“Nothing will bring peace to the king but when matters are made perfectly well,” Bishop Gardiner cannot resist saying. “How can His Majesty be at peace when he knows that his Privy Council is constantly disturbed by new men coming and bringing in even newer men with them? When there are constant inquiries into heresy because people keep redefining what heresy is? Because they are allowed to wrangle and dispute without check?”

“I’ll take them out.” Thomas Howard speaks over the other councillors, directly to the king as if he is his only friend. “God knows they will never fall silent even when they are ordered to be quiet. They will plague you forever.” He gives him a wolfish grin. “You should behead them all.”

The king laughs shortly and nods his assent, so Thomas Howard wins the upper hand, ushering the others from the room. He even turns in the doorway and gives the king a friendly wink, as if to assure him that only a Howard can manage such troublesome upstarts. As the door shuts behind them there is a sudden silence. Catherine Brandon curtseys to the king and goes to sit in the window seat, her pretty head turned towards the gardens. Anthony Denny lounges over to stand beside her. There are still half a dozen people in the room but they are quiet and talking amongst themselves or playing a game of cards. By the standards of the overcrowded court, we are alone.

“Dear husband, are you in great pain?” I ask him.

He nods. “They can do nothing,” he says furiously. “They know nothing.”

Doctor Butts looks up from a worried consultation with the apothecary as if he knows he will have to take the blame.

“Is it the same trouble? The old wound?” I ask cautiously.

The king nods. “They say they may have to cauterize it.” He looks at me as if I can save him. “I pray to be spared that.”

If they cauterize the wound they will put a red-hot brand against it to burn out infection. It is an agony worse than branding a criminal with a T for thief. It is a merciless cruelty to an innocent man.

“Surely that won’t be necessary?” I demand of Doctor Butts.

He shakes his head; he does not know. “If we can drain the wound and make sure that it does not close up, then the king may be well again,” he says. “We have always managed before to cleanse it without cauterizing. I would not undertake it lightly. His heart...” His voice trails away. I imagine he is terrified at the thought of giving such a shock to Henry’s massive poisoned bulk.

I take Henry’s hand, and feel his grip tighten. “I am afraid of nothing,” he says defiantly.

“I know,” I say reassuringly. “You are naturally courageous.”

“And this is not caused by age or infirmity. It’s not sickness.”