We have days of sunshine and the king gets stronger. He is pleased with his campaign against Scotland, and in June we go to the rebuilt Saint James’s Palace for the wedding of his niece, my lady-in-waiting and friend Margaret Douglas, to a Scots nobleman, Matthew Stuart, the Earl of Lennox. Here the king can walk in the garden and he starts to move more easily and even takes up archery, though he’ll never play tennis again. He watches the young men of the court and I know that he eyes them as if they were still his rivals though he is far older than they are, older than their fathers, and he will never strip off his jacket and dance in his lawn shirt again. Especially, he watches the handsome young bridegroom Matthew Stuart.

“He’ll win Scotland over for me,” Henry says in my ear as the bride and groom walk handclasped down the aisle. Henry’s niece throws me a naughty wink as she goes by. She is a most unruly bride, openly relieved at finally being allowed to marry aged nearly thirty years old, after two scandals, both of them involving young men from the Howard house. “He’ll win Scotland for me and then Prince Edward shall marry the little Queen of Scots—Mary—and I shall see Scotland and England united.”

“That would be wonderful if it can be done.”

“Of course it can be done.”

The king heaves himself to his feet and leans on the arm of a page as we process down the aisle. I walk by his side and we go slowly, an ungainly trio, towards the open chapel doors. There is to be a great feast in honor of this wedding, which promises so much for the safety of England.

“With the Scots on my side it leaves me safe to take France,” Henry says.

“My lord husband, are you really well enough to go yourself?”

The smile he shows me is as bright as any young captain in his army. “I can ride,” he says. “However weak my leg is beneath me when I am walking, at least I can sit on a horse. And if I can ride at the head of my army, I can lead them to Paris. You’ll see.”

I look up to protest—half the Privy Council have come to me and begged me to support their appeal to the king that he does not go to war himself; even the Spanish ambassador says that the emperor advises against it—when I see, among the hundreds crowding into the chapel, the turn of a dark head, a profile, a jewel in a hat, and, from under the brim of the hat, a quick glance at me, and at once, in a moment, I know my lover, Thomas Seymour.