I really don’t dare to reply to this, it is too passionate, and though there are only the ladies of my chamber around us, I know that my desire for him must just blaze out of my face.

‘Ask Lady Rochford,’ I whisper. ‘She will find a way.’ Aloud, I say: ‘Anyway, I cannot give you my favour. I shall have to ask the king who he favours.’

‘You can keep your favour if you will only give me a smile as I ride out,’ he says. ‘They say the Scots are formidable fighters, big men with strong horses. Say you will be watching me and hoping that I don’t fall beneath a Scots lance.’

This is so poignant I could almost cry. ‘I always watch you, you know I do. I have always watched you joust, and I have always prayed for your safety.’

‘And I watch you,’ he says, so quietly that I can hardly hear him. ‘I watch you with such desire, Katherine, my love.’

I can see that they are all looking at me. I rise, a little unsteadily, to my feet and he gets to his. ‘You can ride with me tomorrow,’ I say, as if I don’t much care either way. ‘We are going hunting in the morning before Mass.’

He bows and steps back, and as he turns away I give a little gasp of shock for there in the doorway, like a ghost, so like a ghost that for a moment I almost think he is a ghost—is Francis Dereham. My Francis, my first love, turned up on my doorstep in a smart cloak and a good jacket and a handsome hat, as if he were doing very well indeed, and as handsome as he was all those days ago when we played at husband and wife in my bed at Lambeth.

‘Mr Dereham,’ I say very clearly, so that he shall make no mistake that we are not on first name terms any more.

He understands it well enough for he drops to one knee. ‘Your Grace,’ he says. He has a letter in his hand and he holds it out. ‘Your respected grandmother, the duchess, bid me to come to you and bring you this letter.’

I nod to my page and I let Francis see that I don’t bestir myself to go three paces for my own letters. The lad takes it from Francis and hands it to me, for I am far too important to lean. Without looking towards him I can see Thomas Culpepper, as stiff as a heron, standing by and glaring at Francis.

I open the duchess’s letter. It is a terrible scrawl for she can hardly write, and since I can barely read we are very poor correspondents. I look for Lady Rochford and she is at my side in a moment. ‘What does she say?’ I pass it over.

She reads it quickly and since I am watching her face and not the page I see an expression flicker across her eyes. It is as if she is playing cards and she has just seen a very good suit come up in her partner’s hand, she is almost amused.