I pray in silence. There can be no thanksgiving Mass from me for the survival of the admiral. I don’t say one word in his defense. Only once do I think, madly, of asking his sister-in-law Anne to write in her own name, never mentioning me, and warn him to come to court at once, before the king argues himself into a greater rage, and arrests Thomas for the crime of bad weather. But I dare not. She may share my interest in the new religion, she may be sworn to my service, but she is no great friend of mine; her devotion to the Seymour family comes before everything else. She has never been a friend to Thomas for his own sake. Foolishly, her passionate devotion to her husband makes her jealous of everyone else in his life. She eyes Thomas with suspicion for his charm and his ease at court. She is afraid that people prefer him to her husband—and she is right. Her only praise for any single member of her husband’s family is reserved for his dead sister Jane, Queen Jane, the mother of Prince Edward, and she mentions her before the king whenever she can: “my sister Jane,” “sainted Jane,” conveniently dead Jane.

So I dare say and do nothing, not even when the king limps painfully into my rooms to sit with me to watch my ladies dancing, or to listen to me read. Not even when he comes in with a chart of the south coast and the endangered ports under his arm as I am pouring water into a shallow dish for my favorite pair of canaries to take a bath, warmed by the sunshine that streams in the window.

“Take care! Will they fly away?”

“They come to my hand.”

“Won’t they drown themselves?” he asks irritably.

They duck their bright heads in the water and flutter their wings, I step back laughing as they splash. “No, they like to take a bath.”

“They’re not ducks,” he observes.

“No, lord husband. But they seem to enjoy water.”

He watches for a moment. “I suppose they are pretty things.”

“I love them dearly, they are so bright and quick, you would almost think that they understand.”

“Just like courtiers,” he says grimly.

I laugh. “Do you have a map there, my lord?”

He gestures with it. “I am on my way to meet with the Privy Council,” he says. “We have to repair every castle at every southern port. We will have to build new ones. The French are coming, and Thomas Seymour has failed to stop them.”

He snaps his fingers for his page, who is waiting in the doorway. The youth comes forward and takes the king’s weight on his shoulder. “I will leave you to your amusements. You did not have sunny mornings and little birds when you were married to old Latimer.”