Dear God, she knew that I betrayed her. Dear God, he went to a traitor’s death on the scaffold knowing that I betrayed him. He perhaps did not realise that it was from love. That’s the worst thing. He will never have known that it was from love. It was such a murderous thing to do, it was such a gesture from hatred that he will never have known that I loved him and I couldn’t bear that he should look at another woman. Let alone Anne. Let alone what he was to her.

I sit and face the wall. I cannot bear to look out of the window, I cannot bear to trace the writings on the walls of the cell for fear of finding his initials. I sit and fold my hands in my lap. To anyone watching me I am composed. I am an innocent woman. I am as innocent and composed as—say—Lady Margaret Pole, who was also beheaded outside my window. I never said one word for her, either. Dear God, how can I even breathe the air of this place?

I can hear the shuffle of many feet on the stairs. How many do they think they need? The key grates in the lock, the door swings open. I am irritated by the slowness. Do they think they can frighten me with this theatre of threat? Then they come in. Two men and the guards. I recognise Sir Thomas Wriothsley, but not the clerk. They fuss about, setting up the table, putting out a chair for me. I stand and try to look unmoved, my hands clasped. Then I realise I am wringing my hands and I make myself be still.

‘We wish to ask you about the queen’s behaviour at Lambeth when she was a girl,’ he says. He nods at the clerk to indicate that he should write.

‘I know nothing about it,’ I say. ‘As you will see from your own records I was in the country, at Blickling Hall, and then in service with Queen Anne, to whom I gave good and honourable service. I did not know Katherine Howard until she came to serve Queen Anne.’

The clerk makes one mark, only one. I see it. It is a tick. This means that they knew what I would say, it is not worth writing down. They have prepared for this interview, I should not trust a word they say. They know what they want to say and what they want me to reply. I have to be ready. I have to be armed against them. I wish I could think clearly, I wish my thoughts were not such a whirl. I must be calm, I must be clever.

‘When the queen took on Francis Dereham as her secretary, did you know that he was her old friend and previous lover?’

‘No, I knew nothing of her life before,’ I say.

The clerk puts down a tick. This too is expected.