‘Well done,’ he says shortly to me, and then he goes from the box. I look to Lady Jane Boleyn, in case I should go with him. She shakes her head. ‘He will have gone to talk with the knights,’ she says. ‘And the girls of course. You stay here.’

I take my seat and see that the king has appeared in his own royal box opposite to mine. He waves at me, and I wave at him. He sits, and I sit a few moments after him.

‘You are already beloved,’ Lord Lisle says quietly to me in English, and I grasp what he means.

‘Why?’

He smiles. ‘Because you are young.’ He pauses for my nod of comprehension. ‘They want you to have a son. Because you are pretty, and because you smile and wave at them. They want a pretty, happy queen who will give them a son.’

I shrug a little at the simple ways of these most complicated people. If all they want is for me to be happy, that is easy. I have never been so happy in my life. I have never been so far from my mother’s disapproval and my brother’s rages. I am a woman in my own right, with my own place, with my own friends. I am queen of a great country that I think will grow yet more prosperous and more ambitious. The king is a whimsical master of a nervous court, even I can see that; but here too I might be able to make a difference. I might give this court the steadiness that it needs, I might even be able to advise the king to have more patience. I can see my life here, I can imagine myself as queen. I know I can do this. I smile at Lord Lisle who has been distant from me over these last few days and who has not been his usual kindly self.

‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘I hope.’

He nods.

‘You are well?’ I ask awkwardly. ‘Happy?’

He looks surprised at my question. ‘Er, yes. Yes, Your Grace.’

I think for the word I need. ‘No trouble?’

For a moment I see it, the fear that crosses his face, the momentary thought of confiding in me. Then it is gone. ‘No trouble, Your Grace.’

I see his eyes drift across the jousting arena to the opposite side where the king is sitting. Lord Thomas Cromwell is at his side, whispering in his ear. I know that in a court there are always factions, a king’s favour comes and goes. Perhaps Lord Lisle has offended the king in some way.

‘I know you good friend to me,’ I say.

He nods. ‘God keep Your Grace, whatever comes next,’ he says and steps away from my chair to stand at the back of the box.

I watch the king stand and go to the front of his box. A pageboy keeps him steady on his lame leg. He takes his great gauntlet and holds it above his head. The people in the crowd fall silent, their eyes on this, their greatest king, the man who has made himself king, emperor and Pope. Then, cleverly, when all the attention is on him, he bows to me and gestures with his gauntlet. The crowd roars its approval. It is for me to start the joust.