I nod. Where are the idle sluts?

‘No more,’ she says, as if I am so stupid that I don’t understand the really disastrous thing she is telling me.

I nod again. I wish to God someone would come in. Anyone. I should even be glad to see Anne Bassett right now.

‘He cannot do more,’ she says bluntly.

I see a dark colour rising up her face, the poor thing is blushing with embarrassment. At once I stop feeling awkward and I feel such pity for her; really, this is as bad for her to tell me as it is for me to hear. Actually, it must be worse for her to say than for me to hear, since she is having to tell me that her husband feels no desire for her, and she doesn’t know what to do about it. And she is a very shy, very modest woman; and God knows, I am not.

Her eyes are filling with tears as her cheeks are growing red. The poor thing, I think. The poor, poor thing. Fancy having an ugly old man for a husband and him not being able to do it. How disgusting would that be? Thank God I am free to choose my own lovers and Francis was as young and sleek-skinned as a snake, and kept me awake all night with his unstoppable lust. But she is stuck with a sick old man and she will have to find a way to help him.

‘Do you kiss him?’ I ask.

‘No,’ she says shortly.

‘Or . . .’ I mime a stroking motion with my right hand lightly clenched at hip level; she knows well enough what I mean.

‘No!’ she exclaims, quite shocked. ‘Good God, no.’

‘Well, you have to do that,’ I tell her frankly. ‘And let him see you, leave the candles burning. Get out of bed and undress.’ I make a little gesture to indicate how she should let her shift slide off her shoulders, slither down over her breasts. I turn away from her and look over my shoulder with a little smile, slowly I bend over, still smiling over my shoulder. No man can resist that, I know.

‘Stop,’ she says. ‘Not good.’

‘Very good,’ I say firmly. ‘Must be done. Must have baby.’

She turns her face one way and the other, like a poor trapped animal. ‘Must have baby,’ she repeats.

I mime for her the opening of a shift, I stroke my hand down from my breasts to my fanny. I close my eyes and sigh as if in the grip of tremendous pleasure. ‘Like this. Do this. Let him watch.’

She looks at me with her serious face very grave. ‘I cannot,’ she says quietly. ‘Katherine, I cannot do anything like that.’

‘Why not? If it would help? If it would help the king?’

‘Too French,’ she says sadly. ‘Too French.’

ANNE, HAMPTON COURT,

MARCH 1540

This great court is on the move, from the palace at Whitehall to another of the king’s houses, called Hampton Court. No-one has described it to me but I am expecting to see a good-sized farmhouse in the country. In truth, I am hoping for a smaller house where we can live more simply. The palace of Whitehall is like a little town inside the city of London and twice a day, at least, if I were not guided by my ladies I should get lost. The noise is constant, of people coming and going, striking deals, having arguments, musicians practising, tradesmen offering their goods, even pedlars come to sell things to the housemaids. It is like a village filled with people who have no real work to do but gossip and spread rumours and cause trouble.