The gardeners and builders have erected triumphal arches with boughs of bay and laurel, the trumpeters are positioned on the turrets of the castle and the musicians ready at the entrance. We can hear the hammering hooves of the outliers and then those in the first rank, and now I can see, from where I stand at the gateway of the castle with Mary and Elizabeth on one side, Edward on the other, the rippling standards of the royal party and the great flag of England coming on.

It is impossible to miss the king. He looks magnificent in his black Italian armor, his enormous warhorse in matching metal, the biggest horse in the rank, the rider towering above the rest: bigger, brighter, higher than any other on the road. People do cheer, quite spontaneously, and the king turns his head and smiles to one side and another, and behind him his almoner throws coins to encourage the enthusiasm.

I am nervous. The procession with ambassadors, noblemen, supporters, and the cream of the army comes slowly forward, the beautiful horses tossing their heads and blowing, the archers with their bows across their backs, the infantry in newly clean jackets, some sporting battered helmets, and at the head of them, always drawing the eye, the great king.

He pulls up his horse and four men run to their appointed places to get him out of the saddle. A wheeled platform is brought to the side of the horse, he is helped down and steadied where he stands. He turns, and waves to me. The crowd cheer, the soldiers leading the applause, and then the four men guide him down the steps to the ground.

His squires come forward and unstrap his cuisses and the rerebrace from his arms, but he keeps on his breastplate and holds his helmet under his arm for the warlike look of it. I keep my eyes fixed adoringly on him. Somewhere, Thomas is on his horse, watching me.

One page gets one side of him and one the other, but he does not lean on them to walk. Even now, at the moment of our greeting I know that I must not approach him; he will come to me. He walks towards me and I see that the men are lined up so that they can see our greeting. The king comes closer and closer, and I and all my household sink into low deferential curtseys. His children bow almost to the ground. At once I feel his hand under my elbow, raising me up and he turns and, in sight of everyone, kisses me passionately on the mouth.

I guard my expression. There must not be the smallest flinch from this stale wet kiss. The king turns his back to me to face his army. “I have led you out, and I have led you home!” he bellows. “I have brought you back in honor. We have come back in triumph.”