My lord the Duke of Norfolk is returned from his mission to France and closets himself with the king for hours. He is in the highest of favour, anyone can see that he has brought the king good news from Paris. If I could not see the rise of our family in the swagger of our men, in our ally Archbishop Gardiner’s added air of authority, in the appearance of rosaries and crucifixes at belts and throats, I would see it in the decline of the party of reform: Thomas Cromwell’s ill-concealed bad temper, the quiet thoughtfulness of Archbishop Cranmer, the way they seek to see the king and cannot get an interview with him. If I read the signs correctly then our party, the Howards and the Papists, are in the ascendant once more. We have our faith, we have our traditions, and we have the girl that is taking the king’s eye. Thomas Cromwell has sucked the church dry, he has no more wealth to offer the king, and his girl, the queen, may learn English but cannot learn how to flirt. If I were an undecided courtier I would find a way to befriend the Duke of Norfolk and join his side.

He summons me to his rooms. I go to him down the familiar corridors, the smell of lavender and rosemary around my feet from the strewing herbs, the light from the river falling through the great windows ahead of me, and it is as if their ghosts are running just ahead of me, down the panelled gallery, as if her skirt has just flicked out of sight around the corner, as if I can hear my husband’s easy laughter still on the sunlit air. If I went a little faster I would catch them—and so even now, it is just as it always was. I always felt that if only I could go a little faster I would catch them, and learn the secrets they shared.

I hurry despite myself but when I round the corner the panelled corridor is empty but for the Howard guards at the door and they have seen no ghosts. I have lost the two of them, as I always did. They are too fast for me in death as they were in life. They didn’t wait for me, they never wanted me with them. The guards knock and swing open the door for me, and I go in.

‘How is the queen?’ the duke asks abruptly from his seat behind a table, and I have to remember that it is a new queen and not our beloved, infuriating Anne.

‘She is in good spirits and good looks,’ I say. But she will never be the beauty that our girl was.

‘Has he had her?’

This is crude, but I assume he is tired from his journey and has no time for the courtesies.

‘He has not. As far as I can tell, he is still incapable.’

There is a long pause while he rises from his chair and goes to the window to look out. I think of when we stood here before, when he asked me about Anne and George, when he looked out of the window to see them walking on the gravelled paths down to the river. I wonder if he can see them still, even now, as I can. He asked me then if I envied her, if I would be prepared to act against her. He said I might save my husband by putting her at risk. He asked me if I loved George more than her. He asked me if I would mind very much if she were dead.