I wait for the dinner to end and for the king to leave his place and walk between the tables, greeting men and women as he goes. He is affable tonight, his leg must be less painful. It is often hard to tell what ails him, for he is bad-tempered for so many different reasons, and if I inquire after the wrong cause, that can give offence too.

As I see him walk away I look down the hall and I catch Thomas Cromwell’s eye. I crook my finger and he comes to me, and I rise and take his arm and let him lead me away from the dining table and to a window overlooking the river, as if we are admiring the view and the icy night with a dozen sparkling stars.

‘I need help, Master Secretary,’ I say.

‘Anything,’ he says. He is smiling but his face is strained.

‘I cannot please the king,’ I say in the words I have rehearsed. ‘Help me.’

At once, he looks quite sick with discomfort. He glances around him as if he would shout for help for himself. I am ashamed to be speaking so to a man, but I have to get good advice from somewhere. I cannot trust my women, and to speak to my advisors from Cleves, even Lotte, would be to alert my mother and brother whose servants they are. But this is not a true marriage, this is not a marriage in deeds as well as words. And if it is not a marriage then I have failed in my duty to the king, to the people of England, and to myself. I have to make this marriage a real one. I have to do it. And if this man can tell me what is wrong then he must do so.

‘These are . . . private matters,’ he says, his hand half-covering his mouth as if to stop any words coming out. He is pulling at his lip.

‘No. This is the king,’ I say. ‘This is England. Duty, not private.’

‘You should be advised by your women, by your Mistress of Maids.’

‘You made the wedding,’ I say, groping for words. ‘Help me make it true.’

‘I am not responsible . . .’

‘Be my friend.’

He glances around as if he would like to run away, but I will not release him.

‘These are early days.’

I shake my head. ‘Fifty-two days.’ Who has counted the days more carefully than me?

‘Has he explained his dislike of you?’ he demands suddenly. The English is too fast for me, and I don’t understand the words.

‘Explained?’

Cromwell makes a little noise of irritation at my stupidity and glances around as if he would summon one of my countrymen to translate. Then he checks himself as he remembers that this must be a complete secret.

‘What is wrong with you?’ he says very simply and very quietly, his mouth to my ear.

I realise that my face is stunned, and quickly I turn to the window before the court can see my shock and distress.