I hesitate. I am longing to say yes, I am longing for the gifts that will come my way and the fuss that everyone will make of me if I am seen to take the king’s eye. But Anne Boleyn, my cousin, this man’s niece, must have felt that too. He may have given her the very same advice, and look where it got her. I don’t know how much of a part he played in helping her to the throne, nor whether he helped her on to the scaffold. I don’t know if he will take better care of me than he did of her. ‘What if I can’t do it?’ I ask. ‘What if something goes wrong?’

He smiles down at me. ‘Are you telling me that you doubt for a moment that you can make any man fall in love with you?’

I try to keep my face grave; but my own vanity is too much for me and I smile back at him. ‘Not really,’ I say.

JANE BOLEYN, HAMPTON COURT,

MARCH 1540

We are riding to London, to the palace of Westminster for the opening of parliament. But this riding back to London is not the same as when we were riding out. Something has happened. I feel as if I am an old hound, the pack leader, who can lift her grizzled head and smell the change in the wind. When we rode out, the king was between the queen and young Kitty Howard and anyone looking at them would have seen him distribute his smiles between his wife and her friend. Now, to me, perhaps only to me, the scene is quite different. Once again the king rides between the queen and her little favourite but this time his head is turned, all the time, to his left. It’s as if his round face has swivelled on the fleshy neck and got stuck. Katherine holds his attention like a dancing mayfly holds the attention of the fat, gaping carp. The king is goggling at Katherine Howard as if he cannot take his eyes from her; and the queen, on his right, and even the Princess Mary on her other side, cannot divert him, cannot distract him, can do nothing but provide a shield for his infatuation.

I have seen this before—my God—so many times. I have been at Henry’s court since I was a maid and Henry was a boy, and I know him: a boy in love, a man in love, and now an old fool in love. I saw him run after Bessie Blount, after Mary Boleyn, after her sister Anne, after Madge Shelton, after Jane Seymour, after Anne Bassett, and now this: this pretty child. I know how Henry looks when he is besotted: a bull, ready to be led by the nose. He is at this point now. If we Howards want him, we have him. He is caught.

The queen reins back to speak with me, and leaves Katherine Howard, Catherine Carey, Princess Mary and the king riding together before us. They barely turn their heads to see that she has gone. She is becoming a cipher, a person of no significance.