I hesitate. I don’t know whether to go forward or back. I don’t even know if I should tell the guard to knock for me, or try the door to see if it is locked from the inside. I don’t know if it is my duty to go to him and remind him that Charles Brandon will have died in his faith and will be waiting in purgatory, certain of his ascent to heaven on the uplifting vapor of expensive Masses, or whether I should leave the king to his monstrous grief. He is sobbing like a heartbroken child, like an orphan. The sound of it is terrible.

I step forward and I try the handle. The guard, his face completely blank as if his master is not blubbering only yards away, steps to one side. The handle turns but the door does not yield. He has locked himself in. He wants to be alone in the churning ocean of his grief. I don’t know what I should do and, judging by the blank face of the yeoman of the guard, he does not know either.

I go back to my own room, close the door, and pull the covers over my head, but nothing can muffle the loud wailing. The king screams out his heartbreak all night long, and none of us, not in his rooms or mine, can sleep for his grief.

* * *

In the morning I dress in a dark gown and go to chapel. I am going to pray for the soul of Charles Brandon and for wisdom to help my husband, who has broken under this last loss. I take my place on the queen’s side and look across to the royal throne. To my surprise Henry is already there, in his usual place, signing papers for business, looking over petitions. Only his strained red-rimmed eyes betray his emotional vigil. Indeed, of the two of us, I show more signs of sleeplessness, with heavy eyes and a pale face. It is as if he burned away all his grief and fear in one night. As we finish the prayers and say “Amen” he beckons to me. I go round to his side with my ladies following and we leave the chapel together, walking across the courtyard towards the main hall, my hand tucked under his arm, as he leans heavily on a yeoman of the guard on his other side.

“I will give him a hero’s burial,” he says. “And I shall pay for it all.”

I cannot hide my surprise at his calmness, but he takes it as delight in his generosity.

“I will,” he repeats proudly. “And little Catherine Brandon need not fear for their sons’ inheritance. I shall leave them both in her keeping. I will not take them as my wards. They can inherit their father’s estate entire. I will even let her manage it till they are men. I will take nothing from them.”