I sleep so badly that I am awake at dawn, and I lie in the quiet with the grey light shining through the shutters and I think that I would give all my jewels to see Tom Culpepper and hear his laugh. I would give my fortune to be in his arms. Please God he knows that I am kept in my rooms and does not think that I am keeping away from him. It would be too awful, if, when I come out, he has taken offence at my neglect, and is courting someone else. I would die if he were to take a fancy to another girl. I really think my heart would break.

I would send him a note if I dared, but no-one is to leave my rooms and I dare not trust one of the servants with a message. They come with breakfast to my rooms, I am not even allowed to go out to eat. I am not even to go to chapel, a confessor is to come to my rooms to pray with me before the archbishop comes to talk with me again.

I really do begin to think this is not right, I should perhaps protest against it. I am Queen of England, I cannot be kept in my rooms as if I were a naughty girl. I am fully grown, I am a lady, I am a Howard. I am wife to the king. Who do they think I am? I am Queen of England, after all. I think I shall speak to the archbishop and tell him that he cannot treat me so. I think about this until I become quite indignant and resolve that I shall insist to the archbishop that he treats me with proper respect.

And then he doesn’t come! We spent the whole morning sitting around, trying to sew things, trying to appear seriously employed in case the door suddenly opens and my lord the archbishop walks in. But no! It is not till the end of the afternoon, and a dreary afternoon at that, that the door opens and he enters, his kindly face all grave.

My ladies all flutter up as if they were themselves as innocent as a flock of butterflies, imprisoned with a mouldy slug. I remain seated, after all, I am queen. I just wish I could look like Queen Anne did when they came for her. She really did look innocent, she really did look unjustly accused. I am sorry now that I signed a piece of paper to bear witness against her. I realise now how very unpleasant it is to be doubted. But how was I to know that one day I would be in the same case?

The archbishop walks up to me as if he were terribly sorry for something. He has his sad face on, as if he were struggling with an argument inside his own head. For a moment I am certain that he is going to apologise for being so unkind to me yesterday, and beg my pardon and release me.