“I daresay I will approve your choices,” he says. “I am sure there will be none that I do not approve. You have such beautiful taste, you are certain to choose ladies who will be an ornament to your court and to mine.”

I bow my head.

“But they must be pretty,” he specifies. “Make sure of that. I don’t want an eyesore.”

I say nothing to his plan that I should choose as my companions the women who will please him, and at once, he squeezes my hand. “Ah, Kate, we shall deal well together. We’ll go hunting this afternoon and you shall sit with me.”

“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.