There was no constant ripple of laughter and wit, there was no vying for the eye of the king. There was no plump, ringletted queen at his side, and none of the glorious portraits and tapestries which had always been hung in his sight.

And Charles himself was changed. His face was scarred with disappointment, deep bags beneath his dark eyes, lines on his forehead, his hair thinner and streaked with grey, his moustache and beard still perfectly combed, but paler with white hairs where it had been glossy brown.

He looked down the hall and saw John; but his habitual diffidence did not allow him to greet a friendly face. He merely nodded and with a tiny gesture indicated that John should wait.

John, who had dropped to his knee as he came into the hall, rose up and took a seat at a table.

‘What you kneeling for?’ a man asked critically.

John hesitated. ‘Habit, I suppose. Do you not kneel in his presence?’

‘Why should I? He’s no more than a man, as I am.’

‘Times are changing,’ John observed.

‘You eating?’ another man said.

John looked around. These were not the elegant courtiers who used to dine in the hall. These were the soldiers of Cromwell’s army, unimpressed by the ritual. Hungry, honest, straightforward men at their dinner.

John drew a trencher towards him and took a spoonful of meat from the common bowl.

When the king had finished dining one yeoman came forward and offered him a bowl to wash his fingertips while another offered the fine linen cloth to dry his hands. Neither of them kneeled, John noticed, and wondered if the king would refuse their service.

He did not even complain. The king took the service as it would have been offered to a mere lord of the manor. He did not even remark that they were not on their knees. John saw the mystery of kingship shrink before his eyes.

John rose at his place, waiting for an order. The king crooked his finger and John approached the high table, paused and bowed.

King Charles rose from his seat, stepped down from the dais and snapped his fingers for a pageboy, who sprang to follow him.

‘I d … dined on melons two nights ago,’ he remarked to John as if no time at all had passed since John and the queen and the king had planned the planting of Oatlands together. ‘And I th … th … thought that we always said we should have a m … melon bed at Wimbledon. I saved you the seeds for p … planting.’

John bowed, his mind whirling. ‘Your Majesty?’

The pageboy stepped forwards and handed John a little wooden box filled with seeds.

‘W … Will they grow at Wimbledon?’ the king asked as he walked past John to his inner chamber.

‘I should think so, Your Majesty,’ John said. He waited for more.