‘I’ll have to put them aside soon,’ I said. ‘I was allowed to wear them when I was little more than a child but I . . .’ I checked myself. I did not want to confide in her. She had a gift, this princess, the Tudor gift, of opening confidences.

‘When I was your age, I thought I would never know how to be a young woman,’ she said, echoing my thought. ‘All I wanted to do was to be a scholar, I could see how to do that. I had a wonderful tutor and he taught me Latin and Greek and all the spoken languages too. I wanted to please my father so much, I thought he would be proud of me if I could be as clever as Edward. I used to write to him in Greek—can you imagine? The greatest dread of my life was that I would be married and sent away from England. The greatest hope of my life was that I might be a great and learned lady and be allowed to stay at court. When my father died I thought I would be always at court: my brother’s favourite sister, and aunt to his many children, and together we would see my father’s work complete.’

She shook her head. ‘Indeed, I should not want your gift of Sight,’ she said. ‘If I had known that I would come to this, under the shadow of my sister’s displeasure, and my beloved brother dead, and my father’s legacy thrown away . . .’

Elizabeth broke off and then turned to me, her dark eyes filled with tears. She stretched out her hand palm upwards, and I could see that she was shaking slightly. ‘Can you see my future?’ she asked. ‘Will Mary greet me as a sister and know that I have done no wrong? Will you tell her that I am innocent in my heart?’

‘If she can, she will.’ I took her hand, but kept my eyes on the pale face which had so suddenly blanched. She leaned back against the richly embroidered pillows. ‘Truly, Princess, the queen would be your friend. I know this. She would be very happy to hear of your innocence.’

She pulled her hand away. ‘Even if the Vatican named me a saint, she would not be happy,’ she said. ‘And I will tell you why. It isn’t my absence from court, it isn’t even my doubts about her religion. It is the rage that lives between sisters. She will never forgive me for what they did to her mother, and for what they did to her. She will never forgive me for being my father’s darling and the baby of the court. She will never forgive me for being the best beloved daughter. I remember her as a young woman, sitting at the foot of my bed and staring at me as if she would hold the pillow over my face, though she was singing me a lullaby all the time. She has loves and hates, all mixed up. And the last thing she wants at court is a younger sister to show her up.’