I cry out for help and then I am awake and I realize it is not a dream: it is real. The suppurating wound on his leg is leaking, and yellow and orange pus is oozing through the bandages, staining my gown as if he had pissed the fine linen sheets, making the best bedroom in England smell like a charnel house.

The room is dark but I know that he is awake. The rumbling bubbling snores have stopped. I can hear his stertorous breathing, but it does not fool me: I know that he is awake, listening and looking for me. I imagine his eyes, wide open in the dark, staring blindly towards me. I lie completely still, my breathing steady and slight, but I am afraid that he knows, like a wild beast always knows, that I am afraid of him. He knows by some animal cunning that I am awake, and afraid of him.

“Are you awake, Kateryn?” he says very softly.

I stretch and give a little false yawn. “Ah... yes, my lord. I am awake.”

“And did you sleep well?” The words are pleasant but there is an edge to his voice.

I sit up, tucking my hair under my nightcap, and turn towards him at once. “I did, my lord, thanks be to God. I hope that you slept well?”

“I felt sick; I tasted vomit in my throat. I was not propped up high enough on the pillows. It’s terrible to feel like that in sleep. I could have choked. They have to prop me so that I am sitting up, or I choke on bile. They know that. You must make sure that they do that when I am in your bed as well as my own. There must have been something tainted in the dinner that made me sick. They have all but poisoned me. I shall send for the cooks in the morning and punish them. They must have used some bad meat. I need to vomit.”

At once I am out of the bed, my soiled gown slick against my legs, fetching a bowl from the cupboard, a flask of ale. “Will you take a drink of small ale now? Shall I send for the doctors?”

“I shall see the doctor later. I was quite dizzy in the night.”

“Ah, my dear,” I say tenderly, as if I am a mother speaking to a sickly boy. “Perhaps you can take a drink of ale and sleep again?”

“No, I can’t sleep,” he complains peevishly. “I never sleep. The whole court sleeps, the whole country sleeps, but I am wakeful. I keep watch all night while lazy pages and slothful women sleep. I keep watch and ward over my country, over my church. D’you know how many men I will burn in Windsor next week?”

“No,” I say, shrinking.

“Three,” he says, pleased. “They’ll burn them in the marshes and their ashes will float away. For questioning my holy church. Good riddance.”