‘It is because you have looked at horror without flinching that I talk with you,’ he says, and for the first time this evening there is a warmth in his voice, I almost think I hear affection. ‘Who would I trust better than you, with my ambitions for the family? Your courage and skill have brought us here. I don’t doubt but that you will take us forwards. You must know a young man who would be glad of a chance at the queen. A young man who could easily meet with her, a dispensable young man who would be no loss later on. Perhaps one of the king’s favourites that he encourages to hang around her.’

I am almost gagging with fear. ‘You don’t understand,’ I say. ‘Please, my lord, hear me. You don’t understand. What I did then . . . I have put from my mind . . . I never speak of it, I never think of it. If anyone makes me think of it I shall go mad. I loved George . . . Truly, don’t make me think of it, don’t make me remember it.’

He rises to his feet. He comes round from his side of the table and he puts his hands on my shoulders. It would almost be a gentle gesture except that it feels as if he is holding me down in his chair. ‘You shall decide, my dear Lady Jane. You shall think about these matters and tell me what you think, on reflection. I trust you implicitly. I am certain that you will want to do what is best for our family. I have faith that you will always do what is best for yourself.’

ANNE, RICHMOND PALACE,

FEBRUARY 1541

I am home, and it is such relief to be here, I could laugh at myself for being a dull old spinster, shying away from society. But it is not just the pleasure of coming home to my own rooms and my own view from my windows and my own cook—it is the pleasure of escaping from the court, that court of darkness. Good God, it is a poisonous place that they are making for themselves, I wonder that anyone can bear to be there. The king’s mood is more unreliable than ever. In one moment he is passionate to Kitty Howard, fondling her like a lecher before everyone so that she blushes red and he laughs to see her embarrassment, then half an hour later he is raging against one of his councillors, flinging his cap to the ground, lashing out at a page, or silent and withdrawn, in a mood of quiet hatred and suspicion, his eyes darting round, seeking someone to blame for his unhappiness. His temper, always indulged, has become a danger. He cannot control it himself, he cannot control his own fears. He sees plots in every corner and assassins at every turn. The court is becoming adept at diverting him and confusing him, everyone fears the sudden turning of his moods into darkness.