‘Jacquetta, you see my life,’ she says passionately. ‘You see my husband. You hear what they say of him, you know what he is. You see him giving out pardons like the Pope to the duke but trying poor men for treason. You know he didn’t come to my bedroom in the first week of our marriage because his confessor said that our marriage had to be holy. You know that he is a man of melancholic humour: cool and moist.’

I nod. It is undeniable.

‘And Somerset is a man of fire,’ she breathes. ‘He rides out with an army, he is a commander of men, he has seen battles, he is a man of passion. He hates his enemies, he loves his friends, and to women . . .’ She gives a little shiver. ‘To women he is irresistible, they all say it.’

I put my hands to my mouth. I would rather be putting them over my ears.

‘I wouldn’t be the first woman in the world to have a handsome admirer,’ she says. ‘I am queen, half the court is in love with me, it is how the world is. I can have a handsome chevalier.’

‘No you cannot,’ I contradict her. ‘You cannot smile on him. You cannot allow him any favours, nothing at all, not even permission to adore you from a distance, not until you have a son and heir by the king.’

‘And when is that going to happen?’ she demands. ‘And how is it going to happen? I have been married seven years, Jacquetta. When is he going to get me with child? I know my duty as well as any woman. Every night I go to bed and lie in the cold sheets, waiting for him to come. Some nights he does not come at all, some nights he comes and spends the night kneeling in prayer at the foot of the bed. The whole night, Jacquetta! What do you expect me to do?’

‘I didn’t know it was so bad,’ I say. ‘I am sorry. I had no idea.’

‘You must know,’ she says bitterly. ‘You are lying. You know, all my ladies know. You come to wake us in the morning and we are lying side by side as if we were dead and made of stone on our tombs. Have you ever caught us wrapped in each other’s arms? Have you ever heard us call through the door “Not now! Come back later”? You have only to look at him and you would know. You cannot imagine that he is a lusty passionate man who is going to father a strong son on me? We don’t even rumple the sheets.’

‘Oh Margaret, I am so sorry,’ I say tenderly. ‘Of course I didn’t think he was lusty. But I did think that he came to your bed, and did his duty.’

She shrugs her shoulders. ‘Sometimes he does,’ she says bitterly. ‘Sometimes he rises up from his prayers, crosses himself, and makes a feeble effort. Can you think how that feels? But he doesn’t have his heart in it, it is almost worse than nothing at all – an act of duty. It chills my skin, it makes me shudder. I look at you, Jacquetta, and I see you with a baby in your belly every year, and I see how Richard looks at you, and how you steal away early from dinner to be together, even now, and I know it is not the same for me. It is never going to be the same for me.’