‘Yes, but you said . . .’

‘Can you not think of a way that would make him feel in love again without putting your neck on the block?’ she demands irritably.

‘Really!’ I exclaim. ‘I only thought . . .’

‘Think again,’ she says, quite rudely.

I say nothing. I am not thinking, I am purposely not speaking to show her that she has been rude and I will not have it.

‘Tell him that you are afraid he wants to go back to the Duchess of Cleves,’ she says.

This is so surprising that I forget to sulk and I look at her in astonishment. ‘But that is just what Agnes was saying and you told her not to distress me.’

‘Exactly,’ she says. ‘That is why it is such a clever lie. Because it is all but true. Half the court is saying it behind their hands, Agnes Restwold says it to your face. If you ever thought for a moment about anything but yourself and your looks and your jewels, you would indeed be anxious and distressed. And, best of all, if you go to him and you behave anxiously and distressed then he will feel that two women have been fighting over him and he will feel filled with confidence in his own charm again. If you do it well it might get him back into your bed before Lent.’

I hesitate. ‘I want him to be happy, of course,’ I say carefully. ‘But if he does not come to my bed before Lent then it does not much matter . . .’

‘It does matter. This is not about your pleasure or even his,’ she says gravely. ‘He has to get a son on you. You seem to keep forgetting it is not about dancing or music or even jewels or land. You do not earn your place as queen by being the woman he dotes on, you earn your place as queen by being the mother of his son. Until you give him a son I don’t think he will even have you crowned.’

‘I must be crowned,’ I protest.

‘Then you must get him into your bed to give you a child,’ she says. ‘Anything else is too dangerous even to think about.’

‘I’ll go.’ I sigh a great hard-done-by sigh, so she can see that I am not frightened by her threats, but on the contrary I am wearily going to do my duty. ‘I’ll go and tell him I am unhappy.’

By luck, when I get there the outer presence chamber is unusually empty, so many people have gone home. So Thomas Culpepper is almost alone, playing at dice, right hand against left, in the window-seat.

‘Are you winning?’ I ask him, trying to speak lightly.

He leaps to his feet as he sees me, and bows.

‘I always win, Your Grace,’ he says. His smile makes my heart skip a beat. It really does, it truly does, when he tosses his head like that and smiles I can hear my heart go: thud-thud.