My uncle bought me another new wardrobe and defrayed the expenses of my servants. By that, I knew that I was truly forgiven. Yet I could take little pleasure in his gifts. I was too listless even to try on the gowns.

One day, a package arrived for me. It contained the book of poems that Tom had had with him in the Tower and all our passionate poems to each other. There was no note. I suspected that Thomas Shelton had sent it. Reading over my beloved’s verses, I wept all over again.

That summer, Mary Shelton wrote to me, saying there was gossip at court that the Earl of Wiltshire – the Boleyn’s father, of all people! – was seeking my hand in marriage. No! I cried, in the solitude of my chamber. I would never agree to it! He was an old man, but that was the least of it. I would never marry one of that tribe. Fortunately, I heard no more of the matter, for which I was devoutly thankful.

But there was no doubt that my uncle was seeking to negotiate a marriage for me. He wrote to me himself, informing me that he was considering Cosimo de’ Medici, Duke of Florence. For a time, I envisaged myself restored to health and living in Italy, revelling in its art and culture – and its warm, reviving weather. But of Duke Cosimo, I could not think. I was not ready, or well enough, to marry any man. My heart was still Tom’s. I would rather have died and been reunited with him than go to Florence. My health was broken and I fully expected to go to an early grave. I welcomed the prospect, indeed, I had resolved to die. I felt so ill that year that I even summoned my father and my friends so that I could bid them farewell.

Father was then resident at the English court. He came galloping down to see me and told me I should rise from my couch and get some air; and he stood by to ensure that I did. Daily, he made me walk in the gardens, then he got me up on a horse again. I truly believe that I am still here today thanks to him.