First a beautifully ornate pillar shining with silver and gold engraving, and a ceiling, bright as stained glass, with red and white Tudor roses. Then a doorway. There is a little gasp of surprise, for there is Princess Mary’s Fool, walking past the archway in Whitehall Palace garden as if to say that all life is passing, that it is a court of fools. In the garden behind her, are the carved heraldic beasts on posts, as if to say that all glory is folly. I glance at the king to see if he is surprised to see Jane the Fool in the top corner of his royal portrait, but I observe his slow nod, and I know that he approved this, even the position of the Fool. He will think that he is making some kind of profound statement about fame and the world. Another pair of matching gold pillars frame the figure of a woman in the foreground. It is Princess Mary in her dark red gown with the greeny-brown overgown, cut square at her throat, trimmed with white silk slashings on her sleeves and white lace cuffs at her wrists. She wears a French hood, pushed back from her pale face, and a crucifix at her throat. I look carefully at the portrait and then I turn and give her a warm approving smile. It is fitting. She looks regal and dignified, her two hands clasped before her, her face turned towards the viewer with a small smile. If anyone copies this to show to a suitor, a foreign prince seeking her in marriage, it will be a fair likeness. She looks both queenly and girlish. The painter has captured her dignity and her charm. I see her rising blush and she gives me a little nod. This is a good likeness; we are both pleased.

The cover drops a little and the court gasps to see Prince Edward, square as his father, standing stocky and bold in a bulky jacket and red stockings, a red hat crammed on his little head, his sleeves ridiculously stuffed. A few people applaud. This could be the Holbein portrait of the king cut down to three feet tall. The painted prince leans with a confident elbow on his father’s knee, as Edward would never dare to lean in real life, and Henry’s hand is on his shoulder, holding him close, as he has never done. The boy is presented to the eye as if Henry had just given birth to him from between his wide-straddled legs: this is his son and heir, the pose insists. This is the boy of the king’s own making, in his image, his little red egg.