He bellows suddenly: a roar of shocking laughter, opening his mouth wide, showing his yellow teeth and his furred tongue. “Say it again! You say it!”

“Bound to Obey and Serve.”

He laughs but there is no humor in his voice at all. I make sure that I am smiling, as if I am willing to be amused but too slow to understand the joke, as if I, as a dull woman, can have no sense of humor, but I am happy to admire his wit.

* * *

The admiral of France, Claude d’Annebault, who negotiated the peace with Edward Seymour, comes to Hampton Court for a great reception. The royal children, especially Prince Edward, are to welcome him. The king says that he is tired and asks me to watch that Edward does all that he should, and maintains the dignity of the Tudor throne. Edward is only eight, and torn between excitement and apprehension at the part he has to play. He comes to my rooms before the Frenchman arrives and asks me what exactly is to happen and what exactly he is to do. He is so precise, so anxious to be accurate, like a little astronomer, that I call my master of horse and my principal steward and we draw out, on a great sheet of paper, a plan of the gardens. Then, with his old tin soldiers from the nursery, we represent the arrival of the French delegation, and use little dolls to represent us, going out to meet them.

There are to be two hundred French gentlemen and the whole of the Privy Council and the court will come to meet them. We will house them in tents of cloth of gold in the gardens and we will build temporary banqueting houses for the feasts. We draw this little village on our plan, and we take another piece of paper and list the ten days and every reception, hunt, masque, sport, and feast.

Princess Elizabeth is there too, and Lady Jane, and we laugh and call for bonnets and headgear and soon we are play-acting the arrival of the French. Edward plays himself but all the rest of us are Frenchmen and courtiers in great hats, sweeping exaggerated bows and making long speeches until we fail the masque with our laughter and have to be ourselves again.

“But it will be like this?” Edward asks earnestly. “And I will stand just here?” He points at the platform that we have marked on the plan.

“Why worry?” Elizabeth demands of him. “You’re the prince and our Lady Mother is regent—whatever the two of you choose to do must be how it is to be done. You’re Prince of Wales, you cannot do anything wrong.”

Edward gives me his sweetest smile. “I shall follow you, Lady Mother.”

“You are the prince,” I say. “And Elizabeth is correct. Whatever you do is the right thing.”

* * *