Catherine is trying to manage a difficult relationship with the king: constantly at his side, his favorite flirt, ignored as a councillor but relished as a partner at cards. This is a path that many have trod before her: four ladies-in-waiting have become queen—I am only the most recent. Now Catherine is the most favored lady at court, and Anne Seymour, who never ceases to measure her husband’s prestige as the uncle of the prince, is painfully jealous. Surely, the danger is to me, but Anne thinks only of herself.

“He is going to establish two colleges, just as he promised Her Majesty,” Catherine says, smiling at me. “One at Oxford and one at Cambridge. This is learned work, just as Her Majesty asked him to do. They will teach the new learning and they will preach in English.”

“He’s planning to send my husband, Edward, to Boulogne to replace that fool young Henry Howard,” Anne says anxiously. “The Howards are in disgrace for Henry’s rashness and incompetence—which is all to our good—but with my husband away from court, who is going to keep us Seymours in the king’s remembrance? How shall we stay in favor? How can we be influential?”

“Ah, the Seymours,” Catherine says sweetly. “The Seymours! The Seymours! Just when we thought we were talking of the friends that we could trust to bring the king and the church closer to God, I find that we are actually talking about the rise of the Seymours, once more. Again.”

“We don’t need to rise,” Anne replies irritably. “We are high in favor. We Seymours are kin to the only Tudor heir, and Prince Edward loves his uncles.”

“But it is the queen who is named as regent,” Catherine reminds her silkily. “And the king prefers her company, and even mine, to yours. And if Edward is sent to Boulogne, and Thomas is always at sea, who will keep the king in mind of the Seymours indeed? Do you have any friends at all?”

“Peace,” I say quietly. But it is not their wrangling that disturbs me. It is that I cannot bear to hear his name. I cannot bear to think that while I am trapped in a court that seems smaller and more confining every day, he is always, always far away.

HAMPTON COURT PALACE,

CHRISTMAS 1545

We hold Christmas in the old way, with dancing and music and masquing, and sports and competitions, and huge amounts of food and wine. Every one of the twelve days of the feast the kitchen labors to bring out some new novelty, some great dish; and the king eats and eats as if to satisfy a growing insatiable hunger, as if he had a monstrous worm coiled and fat inside him.