He led me down a narrow corridor, past a magnificent Venetian vase on a table covered with a red turkey-cloth. ‘We must pass through the King’s Presence Chamber, then the Queen’s. There will be more young courtiers waiting to see the great ones of the realm,’ he added wearily. Then, suddenly, he paused and raised a hand. We were by a small, narrow mullioned window, open against the heat of the day. Lord Parr looked quickly round to see if anyone was in the offing, then laid a hand on my arm and spoke, quietly and urgently. ‘Now, quick, while we have the chance. You should see this, if you are to understand all that has happened. Look through the window from the side, he does not care to be seen thus. Quick now!’

I looked out and saw a little courtyard covered with flagstones. Two of the sturdy, black-robed Gentlemen Pensioners were helping an immense figure, clad in a billowing yellow silk caftan with a collar of light fur, to walk along, supporting him under the arms. I saw with a shock that it was the King. I had seen him close to twice before – during his Great Progress to York in 1541, when he had been a magnificent-looking figure; and again on his entry to Portsmouth last year. I had been shocked then at his deterioration; he had become hugely fat, and had looked worn with pain. But the man I saw now was the very wreck of a human being. His huge legs, made larger still by swathes of bandages, were splayed out like a gigantic child’s as he took each slow and painful step. Every movement sent his immense body wobbling and juddering beneath the caftan. His face was a great mass of fat, the little mouth and tiny eyes almost hidden in its folds, the once beaky nose full and fleshy. He was bare-headed and, I saw, almost bald; his remaining hair, like his sparse beard, was quite grey. His face, though, was brick-red and sweating from the effort of walking round the little courtyard. As I watched, the King suddenly thrust up his arms in an impatient gesture, making me jump back instinctively. Lord Parr frowned and put a finger to his lips. I glanced out again as the King spoke, in that strangely squeaky voice I remembered from York: ‘Let me go! I can make my own way to the door, God rot you!’ The guards stepped aside and the King took a few clumsy steps. Then he stopped, exclaiming, ‘My leg! My ulcer! Hold me, you clods!’ His face had gone ashen with pain. He gasped with relief as the men once again took him under the arms, supporting him.

Lord Parr stepped aside, gesturing me to follow. Quietly, in a strangely toneless voice, he said, ‘There he is. The great Henry. I never thought the day would come when I would pity him.’