I have a little trick now which is, whenever he speaks to me like this, I imagine it is Thomas Culpepper, the utterly delicious Thomas Culpepper, and I think how I would answer him to enchant him, and I smile as I would for Thomas, and I say the words I would use to him, to the king. So I say easily: ‘Your Grace, I dare not tell you,’ thinking, ‘Thomas, I dare not tell you.’

And he says: ‘Tell me.’

And I say: ‘I cannot.’

And he says: ‘Tell me, pretty Katherine.’

This could go on all day, so I change the tune and say: ‘I feel so ashamed.’

And he says: ‘There’s no need to feel ashamed, sweetheart. Tell me how you know me.’

And I say, thinking of Thomas: ‘It is a scent, Your Grace. It is a scent like a perfume, a goodly smell that I love, like a flower like jasmine or roses. And then there is a deeper smell, like the sweat of a good horse when it is hot from hunting, then there is a smell like leather, and then a sort of tang like the sea.’

‘I smell like this?’ he asks and there is wonder in his voice, and I realise, with a little shock, that of course this will hit home since in truth he smells of pus from his leg, poor man, and often of farting since he is so costive, and this stink goes with him everywhere so that he has to carry a pomader all the time to block it out from his own nose, but he must know that to everyone he smells of decay.

‘You do to me,’ I say faithfully, thinking hard of Thomas Culpepper and the clean smell of his brown curly hair. ‘There is a scent of jasmine and sweat and leather and salt.’ I look down and lick my lips, just lightly, nothing bawdy. ‘I always know you by this.’

He takes me by the hand and he draws me to him. ‘Sweet maid,’ he breathes. ‘Oh God, sweet maid.’

I give a little gasp as if I am afraid, but I look up at him as if I would be kissed. This is rather nasty, really. He is awfully like my step-grandmother’s steward at Horsham—very old. Old enough to be my grandfather almost, and his mouth is trembling and his eyes are wet. I admire him because he is the king, of course. He is the greatest man in the world and I love him as my king. And my uncle has made clear that there are new dresses involved if I can lead him on. But it is not very nice when he holds me round the waist and puts his mouth wetly on my neck, and I can feel his spittle cold on my skin.

‘Sweet maid,’ he says again, and he nuzzles me with a moist kiss, which is like being sucked by a fish.

‘Your Grace!’ I say breathlessly. ‘You must let me go.’