‘Earthly profit as well as spiritual,’ he says. ‘The church’s tithes are not lifted, they are just paid to the king. But it is not for us to remark on how the country of England chooses to say its prayers.’

‘My brother . . .’

‘Your brother would have done better to look to his own record keeping,’ he says, in sudden irritation.

‘What?’

‘He should have sent the letter which released you from your promise to marry the Duke of Lorraine’s son.’

‘It didn’t matter that much, did it?’ I ask. ‘The king has said nothing of it to me.’

‘We had to swear that we knew of its existence, and then we had to swear that it would be sent within three months, and then we had to swear that we ourselves would be hostage for it. If your brother does not find it and send it, God knows what will happen to us.’

I am aghast. ‘They cannot hold you to ransom for my brother’s record keeping? They cannot really think that there was an impediment?’

He shakes his head. ‘They know full well that you are free to marry and that the marriage is valid. But for some reason known only to themselves, they choose to throw a doubt over it all, and your brother’s error in letting us come without it has allowed that doubt. And we have been most cruelly embarrassed.’

I turn my eyes down. My brother’s resentment of me goes against his own interests, goes against the interests of his own country, even against the interests of his own religion. I can feel my temper rise at the thought of him jeopardising my very marriage from his jealousy and spite. He is such a fool, he is such a wicked fool. ‘He is careless,’ is all that I say; but I hear my voice shake.

‘This is not a king to be careless with,’ the count warns.

I nod, I am very conscious of the king sitting in silence on my left. He cannot understand German but I do not want him to look at me and see me anything other than happy.

‘I am sure I shall be very content,’ I say, smiling, and the count bows and goes back to his place.

* * *

The entertainment is finished and the archbishop rises from his place at the table. My councillors have prepared me for this moment and when the king rises to his feet, I know that I have to get up too. The two of us follow my lord Cranmer to the king’s great chamber and stand in the doorway while the archbishop walks around the room, swinging the censer and sprinkling the bed with holy water. This really is most superstitious and outlandish. I don’t know what my mother would say; but I know she would not like it.

Then the archbishop closes his eyes and starts to pray. Beside me, Count Overstein whispers a rapid translation. ‘He prays for the two of you to sleep well and not be troubled with demonic dreams.’ I make sure that my expression is one of interest and devotion. But I can hardly keep my face straight. Are these the people who have closed down shrines to stop people praying for miracles and yet here in a palace they have to pray for protection against dreams of demons? What sense can one make of them?