“Well enough,” he says, but I know that he is at once jealous that his son loves me. “But you must not distract him from his studies, Kateryn. And he must not forget his true mother. She must live in his heart before anyone else. She is his guardian angel in heaven, as she was his guardian angel on earth.”

“Whatever you think, my lord,” I say, a little stiff at this snub.

“He is born to be king,” he says. “As I was. He has to be disciplined, and well taught and strictly raised. As I was. My mother was dead in my twelfth year. I had no one writing loving letters to me.”

“No,” I say. “You must have missed her very much. To lose her, when you were so young.”

His face compresses with self-pity. “I was heartbroken,” he says huskily. “The loss of her broke my heart. No woman has ever loved me as she did. And she left me so young!”

“Tragic,” I say softly.

There is a knock at the door and the grooms of the servery come in with a table groaning with food. They place it at the side of the bed and heap a plate for the king as he points to one dish after another.

“Eat!” he commands me, his mouth full. “I can’t dine alone.”

I take a small plate and let them serve me. I sit by the fireside on my chair and nibble on a few pieces of pastry. The king is served wine. I take a glass of small ale. I cannot believe that I will see Thomas Seymour within the week.

It is a long two hours before the king has finished with the food and he is sweating and breathing heavily by the time he has eaten several slices of pie, some meats, and half of a lemon pudding.

“Take it away, I am weary,” he announces.

Quickly and efficiently they load the table and carry it out of the room.

“Come to bed,” he says thickly. “I will sleep here with you.”

He tips his head back and belches loudly. I go to my side of the bed and climb in. Before I have the covers spread over us he has let out a loud snore and is fast asleep.

I think I will be wakeful but I lie in the darkness and feel such joyas I think of Thomas. Perhaps he is in Portsmouth, perhaps sleeping on board his ship in his low-ceilinged wooden admiral’s cabin, with the candles rocking gently on their gimbals on the walls.I will see him next week, I think. I may not speak to him, I must not look for him, but at least I will see him, and he will see me.

* * *