“Yes! Don’t you hear me? She could die. It seems unthinkable, but it is more than likely. She has the smallpox, and she is not strong. She has taken to her bed and her fever is rising. The Privy Council has been summoned. They have to choose an heir if she will not speak. She is dumb with fever, she is wandering in her mind. They are calling for Henry Hastings, they are calling for Mary Queen of Scots or for Margaret Douglas.” He pauses; he smiles at me, his eyes are bright. “But mostly, of course, they are calling for you.”

I take a breath. I think of the day that Jane was offered the crown and knew that she had to take it.

“Me,” I say flatly. I think of Jane and the terrible danger of ambition, I think of the temptation of the crown and the prospects for my son.

“Henry VIII’s will names your mother’s line after Elizabeth,” he says steadily. “Not Margaret Douglas’s mother, not the Scots line; your mother, and then you. Elizabeth said that inheritance should follow the natural order, but the Privy Council is not going to make Mary Queen of Scots, half a Guise, the Queen of England when we are at war with France and her family. The old king Henry’s will named your line. King Edward’s will named Jane and then you. There is only one Tudor Protestant successor. It’s you. Everything points to you.”

I think. I take a breath and think of my son, and the baby that should be born a prince. My imprisonment has sharpened my ambition. I will not suffer for being an heir and not claim my throne. “I am ready,” I say, though my voice trembles a little. “I am ready. I can wear my sister’s crown.”

He exhales as if he is relieved that I know my duty to my country, that I am prepared to take my place on the throne. “Elizabeth could be dead right now, and they could be bringing you the crown. They could be on the barge from Hampton Court and coming down with the tide.”

“Coming to me here, in the Tower?”

“Here in the Tower.”

I think how terribly unlucky it would be to start my reign where Jane started and ended hers. And then I think what a trivial stupid thought this is. I should be preparing my speech for when they come to tell me that Elizabeth is dead. “Could there be a war?” I demand. “If I took the throne, would the papists rise against me?”