“All the better, for then they cannot conspire against me. Anyway, I cannot return Boulogne to the French, whatever the Privy Council wants, for Charles of Spain insists that I keep it, insists that we don’t make peace with France. I have to play Spain and France like two dogs in a fight as well. I have to match them against each other like a dog master.”

“And your other worry?” I ask gently.

“God be praised, it’s just a little worry. It’s nothing. Just a plague at Portsmouth.”

“Plague?

“Ripping through my navy, God help them. Of course they will take it hard. The sailors sleep on the ships or in the worst of lodgings in that poor little town, the captains and the bo’suns little better. They’re all crammed on top of one another and the marshes are pestilential. The soldiers in my new castles will die like flies when it goes through them.”

“But your admirals must be safe?”

“No, for I insist they stay with the fleet,” he says, as if the life of Thomas Seymour is an afterthought. “They have to take their chances.”

“Can’t they go to their homes while the plague is in Portsmouth?” I suggest. “It must make sense that the captains and commanders are not lost to the plague. You will need them in battle. You must want to keep them safe.”

“God will watch over those who serve me,” he says comfortably. “God would not raise his hand against me and mine. I am His chosen king, Kateryn. Never forget it.”

He sends me away at midnight—he wants to be alone—but instead of going to my bed I go to the beautiful chapel, kneel before the altar, and whisper to myself: “Thomas, Thomas, God bless you, God keep you, my love, my only love. God keep you from the sea, God keep you from the plague, God keep you from sin and sorrow and send you safe home. I don’t even pray that you come home to me. I love you so dearly that I would have you safe, anywhere.”

* * *