Father and son, Thomas Howard and his son Henry, wait in the Tower to hear what charges they will face. No one visits them, no one speaks up for them. Suddenly this old man and his heir, who ruled all of Norfolk, and owned most of the South of England, who rode at the head of thousands of men, who lived their lives like fat spiders in a network of friendships, kinship and obligations, know no one. They are completely friendless and without allies. The evidence of treason against Henry Howard is overwhelming. He was fool enough to boast that he had a great claim to the throne. His own sister Mary Howard, still smarting from his command that she must whore herself out to the king, accuses him. She swears on oath that he ordered her to marry Thomas Seymour to get to court, and to become the king’s mistress. She told him that she would rather cut her throat than be so dishonored. Now she is cutting his.

Even his father’s mistress, the notorious Bess Holland, gives evidence against him. The young man, well hated by those who should love and protect him, is incriminated daily by his friends and lovers, and finally by his own coat of arms, which Thomas Wriothesley, son of a herald, grandson of a herald, declares has been fraudulently based on the arms of Hereward the Wake—a leader of England five hundred years ago.

“Isn’t this rather ridiculous?” I ask the king, as we sit beside the fire in his room after dinner. “Surely Hereward the Wake had no coat of arms to leave to the Howards, even if they are descended from him, which nobody can prove. Does this matter at all?”

Around us the court murmurs and plays cards. I can hear the rattle of dice. Soon the king will assemble his cronies, and my ladies and I will withdraw.

Henry’s face is mean, his eyes squinting. “It matters,” he says shortly. “It matters to me.”

“But for him to claim descent from Hereward the Wake... this is like a fairy story.”

“It’s a very dangerous story,” he says. “No one has royal descent in this country but me.” He pauses. He will be thinking of the former royal family, the Plantagenets. One by one he has sent them to their deaths for nothing worse than their fathers’ name. “There is only one family that can trace themselves back to Arthur of England, and that is ours. Any challenge is going to be met with extreme punishment.”

“But why?” I ask, as gently as I can. “If it is an old shield that he has shown many times before. If it is the silly pride of a young man. If the college of heralds saw it years ago, and you have not objected before?”