It is strange, this journey in my own barge with the pennant of Cleves over my head. Travelling alone, without the court following behind in their barges, and without a great reception ahead of me, reminds me, as every day reminds me, that the king has indeed done what he wanted to do—and I can still hardly believe it is possible. I was his wife; and now I am his sister. Is there another king in Christendom who could perform such a transmutation such as that? I was Queen of England and now there is another queen, and she was my maid in waiting and now I am to be hers. This is the philosopher’s stone, turning base metal to gold in the twinkling of an eye. The king has done what a thousand alchemists cannot do: turn base to gold. He has made that basest of maids, Katherine Howard, into a golden queen.

We are coming ashore. The rowers ship their oars in one practised motion and shoulder them, so the oars stand upright in rows like an avenue for me to walk through, down the barge from my warm seat, huddled in furs at the stern, to where the pages and servants are running out the gangplank and lining the sides.

And here’s an honour! The Duke of Norfolk himself is on the bank to greet me, and two or three from the Privy Council, most of them, I see, kinsmen or allies of the Howards. I am favoured by this reception, and I see by his ironic smile that he is as amused as me.

Just as I foretold, the Howards are everywhere; the kingdom will be out of balance by the summer. The duke is not a man to let an opportunity slip by him; he will take advantage, as any battle-hardened veteran would do. Now he has occupied the heights, soon he will win the war. Then we shall see how long it is before tempers fray in the Seymour camp, in the Percy camp, among the Parrs and Culpeppers and Nevilles, among the reformist churchmen around Cranmer who were accustomed to power and influence and wealth and will not tolerate being excluded for long.

I am handed ashore and the duke bows to me and says, ‘Welcome to Hampton Court, Your Grace,’ just as if I were still queen.

‘I thank you,’ I say. ‘I am glad to be here.’ Both of us will know that this is true for, God knows, there was a day, several days, when I never expected to see Hampton Court again. The watergate of the Tower of London where they bring in traitors by night—yes. But Hampton Court for the Christmas feast? No.

‘You must have had a cold journey,’ he remarks.

I take his arm and we walk together up the great path to the river frontage of the palace as if we were dear friends.

‘I don’t mind the cold,’ I say.

‘Queen Katherine is expecting you in her rooms.’