‘Good,’ said the king. ‘Her M … Majesty will like that, when she s … sees it. When she comes h … h … home again.’

‘And then he was gone,’ John said to an astounded Hester and Johnnie, sitting at the fireside after a long, cold boat trip back to Lambeth.

‘He summoned you all that way to give you melon seeds?’ Hester demanded.

‘I thought it might be some secret,’ John confessed. ‘I searched the box, and I waited all day in case he should send a secret message for me, once he knew I was in the castle. I weeded the flowerbed beneath the window of his privy apartments so that he would know I was there. But … nothing. It was truly just for the melon seeds.’

‘He is to stand trial for treason, and he is thinking about planting melons?’ Hester wondered.

John nodded. ‘That is the king indeed,’ he said.

‘Where will you plant them?’ Johnnie asked.

John looked at the taut face of his son, at the shadows under his eyes and the continual frown of pain.

‘Would you like to help me?’ he offered gently. ‘We could make a proper melon bed at Wimbledon. My father taught me the way, and he was taught by Lord Wootton at Canterbury. We were there when I was a boy. Would you like me to teach you how to do it, Johnnie? When the spring comes and you’re strong again?’

‘Yes,’ Johnnie said. ‘I’d like to plant them for the king.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Will he see them grow, d’you think?’

January 1649

John packed a bag. Hester, watching him from the doorway, knew that she was powerless to stop him.

‘I have to be there,’ he said. ‘I can’t sit at home while he is on trial for his life. I have to see him. I can’t stand not to know what is going on.’

‘Alexander could send you a message every day, tell you what has taken place,’ Hester suggested.

‘I have to be there,’ John repeated. ‘This was my father’s master, and my own. I was there at the start of this. I have to see the end.’

‘Who knows when the trial will be?’ she asked. ‘They should have started this month and yet the date is put back and put back. Perhaps they don’t mean to try him at all, but just to frighten him into agreeing.’

‘I have to be there,’ John insisted. ‘If there is to be no trial, then I have to see that there is no trial. I’ll wait until it happens – if it happens.’

She nodded, resigned. ‘Send word to us then,’ she said. ‘Johnnie is sick with anxiety.’

John swung his cloak over his shoulder and picked up his bag. ‘He’s young, he’ll mend.’