Then Henry says, very soft and sweet, that it is time for us to retire, and thank God Lady Rochford comes in and takes me away from the rest of them, and she has a new and beautiful nightshift for me with a matching cape to go over the top, and I change my gown in the queen’s own dressing room because I am queen now.

‘God save you, Your Grace,’ she says. ‘But you have risen very high indeed.’

‘I have, Lady Rochford,’ I say, most solemnly. ‘And I shall keep you by me if you advise me and help me in the future as you have done in the past.’

‘Your uncle has commanded me to do just that,’ she says. ‘I am to be head of your privy chamber.’

‘I shall appoint my own ladies,’ I say, very haughty.

‘No, you won’t,’ she says pleasantly. ‘Your uncle has already made the chief appointments.’

I check that the door is closed behind her. ‘How is the queen?’ I ask her. ‘You have just come from Richmond, haven’t you?’

‘Don’t call her queen.’ She stops me at once. ‘You’re the queen now.’

I tut at my own stupidity. ‘I forgot. How is she, anyway?’

‘She was very sad when I left,’ she says. ‘Not for the loss of him, I don’t think. But for the loss of all of us. She liked the life as Queen of England, she liked the rooms and being with us, and everything about it.’

‘I liked it too,’ I say wistfully. ‘I miss it too. Lady Rochford, does she blame me very much, d’you think? Did she say anything against me?’

Lady Rochford ties my nightgown at the neck. There are little seed pearls embroidered on the ties, it is a most heartwarming gown, it will comfort me on my wedding night to know that I am wearing a gown that costs a small fortune in pearls. ‘She doesn’t blame you,’ she says kindly. ‘Silly girl. Everyone knows that this was not of your doing—except that you are young and pretty and no-one can blame you for that. Not even her. She knows that you did not plan her fall and her unhappiness, any more than you are responsible for the death of Thomas Cromwell. Everyone knows that you don’t matter at all in this.’

‘I am queen,’ I say, rather nettled. ‘I should think I matter more than anyone.’

‘You are the fifth queen,’ she points out, quite unmoved by my irritation. ‘And to be honest, there has been none worth the name of queen since the first one.’

‘Well, I am the queen now,’ I say stoutly. ‘And that is all that matters.’

‘Queen of the day,’ she says, going behind me to spread out the little train of my nightshift. It too is heavy with seed pearls, it is the most gorgeous of gowns. ‘A mayfly queen, God save your little majesty.’

JANE BOLEYN, OATLANDS PALACE,

30 JULY 1540

The king, having won his rose without a thorn, is determined to keep her close. Half the court don’t even know that the wedding has taken place, left behind at Westminster, out of touch with everything that is happening here. This is the king’s private circle, his new wife, her family, and only his most trusted friends and advisors; I am among them.