* * *

Nan marches into my bird room where I am sitting in the window seat with a pair of yellow canaries on one hand pecking at a speck of manchet bread that I hold in the other. I am reveling in their bright little eyes, the cock of their heads, the brilliance of their color, the intricate detail of feather upon feather and their warm, scratchy little feet. They are like a miracle of intense life, sitting in the palm of my hand. “Sshh,” I say without raising my head.

“You need to hear this,” Nan says in a tone of muted fury. “Put the birds away.”

I glance up to refuse, but then I see her grim face. Behind her Catherine Brandon is pale. Beside her is Anne Seymour looking grave.

Gently, so as not to startle them, I put my hand into the pretty cage and the pair hop to their perches, and one of them begins to preen and tidy his feathers as if he was an important ambassador, returned from a visit, and must straighten his cloak.

“What is it?”

“It’s the new Act of Succession,” Nan says. “The king is naming his heirs before he goes to war with France. Charles Brandon and Edward Seymour were with him when he was taking advice, and Wriothesley—Wriothesley!—was there with the lawyers drawing it up.”

“I know all about this,” I say calmly. “He discussed it with me.”

“Did he tell you that he is naming the heirs of your body to follow Prince Edward?” she demands.

I wheel round and the little birds in the cage flutter at my sudden movement.

“My heirs?” I demand.

“We have to take care what is said.” Anne Seymour glances anxiously around as if the parrot might report to Bishop Gardiner any words of treason.

“Of course, of course,” I nod. “I was just surprised.”

“And any other heirs,” Catherine Brandon says, her voice very quiet, her face carefully expressionless. “That’s the point, really.”

“Other heirs?”

“From any future queen.”

“Any future queen?” I repeat. I look at Nan, not at Catherine or Anne. “He is planning for a future queen?”

“Not really,” Anne Seymour reassures me. “He is just drawing up an Act of Succession that would still apply even if he were to outlive you. Say you died before him...”

Nan gives a little choke. “From what? She’s young enough to be his daughter!”

“It has to be provided for!” Anne Seymour insists. “Say you were to be so unlucky as to become unwell and die...”

Catherine and Nan exchange blank glances. Clearly Henry has a habit of outliving his queens and none of them has ever become unwell.

“Then he would be obliged to marry again and to get a son if he could,” Anne Seymour concludes. “It is not to say he is planning it. It is not to say it is his intention. It is not to say that he has anyone in mind.”