“Even though.”

* * *

I am to meet my stepson, the Prince of Wales, Queen Jane’s son. He comes in state from his own palace at Ashridge, where he lives at a safe distance from the plagues and illnesses of the city. I watch from the windows that overlook the river and the gardens, and see the royal barge approaching, the banks of oars cutting into the water and then lifting out, and pulling onwards again. I see the barge feather the oars to slow its stately progress and then steer smoothly to the pier. The oarsmen throw the ropes and moor up as the guns roar out to salute him. The richly carved gangplank is run ashore, and the men make a guard of honor with their green and white oars erect. Half of the court is already on the riverbank to greet the prince. I see Edward Seymour’s dark head and Anthony Denny beside him, Thomas Howard trying to get in front. They look almost as if they are jostling to be first to greet him. These are the men who will want him to favor them, whose power will come only from him, whose futures depend on him. If my husband dies and this boy becomes a child-king, then one of them will be his governor, his protector. It may fall to me to defend him from them all, to raise him as his father would have it done, and keep him in the ways of the true religion.

I turn to my ladies and let them adjust my hood, settle my jewels at my neck, and pull out the hem of my gown. I am wearing a new gown in deep red, the king’s huge ruby ring cut down to fit my finger, Queen Anne’s rubies sitting heavily and coldly on my neck. With my ladies behind me and with Rig, my spaniel, trotting beside me in his red leather collar with silver rings, we walk to the king’s presence chamber, through a whispering crowd of people who have come to witness this meeting.

His Majesty is there already, seated beneath the golden cloth of estate, his leg supported on a footstool. His face is dark with bad temper. I guess that he is in pain and I curtsey before him and take my place at his side without speaking. I have learned that it is better to be silent when he is ill; the least word angers him. He cannot hear a reference to his weakness, but he cannot bear that his suffering should be ignored. It is impossible to say the right thing, impossible to say anything at all. I feel nothing but pity for him, fighting the decay and collapse of his body with such dauntless courage. Anyone else in pain like this would be wild with temper.