The ritual of the court moves on, and I—who once led it boldly—am trapped inside it, going through my paces like a blinkered horse, allowed only to run the length of the tilt rail, blinded to the world outside my narrow, frightened view. We transfer to Greenwich for the pleasure of the gardens in the summer weather, but the king hardly emerges from his rooms. The roses bloom in the arbors and he does not smell their scent, heavy on the evening air. The court flirts and plays and competes in little games and he does not bellow advice nor award prizes. There is boating and fishing, riding at the quintain, racing and dancing. I have to appear at every pastime, smile on every winner, and maintain the normal life of the court, running in its agreed course. But at the same time I know that people are whispering that the king is ill, and does not want me at his side. That he is an old man struggling with illness and pain but everyone can see his young wife watching the tennis, or the archery, or boating on the river.

My physician comes to see me as I am looking at my birds. Two pairs of canaries have nested and one cage has a row of adorable chicks, opening their beaks in unison, stretching their stubby pale wings. “There’s nothing wrong with me,” I say irritably. “I didn’t send for you. I am perfectly well. You will have been seen coming here, please make sure that you tell everyone that I am perfectly well and that I didn’t send for you.”

“I know you didn’t, Your Majesty,” Doctor Robert Huicke says humbly. “It is I who needs to see you. I can see that you are in your full health and beauty.”

“What is it?” I ask, closing the cage door and turning from the birds.

“It is my brother,” he says.

At once I am alert. Doctor Huicke’s brother is a known reformer and scholar. He has attended the sermons at my rooms, has sent me books from London for my studies. “William?”

“He has been arrested. It was an order from the Privy Council naming him, him alone, not the other scholars whom he studies with. None of his circle. Just him.”

“I am sorry to hear it.”

My blue parrot sidles along his perch as if to listen. I offer him a seed and he takes it in claw and beak, positioning it so that he can crush it and eat the kernel. He drops the husk on the ground and looks at me with his bright intelligent eyes.