‘Her Majesty is generous,’ I say. There; the words are said. I have called the silliest of all my maids in waiting ‘Her Majesty’ as if she were a goddess; and that to her uncle.

‘The queen is eager to see you,’ he says. ‘We have all missed you.’

I smile and look down. This is not modesty, it is to prevent me from laughing out loud. This man missed me so much that he was gathering evidence to prove that I had emasculated the king through witchcraft, an accusation that would have taken me to the scaffold before anyone could have saved me.

I look up. ‘I am very grateful for your friendship,’ I say dryly.

We go in through the garden door and there are half a dozen pages and young lords who used to be in my household loitering between the door and the queen’s rooms to bow and greet me. I am more moved than I dare to show, but when one young page dashes up to me, kneels and kisses my hand, I have to swallow down the tears and keep my head up. I was their mistress for such a short time, just six months, it is touching to me to think that they care for me still, even though another girl lives in my rooms and takes their service.

The duke grimaces but says nothing. I am far too cautious to comment, so the two of us behave as if all the people on the stairs and in the halls and the whispered blessings are absolutely normal. He leads the way to the queen’s rooms and the soldiers at the double doors throw them open at his nod and bellow, ‘Her Grace, the Duchess of Cleves,’ and I go in.

The throne is empty. This is my first bemused impression and I almost think, for one mad moment, that it has all been a joke, one of the famous English jokes, and the duke is about to turn to me and say, ‘Of course you are queen, take your place again!’ and we will all laugh and everything will be as it was.

But then I see that the throne is empty because the queen is on the floor playing with a ball of wool and a kitten, and her ladies are rising to their feet, very dignified and bowing, with immaculate care to the right depth for royalty, but only minor royalty, and at last that child Kitty Howard looks up and sees me and cries out, ‘Your Grace!’ and dashes towards me.

One glance from her uncle tells me how unwelcome would be any sign of intimacy or affection. Down I go into a curtsey as deep as I would show to the king himself.

‘Queen Katherine,’ I say firmly.

My tone steadies her, and my curtsey reminds her that we have to play this out before many spies, and she halts in her run and wavers into a small curtsey to me. ‘Duchess,’ she says faintly.