“He has come to see the king. They can’t raise the Mary Rose. They’re trying some new way, pumping her out as she lies on the ocean bed.”

“Really?”

Thomas comes into the great hall, bows to the empty throne and then bows to me and to the princesses. He winks at Elizabeth and takes his place at the head of the Seymour table. I send out dishes to him, to the Duke of Norfolk, and to Lord Lisle, without favoritism. Without looking directly towards Thomas, I can see that he is tanned like a peasant, the skin at his temples lined from smiling into the sun. He looks well. He has a new jacket in velvet—deep red, my favorite colour. Dozens of dishes come from the kitchen, the trumpeters announce each fresh course with a scream of sound. I take a small portion from everything that is presented to me, and I wonder what the time is now, and if he will come to me after dinner.

It takes forever for the feast to be over, and then the court rises from the tables and the men stroll about and talk to one another, and approach the ladies. Some people settle to cards or games, the musicians play, and a few people start to dance. There is no formal entertainment this evening, and I step down from the dais to make my way slowly towards the king’s rooms, pausing to talk to people as I go.

Thomas appears at my side and bows. “Good evening, Your Majesty.”

“Good evening, Sir Thomas. Your sister-in-law tells me that you have spoken with the king about the Mary Rose.”

He nods. “I had to tell His Majesty that we made an attempt to raise her but that she was stuck fast on the seabed. We’re going to try again with more ships and more ropes. I will send swimmers down to try to make her watertight belowdecks and pump her out. I think it can be done.”

“I hope so. It was a terrible loss.”

“Are you going to see the king?” he asks, his voice very low.

“I go every evening.”

“He seems very displeased.”

“I know.”

“I told him that since my marriage to Mary Howard is not to go ahead, I am still looking for a wife.”

Carefully, I don’t look up at him. He extends his arm. I rest my fingers on it. I sense but I do not grip the strength of his forearm. I walk beside him, our paces matching. If I stepped a little closer, my cheek would touch his shoulder. I don’t step any closer.

“Did you say that you hope for Princess Elizabeth?”

“I did not. He was not in the mood for conversation.”

I nod.