My uncle nods. I have done what he wants and now it is up to him to persuade the king that I am utterly penitent and ready for death. That should be all anyone can ask for, I should think. They all troop off the way they came and I have to sit myself down in my one chair, in my dull gown, and wait for them to come back and tell me that since I am so very sorry I am quite forgiven.

* * *

I am waiting for the barge this time, I am up at the window from terribly early in the morning. Usually, with nothing to get up for and nothing to do, I try to sleep through breakfast all the way till dinner, but today I am certain that they will come with my royal pardon and I want to look my best. As soon as it is light I ring for my maid to come and lay out my dresses. Hmm, such a choice I have before me! I have a gown of black, two of very dark blue, almost black, a gown of dark green that it is almost black, a gown of grey, and just in case I need two, another gown of black. So what shall I wear? However shall I choose? I take the gown of black but I wear it with the dark green sleeves and a dark green hood that will symbolise my penitence and my love of Tudor green to those who take an interest in these things. It makes my eyes look beautiful as well, which is always a good thing.

I don’t know how this will be done, and I always rather like to be prepared for these ceremonies. My master of the household always used to tell me where I should stand and how I should look, and I like to practise. It comes from being made queen while still quite young, and not really brought up to it. But as far as I know, no queen has ever been forgiven for adultery and treason and all the rest of it, so I suppose we shall just have to make it up as we go along. At any rate, that old wolf my uncle will no doubt guide me through it all.

I am dressed and waiting by nine in the morning but nobody comes. I hear Mass and take breakfast in sulky silence and still nothing. But then, just before noon, I hear the welcome tramp of feet on the stones of the path and I dash to the window, see my uncle’s black square hat bobbing along, the staves of office in the hands of the other councillors, the royal standard before them, and I rush back to my seat and sit down, put my feet together, my hands in my lap, and cast down my eyes in great penitence.

They open the double doors and everyone comes trooping in, dressed in their best. I rise to my feet and curtsey to my uncle as I should, since he is head of my house, but he no longer bows to me as his queen. I stand and wait. I am surprised he doesn’t look more relieved that this is all over.