I rise from my great chair with the gold canopy over my head. Either side of the box the curtains billow in the Tudor colours of green and white, my initials are everywhere, my crest is everywhere. The other initials of all the other queens are only on the underside of the curtains and they don’t show. To judge from today, there has only ever been one queen: myself. The court, the people, the king, all conspire to forget the others and I am not going to remind them. This joust is for me as if I were the very first of Henry’s queens.

I raise my hand and the whole arena goes silent. I drop my glove and at either end of the jousting line the horses dive forwards as the spurs strike their sides. The two riders thunder towards each other, the one on the left, Lord Richman, lowers his lance a little later, and his aim is good. With a tremendous thud like an axe going into a tree, the lance catches his opponent in the very centre of his breastplate and the man bellows out and is thrown violently backwards off his horse. Lord Richman rides to the end of the line and his squire catches the horse as his lordship pushes back his dark visor and looks at his opponent, thrown down into the sand.

Among my ladies, Lady Lisle gives a little scream and rises to her feet.

Unsteadily, the young man rises, his legs tottering.

‘He is hurt?’ I ask in a quiet undertone to Lady Rochford.

She is avidly watching. ‘He may be,’ she says, a delighted exultant tone in her voice. ‘It is a violent sport. He knows the risks.’

‘Is there a . . .’ I do not know the English word for doctor.

‘He is walking.’ She points. ‘He is unhurt.’

They have his helmet off, he is white as a sheet, poor young man. His brown curly hair is dark with sweat and sticking to his pale face.

‘Thomas Culpepper,’ Lady Rochford tells me. ‘A distant kinsman of mine. Such a handsome boy.’ She gives me a sly smile. ‘Lady Lisle had given him her favour, he has a desperate reputation with the ladies.’

I smile down at him as he takes a few shaky strides to come before the queen’s box and bows low to me. His squire has a hand on his elbow to help him up from his bow.

‘Poor boy,’ I say. ‘Poor boy.’

‘I am honoured to fall in your service,’ he says. His words are obscured by the bruise on his mouth. He is a devastatingly handsome young man, even I, raised by the strictest of mothers, have a sudden desire to take him away from the arena and bathe him.

‘With your permission, I shall ride for you again,’ he says. ‘Perhaps tomorrow, if I can mount.’

‘Yes, but take care,’ I say.

He gives me the most rueful sweet smile, bows and steps to one side.