Clearly, they have been inquiring as to whether I have secret meetings but whether they suspect me of plotting with the emperor, with Spain, with France or the Pope, I cannot know. They may suspect me of taking a lover, they may accuse me of joining a coven of witches. They have asked everyone where I have been and who regularly visits me. It is the company I keep that is the focus of their inquiry but I cannot know what is their suspicion.

Since I am innocent of plotting, lust or witchcraft, I should be able to hold my head up and declare my conscience clear, but there is a girl far younger than me on trial for her life and there are men and women of absolute purity burned to death in this country merely for disagreeing with the king about the raising of the Host. Innocence is not enough any more.

I hold up my head anyway, for I know that when a power far greater comes against me, whether it be my brother in his wanton cruelty, or the King of England in his vain madness, it is always better to keep my head up and my courage high and wait for the worst that can come. Dr Harst, by contrast, is sweating, there are beads on his forehead and every now and then he mops his face with a grubby handkerchief.

‘There has been an allegation,’ says Wriothsley pompously.

I look at him coolly. I have never liked him nor he me, but by God, he serves Henry. Whatever Henry wants this man will deliver to him with a veneer of legality. We shall see what Henry wants now.

‘The king has heard that you have given birth to a child,’ he says. ‘We were told that a boy was born to you this summer and has been hidden away by your confederates.’

Dr Harst’s jaw drops almost to his chest. ‘What is this?’ he asks.

I keep my own face completely serene. ‘It is a lie,’ I say. ‘I have known no man since I parted from His Grace the king. And as you yourself proved then: I did not know him. The king himself swore I was a virgin then, I am a virgin still. You may ask my maids that I have not borne a child.’

‘We have asked your maids,’ he replies, he is enjoying this. ‘We have questioned every one of them and we have received very different answers. You have some enemies in your household.’

‘I am sorry to hear it,’ I say. ‘And I am at fault for not keeping them in better order. Sometimes maids lie. But that is my only fault.’

‘They tell us worse than this,’ he says.

Dr Harst has flushed scarlet, he is gulping for air. He is wondering, as I am, what could be worse than a secret birth? If this is the preparation for a show trial and an accusation of treason then the case is being carefully built against me. I doubt that I can defend myself against sworn witnesses, and someone’s newborn baby.