The king gets worse and it makes him miserable. He agrees that the court shall move to Hampton Court, away from the unbearable heat of the city and the danger of illness, but he does not come out to the garden, or to boat on the river, or even to Mass in the beautiful palace chapel. They tell me that he wants to rest quietly in his rooms, to talk with his advisors. He will not come for dinner, he does not want to visit me in my rooms, I need not come to his. He has shut himself away, excluding me just as he excluded Kitty Howard, when they assured her that he was ill; but in fact he was locked inside his rooms, here, in this very palace, at Hampton Court, brooding on her failings, on the trial he would rig and the execution that he would order.

But, just like Anne Boleyn, who attended jousts and dinners and May Day celebrations while knowing that something was wrong, I have to appear before the court. I cannot withdraw like him. I am in my aviary rooms, feeding my birds, watching their thoughtless chatter and their little busyness as they tidy their feathers, when my clerk, William Harper, taps on the door.

“You can come in,” I say. “Come in and shut the door. I have two of them flying free and I don’t want them to get out.”

He ducks as a canary swoops over his head and comes to my outstretched hand.

“What is it, William?” I ask absently, breaking off seed cake and giving it to the pretty little bird. “Speak up. I have to leave this little beauty and go and dress for dinner.”

He glances towards Nan and Anne Seymour, who are sitting in the window seat, side by side, both of them unmoved by my lovely little birds. “May I speak to you alone?”

“What for?” Nan says flatly. “Her Majesty has to go to dinner. You can tell me what it is.”

He shakes his head; he looks imploringly at me.

“Oh, go on, and pick out my jewels and a hood,” I say impatiently. “I’ll come in a moment.”