The men let me go and stand by the door. The warden and I look at each other. ‘Shall you be wanting anything?’ he asks.

I laugh out loud at this most ridiculous question. ‘Like what?’ I ask.

He shrugs. ‘Some delicacy, or some spiritual comfort?’

I shake my head. I don’t even know if there is a God any more, for if Henry is special in the sight of God and he knows God’s will then I suppose God wants me to die, but in private as a special favour. ‘I should like to have the block,’ I say.

‘The block, my lady?’

‘Yes, the executioner’s block. Can I have it here in my room?’

‘If you wish . . . but . . . what do you want it for?’

‘To practise,’ I say impatiently. I go across to the window and I look down. The green will be filled with people who were proud to be at my court, people who were desperate to be my friend. Now they will be watching me die. If I am to do it, I had better do it properly.

He gulps. Of course he doesn’t understand what I mean, he is an old man, he will die in his bed with his friends watching his last breath. But I shall be watched by hundreds of critical eyes. I want to do it gracefully if I have to do it.

‘I shall have them bring it at once,’ he says. ‘And will you see your confessor now?’

I nod. Though if God knows everything already, and already has decided that I am so bad that I should die before my seventeenth birthday, it is hard to know what the point of confession might be.

He bows and goes from the room. The soldiers bow and close the door. The key turns in the lock with a great clunk. I go and look out of the window at the workmen and the scaffold below. It looks as if they will be finished by tonight. Perhaps they will be ready tomorrow.

It takes two of them to bring in the block with much huffing and puffing as if it were heavy, and many sideways glances at me as if I am rather peculiar in needing to practise. Really, if they had been Queen of England like me, when I was still a girl, then they would know what a comfort it is to get the ceremonies right. There is nothing worse in the whole world than not knowing what you are supposed to do and looking foolish.

I kneel before the great thing and put my head down on it. I can’t say it’s very comfortable. I try it with my head turned one way and then the other. There’s no vast improvement in either direction, and no change of view anyway as I will be blindfolded, and underneath the blindfold I shall have my eyes tight shut, hoping like a child that it isn’t happening. The wood is smooth, cool under my hot cheek.