‘Are you tired?’ he asks.

I understand the word tired. I nod, and say: ‘Little.’

‘God help me in this ill-managed business,’ he says.

‘I don’t understand? I am sorry?’

He shrugs, I realise he is not speaking to me, he is complaining of something for the pleasure of grumbling aloud, just as my father used to do before his ill-tempered mutterings became madness. The disrespect of this comparison makes me smile and then bite my lip to hide my amusement.

‘Yes,’ he says sourly. ‘You might well laugh.’

‘Will you like wine?’ I ask carefully.

He shakes his head. He lifts the sheet and the sickly smell of him blows over me. Like a man seeing what he has bought in a market, he takes the hem of my nightgown, lifts it up, pulls it past my waist and my breasts and leaves it, so that it is in a roll around my neck. I am afraid I look stupid, like a burgher with a scarf tied tight under the chin. My cheeks are burning with shame that he should just stare at my exposed body. He does not care for my discomfort.

He puts his hand down, and abruptly squeezes my breasts, slides his rough hand down to my belly, pinches the fat. I lie absolutely still so that he shall not think I am wanton. It is not hard to freeze in horror. God knows why anyone would feel wanton under such handling. I have stroked my horse with more affection than this cold-hearted groping. He rears up in the bed with a grunt of effort and pushes my thighs apart with a heavy hand. I obey him without making a sound. It is essential that he knows that I am obedient but not eager. He heaves himself over me and slumps between my legs. He is taking his full weight with his elbows planted on either side of my head, and with his knees, but even so his great flaccid belly, pressing down on me, is stifling me. The fat of his chest is pressing on my face. I am a good-sized woman but I am dwarfed underneath him. I fear that if he lies any more heavily I will not be able to breathe, it is quite unbearable. His panting breath on my face is foul from his rotting teeth, I hold my head rigid to stop myself from turning my face away from him. I find I am breathless, trying not to inhale the stink of him.

He puts his hand down between us and grabs on to himself. I have seen them with the horses in the stables at Duren and I know well enough what is going on in this hard fumbling. I snatch a breath sideways, and I brace myself for the pain. He gives a little grunt of frustration and I can feel his hand pumping away, but still nothing happens. He punches repeatedly at my thigh with his moving hand but that is all. I lie very still, I don’t know what he wants to do, nor what he expects of me. The stallion at Duren went rigid and reared up. This king seems to be weakening.