“S’ William!” he calls to Thomas Stanley’s brother as he walks by. “Harry too!”

“You can’t,” Sir William says shortly, and he looks at Harry coldly, and goes on to the stables, so the child stops short and looks around for his nurse.

“It’s all right,” I say, smiling at him. “Sir William is just in a hurry.”

But he frowns. “Why no play Harry?” he asks simply, and I have no answer that I can give him. “Why no play Harry?”

The king deploys the whole court against the news from Malines; there is nothing more important. Lords and councillors go to Ireland at his command and speak to the Irish lords and beg them to remember their true loyalty, and not to run after a false prince again. Traitors are forgiven in a rush of generosity, and released from prison, sworn anew to loyalty with us. Old forgotten alliances are reforged. Ireland must be made secure, the people of that country must turn their hearts away from a darling boy of York and cleave only to Tudor. One of Henry’s small trusted circle goes to Bristol and starts to muster ships for a fleet to patrol the narrow seas. They have to look for ships coming from France, from Flanders, from Ireland, even from Scotland. The boy seems to have friends and allies everywhere.

“You are expecting an invasion?” I ask him incredulously.

There is a new line on his face, a deep groove between his eyebrows. “Of course,” he says shortly. “The only thing I don’t know is when. Of course the other thing I don’t know is where, nor how many they will be. Those are, of course, the only important things. And I don’t know them.”

“Your spies don’t tell you?” Despite myself, my voice has a touch of scorn as I speak of his spies.

“Not yet, no,” he says defensively. “There are secrets being well kept by my enemies.”

I turn to go to the nursery, where a physician is coming to see Elizabeth.

“Don’t go,” he says. “I need . . .”

I turn back, my hand on the latch; I want to ask the physician if the better weather will make Elizabeth stronger. “What?”

He looks helpless. “No one has tried to speak to you? You would tell me if anyone had spoken to you?”

My mind is on my sick child, I genuinely don’t understand him. “Speak to me of what? What d’you mean?”

“Of the boy . . .” he says. “Nobody has spoken to you of him?”

“Who would do so?”

His dark look is suddenly intent, suspicious. “Why, who do you think might speak of him?”

I spread my hands. “My lord. I really don’t know. Nobody has spoken to me of him. I cannot think why anyone would speak to me. Your unhappiness is clear enough for everyone to see. Nobody is going to talk to me about the thing that is driving my husband . . .” I bite off the rest of the phrase.