I look down the line of my ladies to Anne of Cleves preparing to come in to dinner with her cheerful smile, the former wife he now loves so well that he keeps her at court. She was invited for Christmas and she is still here although it is nearly Easter. Catherine Brandon is behind her, the widow of Henry’s dearest friend, the beautiful girl whom he has watched grow into womanhood, perhaps his lover, perhaps his love; and there are the new ones, the pretty ones, the ones young enough to be my daughter, the ones as young as Kitty Howard when he first saw her, young enough to be his grandchild.

“At least Anne of Cleves can go home,” I say in sudden irritation.

“I’ll see she does,” Nan promises.

* * *

That afternoon, without warning, Thomas Seymour comes to court to report on the strength of the navy and the gathering danger of the French.

“Come and listen to Tom Seymour.” The king beckons me to the table in his presence chamber. He takes my hand and puts it on his, holding my fingers trapped between his, so that I must stand beside him, facing Thomas, as if I am yearning towards the king, my hand resting on my husband’s clenched unresponsive fist, listening to Thomas report on ships built and restored, docks dry and wet, outfitters and chandlers and rope merchants and sail lofts. He reports that another effort to raise the Mary Rose is being undertaken. She could be raised. She could sail again. Perhaps she might, like our king, defy time itself and go on and on forever, outliving the rest of the fleet, sailing on when all love and loyalty is gone, holding the future hostage, a live fleet yoked forever to her rotting timbers.

“There is an archery tournament in the garden for Your Majesty’s amusement,” I say. “If you could walk to it?”

“I can walk,” he says. “Thomas, you will have seen I have an engine to get me up and downstairs. What d’you think? Should you bring me a crane from your shipyard? Will you fetch me a hoist from Portsmouth?”

Thomas smiles at his king, his eyes warm with sympathy. “If greatness were weighed, Your Majesty, nothing would ever lift you.”

Henry cracks a laugh. “You’re a pretty fellow!” he exclaims. “Take the queen to the archery butts and tell them I am coming. They can get ready for me. I may take a bow myself and see what I can do.”

“Your Majesty must come, and show them how to do it,” Thomas recommends, and offers his arm to me and we go towards the door, my hand burning on his sleeve, both of us looking studiously forward, at the guards, at the parting courtiers, at the opening door, never anywhere towards each other.