“I would love that,” I say. I long to be on my horse and ride with the hunt. I want the sense of freedom of riding behind the hounds, following where the scent takes them, going fast and riding far from the great palace, but I know it will not be like this. I shall have to sit in the royal shelter beside the king and watch the deer driven towards us so that Henry can shoot his loaded bow from his seat. Before him the huntsmen will herd and chivy the deer forward. Behind him, a page will take the sharpened bolt and load it into the crossbow. The king will do nothing but point and shoot. He makes a hunt, with all the chance and hazard of field and woodland, into a farmyard killing, a butcher’s yard. The king’s hunt, which was once a pageant of excitement, has become a shambles where animals are driven and slaughtered. But this is all he can do now. The man whom I remember as a centaur, as a huntsman, who rode three horses one after another in a single day till they foundered, is diminished to a murderer, slumped in a chair, defeated by old age and ill health, with a younger man loading his bow.

“I shall be so happy to sit beside you,” I lie.

“And you shall learn to shoot,” he promises me. “I will give you a little crossbow of your own. You must share in the sport. You must have the pleasure of the kill.”

He intends to be kind to me. “Thank you,” I say again.

He nods that I am to leave. I rise to my feet and hesitate as he beckons me towards him and lifts up his big moon face. He is like a little child, trustingly offering a kiss. I put one hand on his massive shoulder and I bend down. His breath is terribly rank—it is like letting a hound pant in my face—but I don’t flinch. I kiss him on the mouth and I meet his eyes and smile.

“Dearest,” he says quietly. “You are my dearest. You will be my last and dearest wife.”

I am so touched that I bend down again and put my cheek to his.

“Go and buy some pretty things,” he commands me. “I want you to look like a beloved wife and the finest queen that England has ever known.”

I leave the room a little dazed. If I look like a beloved wife, it will be for the first time. To my second husband, Lord Latimer, I was a partner and a helpmeet, someone to guard his lands and educate his children. He taught me the things that he needed me to know and he was glad to have me alongside him. But he never petted me, or gave things to me, or imagined how I would appear to others. He rode away and left me in terrible danger, expecting me to serve him as the captain of Snape Castle, confident I would command his men in his absence. I was his deputy, not his love. Now I am married to a man who calls me his beloved and plans treats for me.