There is a roar of approval from his men and, peeping around him, I find I am smiling at their excitement. It is impossible not to be caught up in their joy in their victory. It is a triumph, a great triumph, that they have reclaimed English lands in France; they have shown the power and might of our King Henry, and they have come home with a victory.

* * *

We sit, side by side, before the altar at Leeds Castle chapel in special low chairs which give the appearance of our devoutly kneeling. Behind us the children have their heads reverently bowed. The king prays earnestly for a few moments and then gently touches my hand to get my attention. “And Edward is well?” he says.

Before us, the priest faces the altar and blesses the bread and the wine, the choir’s voices soar into their celebratory anthem. I turn my attention from my prayers to my husband; from the sacred to the profane. Not for the first time I wonder if Henry can really believe that a miracle is taking place: the wine becoming holy blood, the bread becoming the body of Christ, since he turns his head and talks to his friends while the sacred act is taking place. Does he really think that a true miracle happens before him every day? And if so, why would he ignore it?

“As you see. He is well. And your daughters.”

“You said there was plague?”

“We went on progress and avoided all signs of it. It’s over now.”

“I have secured his inheritance in France. Another city under English control. And we will gain more. This is just our foothold.”

“It has been a wonderful campaign,” I say enthusiastically.

He nods. He closes his eyes as the priest approaches and folds his big hands together like a child at prayer. His rosebud mouth opens, his big tongue rolls out as he takes the sacred bread into his mouth and swallows it in one great gulp. The server comes with the goblet and whispers: “Sanguis autem Christi.”

“Amen,” the king confirms, and takes the goblet and tips it and drinks deep.

They come to me. In the sacred silence as the priest holds up the wafer before me, I whisper in my heart: “Thank you, Lord, for preserving the king from the many dangers of war.” The holy wafer is heavy and thick in my mouth. I swallow as the priest comes towards me with the goblet of wine. “And keep Thomas Seymour under your protection and in your grace,” I finish my secret prayer. “God bless Thomas.”

* * *