My stepson, Prince Edward, is on a visit to court, he can watch the jousting tomorrow. He is allowed to court only seldom for fear of taking an infection and never in the summertime for fear of the plague. His father worships the boy, for his own little fair head, I am sure; but also because he is the only boy, the only Tudor heir. A single boy is such a precious thing. All the hopes of this new line rest on little Edward.

Lucky that he is such a strong healthy child. He has hair of the fairest gold, and a smile that makes you want to catch him up and hug him. But he is strongly independent and would be most offended if I were to press my kisses on him. So when we go to his nursery I take care only to sit near him and let him bring his toys to me, one by one, and each one he puts into my hand, with great pleasure and interest. ‘Glish,’ he says. ‘Maow.’ And I never catch his little fat hand and plant a kiss in the warm palm, though he looks up at me with eyes as dark and as round as toffee and with a smile as sweet.

I wish I could stay in his nursery all day. It does not matter to him that I cannot speak English or French or Latin. He hands a carved wooden top to me and says solemnly, ‘moppet,’ and I reply, ‘moppet,’ and then he fetches something else. We neither of us need a great deal of language nor a great deal of cleverness to pass an hour together.

When it is time for him to eat he allows me to lift him up into his little seat, and sit beside him as he is served with all the honour and respect that his own father commands. They serve this little boy on bended knee, and he sits up and takes his share from any one of a dozen rich dishes as if he were king already.

I say nothing as yet, because it is early days for me as his stepmother; but after I have been here a while longer, perhaps after my coronation next month, I shall ask my lord the king if the boy cannot have a little more freedom to run about and play, and a plainer diet. Perhaps we can visit him more often in his own household, even if he cannot come to court. Perhaps I might be allowed to see him often. I think of him, poor little boy, without a mother to care for him, and I think that I might have the raising of him, and see him grow into a young man, a good young man to be King Edward for England. And then I could laugh at myself for the selfishness of duty. Of course I want to be a good stepmother and queen to him, but more than anything else I long to mother him. I want to see his little face light up when I come into the room, not just for these few days, but every day. I want to hear him say ‘Kwan’, which is all he can manage of ‘Queen Anne’. I want to teach him his prayers and his letters and his manners. I want him for my own. Not just because he is motherless; but because I am childless and I want someone to love.