But if I do not go, then I am not there to defend myself. If anyone says anything against me, links me with the northern conspirators, or with poor Margaret Pole the countess, with the disgraced Thomas Cromwell, with anything my brother may do or say, then there is no-one to speak in my favour.

I tuck the letter in the pocket of my gown and walk to the window to look out at the bobbing branches in the orchards beyond the garden. I like it here, I like being my own mistress, I like being in command of my own fortune. The thought of going into the bear pit which is the English court and having to face the monstrous old terror which is the king is too much for me to dare. I think, pray God I am right, that I shall not go on progress with the king, I shall stay here and take the risk that they may speak against me. Better that, than travel with him in constant danger of attracting envy. Better anything than travel with him and see those piggy eyes turn on me and realise that by some act—nothing I even know that I have done—I have fired his enmity and I am in danger.

He is a danger, he is a danger, he is a danger to everyone who is near him. I shall stay at Richmond and hope that the danger that is Henry passes me by and that I can live here in safety and peace.

I shall stay free of the frightened flock that is the court, I shall be alone like a gyrfalcon, solitary in the arching silence of the sky. I have reason to be fearful but I will not live in fear. I shall take my chance. I shall have this summer to myself.

JANE BOLEYN, HAMPTON COURT,

JULY 1541

The duke has come to pay a visit to his niece before the start of the summer progress, and realises, very quickly, that he could not have chosen a worse time. The queen’s rooms are in chaos. Not even the most experienced servants, not even the queen’s sister and stepmother, can make any sense of the orders, as Katherine swears she cannot go without her new gowns, and then remembers that she has had them packed and sent ahead, demands to see her jewel box, accuses a maid of stealing a silver ring, and then finds it again, almost bursts into tears at the quandary of whether or not to take her sables to York, and then finally pitches face down on her bed and swears she will not go at all since the king hardly pays any attention to her anyway, and what pleasure will she have at York when her life is hardly worth living?

‘What the devil is going on?’ the duke hisses at me, as if it were my fault.

‘It has been like this all day,’ I say wearily. ‘But yesterday was worse.’