I had seen them together years before, and reflected anew how alike they were, yet how different. Above his light brown beard Lord Hertford’s oval face was pale, and not handsome, with slightly knitted brows that gave him an air of half-suppressed impatient anger. He exuded power, but not authority, or not enough. As a politician he was formidable, but they said he was henpecked and embarrassed by his wife. He wore a long brown robe with a fur collar, and a splendid gold chain round his neck befitting his status as a senior Privy Councillor. Sir Thomas Seymour was more sturdily built, his face another oval, but with regular features and compelling brown eyes above that long coppery beard. While Lord Hertford wore a plain robe, Sir Thomas sported a green doublet of finest silk, slashed at the shoulders and sleeves to show a rich orange lining. He too wore a gold chain, though a smaller one.

The two men removed their jewelled caps and bowed, the links of their chains clinking. We bowed in turn.

‘Master Shardlake,’ Sir Thomas said, a mocking note in his rich deep voice. ‘I hear you are sworn to her majesty’s Learned Council now.’

‘I am, sir.’

Lord Hertford cut across him, addressing Lord Parr. ‘I trust the Queen is in good health, my Lord.’

‘Indeed. She is viewing the Lady Elizabeth’s new portrait this morning, before it is shown to the King. Master Scrots has painted a good likeness.’

‘Excellent. Lady Elizabeth should have a portrait, it is fitting for her high estate.’ He inclined his head meaningfully to where Mary’s new quarters were being built. ‘I am sure the portrait will be a pleasure to his majesty.’

‘Indeed. He loves both his daughters, of course, but now Elizabeth is growing, she needs more – exposure.’

I recognized the coded exchange for what it was. Lord Parr and Lord Hertford were both on the reforming side, and Elizabeth, her father’s least favourite child, was being brought up a reformer, unlike the traditionalist Mary, who had been raised a Catholic before the break with Rome.

Sir Thomas looked bored. He turned to me again. ‘I see, Shardlake, you are on the list of those attending on Admiral d’Annebault.’

‘Indeed, Sir Thomas.’

‘I have a large role on the committee organizing the ceremonies,’ he said self-importantly. ‘There is much to be done. The admiral is bringing a thousand men with him.’ He smiled. ‘It will be a magnificent chivalric celebration of reconciliation after honest combat between soldiers.’

I did not reply. I thought again of my soldier friends who had gone down with the Mary Rose and all the others killed in that failed, unnecessary war.

Seymour raised his eyebrows. ‘Do you not agree? Well – ’ he laughed and squared his broad shoulders – ‘some of us are built and fitted for war, while others are not.’ He glanced ostentatiously at my back.