He must know that I am Regent General in every way, neglecting nothing, but I make it clear that he rules through me. He must never think that I have taken power and am ruling for myself. I have to rule like a king and report like a wife. I have to walk this careful line in every word I put on paper, in everything I say that will be reported to him, in every meeting I have with the Privy Council, who are partly men of my household and affinity and partly there in their own interests. None of them can be wholly trusted not to sneak a report that I am greedy for power and doing too much, that I am the worst thing in the world: a woman with the heart and stomach of a man.

The king writes that he is in good health. They have built a platform for him to survey the siege of Boulogne, and he can climb the steps unaided and walk around without support. His leg has dried up, and the surgeons are keeping the wound safely open, and so he has less pain. He rides out every day on his great horse, with a massive musket laid over the pommel of the saddle, ready to fire on any Frenchman he sees. He goes all around the town and the siege camp to show himself to the men and assure them that he is leading them to victory. He is living the life that he loves, the imaginary life of his fairy-tale youth—his company are all handsome young men, invoking the chivalric dream of the Knights of the Round Table. He is reliving the campaign that he won as a young man at the Battle of the Spurs, the tents of his household are as beautiful as those that were raised on the Field of the Cloth of Gold. It is as if in his old age he has been given the chance to enjoy the delights of his youth once more: comradeship, token danger, victory.

They give great dinners every night in which they report skirmishes during the day, drink celebratory toasts, and plan the advance on Paris. Henry is at the heart of the campaign, arm in arm with his reckless friends, and he swears that he will be King of France in name and in deed.