‘He prays that you will not suffer from infertility, nor the king from impotence, he prays that the power of Satan will not unman the king nor unwoman you.’

‘Amen,’ I say promptly, as if anyone could believe this nonsense. Then I turn to my ladies and they escort me from the room to my own chamber where I will change into my nightgown.

When I come back the king is standing with his court beside the great bed, and the archbishop is still praying. The king is in his nightshirt with a great handsome cloak lined with fur thrown over his shoulders. He has laid aside his hose and I can see the bulky bandage on his leg where he has an open wound. The bandage is clean and fresh, thank God, but even so the smell of the wound seeps into the bedchamber to mingle, sickeningly, with the smell of incense. The prayers seem to have been going on while we both changed our clothes. Really, you would have thought that we were safe from demonic dreams and impotence by now. My ladies step forwards and slip my cloak from my shoulders. I am dressed only in my nightshift before the whole court and I am so mortified and embarrassed that I could almost wish myself back at Cleves.

Lady Rochford quickly lifts the covers from the bed to shield me from their inquisitive stares and I slip between them and sit up with my back against the pillows. On the other side of the bed a young man, Thomas Culpepper, kneels for Henry to lean on his shoulder and another man takes the king’s elbow to push him upwards. King Henry grunts like a weary carthorse as he hauls himself into bed. The bed dips at his great weight and I have to make an ungainly little wriggle and grab the side to stop myself rolling over towards him.

The archbishop raises his hands above his head for a final blessing and I look straight ahead. Katherine Howard’s bright face catches my eye, she has her hands pressed together, held against her lips as if devoutly praying, but she is clearly struggling not to giggle. I pretend I have not seen her, for fear that she should set me laughing too, and when the archbishop completes his prayers I say: ‘Amen.’

They all go then, thank God. There is no suggestion that they should watch the marriage being consummated, but I know that they will need to see the sheets in the morning and know that it has been done. This is the nature of the royal marriage. That, and marrying a man old enough to be your father, who you hardly know.

JANE BOLEYN, GREENWICH PALACE,

6 JANUARY 1540

I am one of the last to leave and I close the door quietly on yet another marriage of the king’s which I have seen progress through courtship to the marriage bed. Some, like that young fool Katherine Howard, would think that this is where the story ends, that this is the conclusion of everything. I know better. This is where the story of a queen begins.