The riders ahead of us turn from the road and I see the great gateway before us. I am stunned at the sight of it. It really is a tremendous palace, of beautiful scarlet brick, the most expensive of all building materials, with arches and quoins of shining white stone. I had no idea that it was so great and fine. We ride through the huge stone gate and down the sweeping road towards it, under the entry gate and our horses’ hooves sound like thunder on the cobbles of the great inner yard. Inside is a great court, and the servants coming out of the house fling open the huge double doors so that I can see the hall beyond. They line up, like a guard of honour, in the liveries of the royal Tudor house, according to their rank, row on row of men and women dedicated to our service. This is a house for hundreds of people, a massive place built for the pleasure of the court. Again, I am overwhelmed, the wealth of this country too much for me.

‘What happened to the man who built the house?’ I ask Katherine as we dismount in the great courtyard, amid the noise of the court, the seagulls calling on the river beyond the house, the rooks cawing on the turrets. ‘What happened to the counsellor who offended the king?’

‘That was Cardinal Wolsey,’ she says quietly. ‘He was found guilty of acting against the king and he died.’

‘He died too?’ I ask. I find I dare not ask what blow felled the builder of this kingly house.

‘Yes, died and disgraced,’ she says shortly. ‘The king turned on him. Sometimes he does, you know.’

JANE BOLEYN, HAMPTON COURT,

MARCH 1540

I am back in my old rooms at Hampton Court and sometimes, when I go from the garden to the queen’s rooms, it is as if time has stood still and I am still a bride with everything to hope for, my sister-in-law is on the throne of England, expecting her first child, my husband has just been given the title of Lord Rochford, and my nephew will be the next King of England.

Sometimes, when I pause by one of the wide-paned windows and look down to the garden running down to the river I think I might almost see Anne and George walking down the gravelled paths, her hand tucked in his, their heads close together. I think I might watch them again, as I used constantly to watch them then, and see his little gestures of affection, his hand in the small of her aching back, her head brushing his shoulder. When she was with child she used to cling to him for comfort and he was always tender with her, the sister who might be carrying the next King of England in her belly. But when I was big with my child, it was during our last months together and he never took my hand or felt any sympathy for my fatigue. He never put his hand on my swelling belly to feel the baby move, he never put my hand in his arm and encouraged me to lean on him. There was so much that we never did together that I miss now. If we had been happily married I could not be more filled with regret at the loss of him. We had so much left unfinished and unsaid between the two of us; and it will never be said or finished now. When he was dead I sent his son away. He is being raised by friends of the Howards and he will enter the church, I have no ambition for him. I lost the great Boleyn inheritance that I was amassing for him, and there is no credit to be had from his family name; only shame. When I lost the two of them, Anne and George, I lost everything.