I take a breath. I wait for the moment, which must come, which must be now, when Thomas Seymour comes forward to make his bow.

There is a movement at my side. Princess Mary takes her seat beside me. “Are you all right, Your Majesty?” she asks me.

“Why?”

“You’re so white...”

“Just a little gripe,” I say. “You know.”

She nods. She is seldom free of pain herself and she knows that I cannot be excused from this feast or even show any discomfort. “I have a tincture of raspberry leaves in my room,” she offers. “I can send someone to get it for you.”

“Yes, yes, please,” I say at random.

My gaze rakes the room. He has to step forward and greet the king before the servers come in with the endless parade of courses that make up the bridal feast. He has to come and bow and then take his seat at the table for the noble lords of the court. And everyone will watch him bow to the king, and then everyone will see him bow to me, and nobody must remark that I look pale. Nobody must know that my heart is pounding so fast that I think Princess Mary will hear it over the clatter of the court pulling up the benches and stools to the trestle tables and taking their seats.

I wonder if his nerve will fail. I wonder if his reckless laughing courage will fail him this once, and he won’t come in to dinner at all. Or is he outside now, nerving himself to walk forward? Perhaps he cannot greet me as a courteous acquaintance, perhaps he cannot bring himself to congratulate me on my wedding and my rise to greatness? But he knows that he will have to do it, so surely now would be better than later?

Just when I think he is taking so long that he must have given some excuse and gone away, I see him, weaving his way between the tables, ahead of the servers, a smile to one man at one side and a touch on the shoulder of another, moving through the crowd with people calling his name and greeting him.

He stands before the dais, and the king looks down at him. “Tom Seymour!” he exclaims. “I’m very glad you’re back. You must have ridden hard. You had far to come.”

Thomas bows. He does not look at me. He smiles up at the king, his easy, familiar smile. “I rode like a horse thief,” he confesses. “I was so afraid that I would be too late and you would be armed and mounted and gone without me.”

“You’re just in time,” the king says. “For I will be armed and mounted and gone within the month.”

“I knew it!” Thomas exclaims. “I knew you would wait for nothing,” and the king beams back at him. “Say I am to come with you?”