‘You may have to excuse her, if she is too ill to travel . . .’ Jane remarked.

‘Yes,’ said the queen. ‘If she is. But, if she is too ill to travel, then why would she move from Ashridge to Donnington Castle? Why would a sick girl, too ill to come to London where she might be cared for, instead plan a journey to a castle ideally placed for siege, at the very heart of England?’

There was a diplomatic silence.

‘The country will come round to Prince Philip,’ Jane Dormer said gently. ‘And all this worry will be forgotten.’

Suddenly, there was a sharp knock from the guards outside and the double doors were thrown open. The noise startled me and I was on my feet in an instant, my heart pounding. A messenger stood in the doorway, the Lord Chancellor with him, and the veteran soldier Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk beside him, their faces grim.

I fell back, as if I would hide behind her. I had an immediate certainty that they had come for me, they somehow had discovered who I was, and had a warrant for my arrest as a heretic Jew.

Then I saw they were not looking at me. They were looking at the queen and their jaws were set and their eyes cold.

‘Oh, no,’ I whispered.

She must have thought it was the end for her, as she rose slowly to her feet and looked from one stern face to another. She knew that the duke could turn his coat in a moment, the council could have mustered a swift plot; they had done it before against Jane, they could do it again. But she did not blench, the face she turned to them was as serene as if they had come to invite her to dine. In that moment I loved her for her courage, for her absolute queenly determination never to show fear. ‘How now, my lords?’ she said pleasantly, her voice steady though they walked into the centre of the room and looked at her with hard eyes. ‘I hope you bring me good news for all you seem so severe.’

‘Your Grace, it is not good news,’ Bishop Gardiner said flatly. ‘The rebels are marching against you. My young friend Edward Courtenay has seen the wisdom to confess to me and throw himself on your mercy.’

I saw her eyes flicker away, to one side, as her swift intelligence assessed this information; but her expression did not otherwise alter at all, she was still smiling. ‘And Edward tells you?’

‘That a plot is in train to march on London, to put you in the Tower and to set the Lady Elizabeth on the throne in your place. We have the names of some of them: Sir William Pickering, Sir Peter Carew in Devon, Sir Thomas Wyatt in Kent, and Sir James Crofts.’

For the first time she looked shaken. ‘Peter Carew, who turned out for me in my time of need, in the autumn? Who raised the men of Devon for me?’