“I have heard this very night from Portsmouth, from Portsmouth, madam. Tom Seymour set sail into the worst storm they have seen for years and is likely to be lost. And all my ships lost with him.”

I don’t flinch, I don’t even close my eyes, though I feel a great pulse in the core of my body, as if I am wounded, actually bleeding inside; but I remain steadily smiling down at his furious face, my hand against his burning cheek. “God save them for England,” I say. “God save all of them in peril on the sea.”

“God save my ships!” he bellows. “D’you have any idea how much it costs me to build and equip a ship? And then Tom gets one of his brilliant ideas and throws away the fleet on a hopeless venture! Drowns himself in the process.”

“He is drowned? The fleet is lost?” My voice is steady but I can feel my temples pulse with pain.

“No, no, Your Majesty, it’s not that bad yet. We have no news for certain.” Denny steps forward and addresses the king. “We know there is a storm and that some ships are missing, the admiral’s ship among them, but we have no more news than that. It might all be well.”

“How can it be well when they are sinking like stones?” Henry shouts.

We are all silent. Nobody can do anything with the king when he is in such a rage, and nobody dares to try. My hands are trembling but so too is Denny. I think: surely I would know if he were dead? Surely I would simply know it—if he were rolling with the tide, his dark hair floating from his white face, his boots slowly filling with water and taking him down to the seabed? Surely God would have more mercy than to let a sinner like me, a sinner like him, be parted without one word of love?

“The admiral’s ship is lost?” I ask Denny quietly as Doctor Butts steps forward with a draft in a small glass. Wordlessly he presses it into the king’s hand, which is clenched on the arm of his chair, and wordlessly we watch as Henry downs it in one great gulp. After silent moments we see his grip ease on the chair, the terrible scowl ironed from his forehead. He heaves a great sigh.

“I suppose you are not at fault,” he says begrudgingly to me.

I manage a smile. “I think not,” I say.

He rubs his damp face against my hand like a sick dog seeking a caress. I bend and kiss his cheek. He puts his hand on my tightly laced back and, out of sight of the court, slides it down to clench my buttock. “You are distressed,” he states.

“For you,” I say firmly. “Of course.”