There, I could not sleep. I saw ghosts in every corner. Every time the door opened, I thought my time had come. All I could do was lament my ill fortune and the loss of my love, and pray that my uncle would be lenient. He loved me, didn’t he? Wasn’t it evident in the comfort of my apartments and the privileges I was allowed? Surely he was just teaching me a lesson, one I would never forget.

I comforted myself with such thoughts, assuring myself that this luxurious confinement was the worst that would happen to me, so I was shocked when Sir William Kingston, the Constable of the Tower, informed me that an Act of Attainder had been passed, sentencing Tom to death for high treason. In the wake of our ill-considered betrothal, Parliament had declared it treason for a man to marry, deflower or contract himself to any of the King’s female relatives without royal permission. To this Act, my uncle had given his consent.

‘But the Act was not in force when we plighted our troth!’ I protested vehemently, but to no avail.

‘Madam, it is not my office to question the King’s laws,’ Sir William said frostily. ‘And I would remind you that you stand in the greatest jeopardy. It is my painful duty to inform you that, because you consented to the precontract, you yourself will likewise incur pain of death.’

I could not believe what I was hearing. This could not be happening! My uncle would never go so far! Terror gripped me. I swayed and Sir William stepped forward to catch me, or I would have fallen.

I spent several dreadful days agonising over the prospect of dying a hideous death for the crime of having fallen in love. I was just twenty years old and I was nowhere near ready to die. I would have appealed to the King, to King James and to my parents, but I was not allowed to write letters. I was under no illusions as to what I was facing. I remembered that my uncle had sent his own wife to the scaffold, and that he had executed others of his own blood in the past. Why should he spare his niece? That he would send me to the block was all too believable. And he might do worse. The Boleyn had been sentenced to be burned or beheaded at his pleasure. Because she was queen, she was allowed the kinder death. Would the King be so merciful to me? I came near to screaming several times when I considered that he might not.

But then came my reprieve.

‘You have been pardoned your life,’ Sir William informed me, looking almost as relieved as I felt. ‘This is on account of it having been established that there is no proof of a conspiracy and that you did not have carnal relations with Lord Thomas.’