“He’s not yet four,” I correct him.

“Near enough. He should have his title.”

I wait, my smile fading from my face. I know my husband well enough to realize that there will be more.

“And I’ll make him Lieutenant of Ireland.”

“At three and a half?”

“He’s nearly four. Don’t you worry! He won’t have to go anywhere or do anything. I’ll make Sir Edward Poynings his deputy in Ireland and send him over there with a force.”

“A force?”

“To make sure that they accept Henry’s rule. To establish our son’s name in Ireland.”

I look away from my husband’s intent face to the green banks where the swish of our oars barely stirs the reeds. An oystercatcher calls its sudden piping warning, and I can just see the little chick, pied brilliant white and glossy black like its parents, crouch down low as we go past.

“You are not honoring our little son Henry,” I say quietly. “You are using him.”

“This is to show them in Malines, in Antwerp, in Flanders, to show them even in London, in Ireland, that they don’t have the Duke of York. We have him, and his name is Henry Duke of York. He is Lieutenant of Ireland and the Irish will bow the knee to him and I will have the head of anyone who mentions any other duke.”

“You mean the boy,” I say flatly. It is almost as if the color is draining away from the golden sunset. The joy is going from the evening as the rose is going from the light.

“They call him Richard Duke of York. We will show them that we have Henry Duke of York. And his claim is stronger.”

“I don’t like our boy being used to claim a name,” I say cautiously.

“It’s his own name,” my husband insists. “He’s the second son of the King of England, so he’s the Duke of York. Certainly he must claim his name and prevent anyone else from using it. We show the world that we claim the name. There is only one Duke of York and he’s a Tudor.”

“Don’t we show the world that we are frightened that someone else is using the name?” I ask. “By making Henry a duke now? While he is still in the nursery? Doesn’t it look as if we are laying claim to a name that someone else is using? Doesn’t it make us look weak, rather than strong?”

There is a cold silence, and I turn to look at him and I am shocked to see that suddenly Henry is white-faced, and shaking with fury. By commenting on his plan I have triggered his rage, and he is beside himself.

“You can turn back,” he bellows over his shoulder to the steersman, ignoring me. “Turn back and put me ashore. I am tired of this, I am sick of this.”

“Henry . . .”

“I am sick of all of you,” he says bitterly.