“It is the mischance of war,” Edward replies. I hear the crackle of the paper as he slides the letter across the table for the king to read. “Nobody knows better than Your Majesty the dangers a man may run when he goes to war. You, who have sailed to France in the most hazardous weather! Thomas is lucky to report to a king who knows better than any other in Christendom what dangers a brave man has to face. You have been in terrible danger, Your Majesty. You know how a man of courage has to throw the dice and hope that it falls his way. It is the very essence of chivalry—the chivalry that you love so well—that a man takes his life in his hands to serve you.”

“He was reckless,” the king says flatly.

“In a season of storms,” I hear the old Duke of Norfolk Thomas Howard’s rumbling complaint. “Madness to go out! Why could he not wait for spring, as we always do? Typical of a Seymour that he thought he could outrun an autumn wind.”

“The coast has to be defended against the French,” John Dudley intervenes. “And the French are not waiting for fair weather. He couldn’t risk leaving our fleet in port. What if they had attacked? He writes that their barges can bombard from a distance, they can go among moored ships with or without wind. They carry weapons, they are rowed by their crew and they can make war in any season in any water. He had to destroy them before they invaded us.”

I hear the king’s thick hacking cough and his juicy hawk and spit. “You all seem satisfied with his conduct,” he says grudgingly.

I hear a protesting bark from Henry Howard.

“All except the Howards and their party,” the king says grimly. “As usual.”

“Certainly there was no deliberate attempt to risk the fleet,” someone points out.

“Well, I am not satisfied,” says Stephen Gardiner. “Clearly he has been reckless. Clearly, he should be punished.”

“Easy to say from a warm fireside,” Edward mutters.

I hold my breath. Thomas’s popularity with the court is playing in his favor, and besides, everybody knows that he is risking his life at sea while they are dry-shod.

“He can keep his commission,” Henry decides. “Make sure you tell him I am most displeased. He must come and report to me himself.”

I hear the scrape of his chair and the rustle of the strewing herbs as he struggles to rise and the Privy Council jump to their feet and two of them go to help him. At once I tiptoe, silently in my leather slippers, away from the door, through the inner privy chamber, and I am about to run through the king’s bedroom when I freeze in sudden terror.