The royal guards come first, and then his companions, handsome and overdressed as always. Then he comes in with a touch of awkwardness, limping slightly on his sore leg. I sink down in a low curtsey and I can smell the familiar stink of his wound as I come up. Never again will I have to wake with that smell on my sheets, I think, as I step forwards and he kisses me on the forehead.

He looks me up and down, frankly, as a man appraising a horse. I remember that he told the court that I smell and that my breasts are slack and I can feel my colour rising. ‘You look well,’ he says begrudgingly. I can hear the pique behind his praise. He was hoping I would pine with unrequited love, I am sure.

‘I am well,’ I say calmly. ‘Glad to see you.’

He smiles at that. ‘You must have known I would never treat you unfairly,’ he says, happy at the thought of his own generosity. ‘If you are a good sister to me then you will see I shall be kind to you.’

I nod and bow.

‘Something’s different about you.’ He takes a chair and gestures that I may sit on the lower chair beside him. I sit and smooth the embroidered skirt of the blue gown over my knees. ‘Tell me. I can judge a woman just by the look of her; I know that there is something different about you. What is it?’

‘A new hood?’ I suggest.

He nods. ‘It becomes you. It becomes you very well.’

I say nothing. It is French-cut. If the Howard girl has returned to court he will be accustomed to the very height and folly of fashion. In any case, now I no longer wear the crown, I can wear what I please. It’s funny, if I was of a mind to laugh, that he should prefer me dressed to my own taste, than when I tried to please his. But what he likes in a woman he would not like in a wife. Katherine Howard may discover this.

‘I have some news.’ He looks around at my small court of companions, his gentlemen standing about. ‘Leave us.’

They go out as slowly as they dare. They are all longing to know what will happen next. I am certain that it will not be an invitation to me to return to him. I am certain that it will not be; and yet I am breathless to know.

‘Some news that may distress you,’ he says to prepare me. At once I think that my mother has died, far away, and without a chance for me to explain how I failed her.

‘No need to cry,’ he says quickly.

I put my hand to my mouth and nip my knuckles. ‘I am not crying,’ I say steadily.

‘That’s good,’ he says. ‘And besides, you must have known it would happen.’

‘I didn’t expect it,’ I say foolishly. ‘I didn’t expect it so soon.’ Surely they should have sent for me if they knew she was gravely ill?