But then she pulls my pretty hood forwards so it is practically on her eyebrows, just like she wore her new French hood at the joust. She looks quite ridiculous. I give a little tut of irritation, and push it so that it is far back on her head, and then I pull some waves of hair forwards to show the fair shiny thickness of it.

Regretfully, she shakes her head and pulls the hood forwards again, tucking her lovely hair out of sight. ‘It is better so,’ she says.

‘Not as pretty, not as pretty! You have to wear it set back. Set back!’ I exclaim.

She smiles at my raised voice. ‘Too French,’ is all she says.

She silences me. I suppose she is right. The last thing any Queen of England can dare to look is too French. The French are the absolute last word in immodesty and immorality and a previous English queen educated in France, quintessentially French, was my cousin Anne Boleyn who brought the French hood to England and took it off only to put her head on the block. Queen Jane wore the English hood in a triumph of modesty. It is like the German hood, quite ghastly, only a little lighter and slightly curved, and that’s what most ladies wear now. Not me: I wear a French hood and I wear it as far back as I dare and it suits me, and it would suit the queen too.

‘You wore it at the joust and nobody dropped dead,’ I urge her. ‘You are queen. Do what you like.’

She nods. ‘Maybe,’ she says. ‘The king likes this?’

Well, yes, he likes this hood but only because I am under it. He is such a doting old man that I think he would like me if I wore a jester’s cap on my head and danced about in motley, shaking a pig’s bladder with bells.

‘He likes it well enough,’ I say carelessly.

‘He likes Queen Jane?’ she asks.

‘Yes. He did. And she wore an awful hood, like yours.’

‘He comes to her bed?’

Saints, I don’t know where this is going but I wish that Lady Rochford were here. ‘I don’t know, I wasn’t at court then,’ I say. ‘Honestly, I lived with my grandmother. I was just a girl. You could ask Lady Rochford, or any of the old ladies. Ask Lady Rochford.’

‘He kiss me goodnight,’ she says suddenly.

‘That’s nice,’ I say faintly.

‘He kiss me good morning.’

‘Oh.’

‘That all.’

I look around the empty dressing chamber. Normally there should be half a dozen maids in here, I don’t know where they can all be. They just wander off sometimes, there is nothing so idle as girls, really. I can see why I irritate everybody so much. But now I really need some help with this embarrassing confession and there is no-one here at all.

‘Oh,’ I say feebly.

‘Just that: kiss, goodnight, and then kiss, good morning.’