We go to Greenwich, where the waves that slap at the stone pier before the palace remind us of the unforgiving waters of the Solent and the sinking of the king’s pride to its dark depths. Thomas stays at his post in Portsmouth, repairing and rebuilding the houses that were fired by the invading French, overseeing the refitting of the ships that were damaged in battle, sending down swimmers to see if they can salvage anything from the warship as she settles into her last berth. He cannot come to court; I don’t hope to see him. He writes privately to the king and Henry shows no one the letter.

People think that the king is ill again, that perhaps his leg has opened up or the fever that shakes him four times a year has come back. But I know what is wrong: he is sick to his heart. He has seen a defeat, an undeniable defeat, and he cannot bear it.

This is a man so sharp with pride that he cannot hear contradiction. This is a man who will play both sides at once to make sure that he wins. This is a man who from a boy has never been refused. And, in addition to all of this—here is a man who cannot see himself as anything but perfect. He has to be the very best. King Francis of France was his only rival; but now Francis and all of Europe are laughing at the English navy, which was supposed to be so mighty, and at our famous flagship, which sank as soon as she set sail. They are saying that the king piled so many guns on her that she was as fat and as clumsy as he is.

“It wasn’t that,” he says to me shortly. “Don’t think that.”

“No, of course,” I say.

“Of course it was not.”

He is like an animal in a trap, twisting and turning against his own pain. He grieves more for his hurt pride than for the drowned men. He has to rescue his self-regard. Nothing is more important than that; no one is more important than that. The ship can sink into the silt of the Solent as long as the king’s pride can be salvaged.

“There was nothing wrong with the ship,” he says another night. “It was the fools of the gunners. They left the gun ports open after firing.”

“Oh, was that what happened?”

“Probably,” he says. “I should have left Thomas Seymour in command. I am glad that fool Carew paid with his life.”

I swallow a protest against this harsh judgment. “God save his soul,” I say, thinking of his widow who saw her husband drown.

“God forgive him,” Henry says heavily. “For I never will.”

* * *