All of us, that is, except those who already know that they are not the victims but the trap itself. The king’s agents at the court of the queen are Lady Rutland, Catherine Edgecombe, and me. When she is arrested we three will give evidence against her. Thus will we be safe. At least we three will be safe.

I have not yet been told what evidence I shall give, just that I will be required to swear to a written statement. I am beyond caring. I asked the duke my uncle if I might be spared and he says that on the contrary I should be glad that the king should put his faith in me again. I think I can say or do no more. I shall give myself up to these times, I shall bob along like a bit of driftwood on the tide of the king’s whim. I shall try to keep my own head above the water and pity those that drown beside me. And, if I am honest, I may keep my own head up by pushing another down, and snatching at their air. In a shipwreck, it is every drowning man for himself.

There is a thunderous knock at the door and a girl screams. We all jump to our feet, certain the soldiers are at the door, we are waiting for the word of our arrest. I look quickly at the queen and she is white, whiter than salt, I have never seen a woman blanch so pale except in death. Her lips are actually blue with fear.

The door opens. It is my uncle, the Duke of Norfolk, looking long-faced and cadaverous with his black hat on his head like a hanging judge.

‘Your Grace,’ he says and comes in and bows low to her.

She sways like a silver birch tree. I go to her side and take her arm to keep her steady. I feel her shudder at my touch, and I realise that she thinks I am arresting her, holding her while my uncle pronounces sentence.

‘It’s all right,’ I whisper; but of course I do not know that it is all right. For all I know there are half a dozen of the royal guard standing out of sight in the corridor.

She holds her head high, and she raises herself up to her full height. ‘Goot evening,’ she says in her funny way. ‘My lord duke.’

‘I am come from the Privy Council,’ he says, as smooth as funeral silk. ‘I regret to say that the plague has broken out in the city.’

She frowns slightly, trying to follow the words, these are not what she was expecting. The ladies stir, we all know there is no plague.

‘The king is anxious for your safety,’ he says slowly. ‘He commands you to move to Richmond Palace.’

I feel her sway. ‘He comes also?’

‘No.’

So everyone will know that she has been sent away. If there was plague in the city, then King Henry would be the last man in the world to be boating up and down on the Thames tra-la-la-la-ing with his lute and a new love song all the way to the Lambeth horse ferry. If there were sickness in the evening mists curling off the river then Henry would be away to the New Forest, or to Essex. He has an utter terror of illness. The prince would be despatched to Wales, the king would be long gone.