“That was the prize. That’s the prize for them all. That’s what they all want, however they gurn and gloze. They all want command of the regency on my death and control of the new king. That is what I have to defend Edward against. That is what you will defend him against.”

“Of course, husband, you know—”

“Poor Henry Howard,” he says. His voice quavers and the easy tears come quickly. “You know I loved that boy as if he were my own? I remember him as such a beautiful boy playing with Fitzroy. They were like brothers.”

“Can’t he be pardoned?” I ask quietly. “He writes very sorrowfully, I cannot believe that he does not regret...”

He nods his head. ‘I will consider it,’ he says grandly. “If I can pardon him, I will. I will be just. But I will be merciful too. I loved him; and my boy, my beloved Henry Fitzroy, loved him. If I can forgive Howard for the sake of his playmate, then I will.”

* * *

The court is to divide. The king is going to Whitehall to oversee the deaths of the Howards, father and son, and the complete destruction of their treasonous house, and the princesses and I are to go to Greenwich. The Seymours, Thomas and his brother Edward, will stay with the king, help him untangle the plot and name the guilty men. Under the king’s bright suspicious gaze the interrogations of servants, tenants, and enemies are read and reread, and then, I am certain, rewritten. All the vindictive spite that was directed at the reformers, my ladies and me, is now turned, like the mouth of a cannon, towards the Howards, and the great guns are ready to roar. The king’s sentiment, his mercy, his sense of justice, are put aside in an orgy of false evidence. The king wants to kill someone and the court wants to help him.

The Seymours are in the ascendancy, their religion is the king’s new preference, their family is kin to the royal line, their military skills are the saving of the nation and their companionship is all the king wants. All other rival houses are down in the dust.

The court comes to the outer steps of the palace for the lords to say good-bye to their ladies, and for those who are courting to exchange a look, a word, the touch of a hand. The gentlemen of the court come to say their farewells to me, and then finally, Thomas Seymour makes his way towards me. We stand close together, my hand on my horse’s neck, the groom holding him steady.

“At least you’re safe,” he says in my ear. “Another year gone by, and you’re still safe.”

“Are you going to marry Elizabeth?” I ask him urgently.

“He’s not spoken. Has he said anything to you?”

“He asked me what I thought of it. I said what I could.”