The first night we dine together in the hall of the abbey and listen to the reading of the sacred text. As it happens, it is that of Ruth and Naomi, a story of a daughter who loves her mother-in-law so much that she chooses to be with her rather than making her own life in her own land. I think about loyalty to one’s family and love for one’s mother as I pray that night and go to bed. Maggie, who has come with me, my most faithful and loving companion, prays beside me and climbs heavily into the other side of the broad bed.

“I hope you sleep,” I say warmingly. “For I can’t stop my mind whirling.”

“Sleep,” she says comfortably. “I shall wake twice to use the pot anyway. Every time I lie down the baby turns over and kicks in my belly, and I have to get up to piss. Besides, in the morning you will have your questions answered or . . .”

“Or what?”

She giggles. “Or your mother will be as unhelpful as she always is,” she says. “Truly, she’s a queen, the greatest queen that England ever had. Whoever stepped up so high? Whoever has been braver? There has never been a more intractable Queen of England than her.”

“It’s true,” I say. “Let’s both try and sleep.”

Margaret is breathing deeply within moments, but I lie beside her and listen to her peaceful sleep. I watch the slats of the shutters gradually lighten with the autumn dawn, then I rise and wait for the bell for Prime. Today, I will ask my mother what she knows. Today I will not be satisfied with anything less than the truth.

“I know nothing for sure,” she says to me quietly. We are seated on the benches at the back of the chapel of Bermondsey Abbey. She has walked with me beside the river, we have attended Prime together and prayed side by side, our penitent heads on our hands. Now she sinks down and puts her hand to her heart.

“I’m weary,” she says to explain her pallor.

“You’re not ill?” I ask, suddenly fearful.

“Something . . .” she volunteers. “Something that catches my breath and makes my heart race so that I can hear it pounding. Ah, Elizabeth, don’t look like that. I am old, my dear, and I have lost all my brothers and four of my sisters. The man I married for passion is dead and the crown I wore is on your head. My work is done. I don’t mind sleeping every afternoon, and when I lie down I compose myself in case I don’t wake up again. I close my eyes and I am content.”

“But you’re not ill,” I insist. “Shouldn’t you see a physician?”

“No, no,” she says, patting my hand. “I’m not ill. But I am a woman of fifty-five. I’m not a girl anymore.”