sadly.

‘How long can he go on?’ I asked.

Cecil frowned and leaned in close. ‘Do not forget, Master Shardlake, it is treason to foretell the death of the King. In any way.’