“I’d have no one else. You’re to be marshal of the army. I am trusting you, Tom. Your brother is away thrashing the Scots into peace. I am counting on you to bring glory to your name and defend your royal nephew’s inheritance in France.”

Thomas puts his hand on his heart and bows. “I would die rather than fail you,” he says. He still has not looked at me.

“And you may greet your queen,” Henry says.

Thomas turns to me and bows very low, a Burgundy bow, the most graceful gesture in the world, one long-fingered hand sweeping the floor with his embroidered hat. “It is a joy to see Your Majesty,” he says, his voice completely steady and cool.

“You are welcome back to court, Sir Thomas,” I say carefully. I can hear the words as if I were a little girl reciting them in a schoolroom, the correct way to greet a returning councillor: “You are welcome back to court, Sir Thomas.”

“And he has done great work for us!” Henry turns to me and pats my hand as it rests on the arm of my throne. He leaves his damp palm over mine, as if to show that he owns my hand, my arm, my body. “Sir Thomas has a treaty with the Netherlands that will keep us safe as we advance on France. He persuaded Queen Mary, the governor. He’s a charmer, this one. Did you find her very beautiful, Tom?”

I can tell from Thomas’s hesitation that this is an unkind jest against the queen’s plain looks. “She is a thoughtful and gracious lady,” he says. “And she would prefer peace with France to war.”

“An oddity on two counts!” Will Somers bobs up to observe. “A thoughtful woman who wants peace. What will you tell us of next, Tom Seymour? An honest Frenchman? A witty German?”

The court breaks into laughter.

“Well, you’re welcome home in time for war; the time for peace is over!” Henry exclaims, and holds up his great goblet in a toast. Everyone stands and holds their tankards and their glasses and drinks to war. There is a clatter and scrape of the benches on the wooden floor as everyone sits again and Thomas bows and steps back to the table for the first noblemen of the court. He takes his seat, someone pours him wine, and someone slaps him on the back. He still has not looked at me.

WHITEHALL PALACE, LONDON,

SUMMER 1544