But things are not as they should be. I am certain that Lady Margaret is meeting someone; she is a fool and a passionate fool. She has crossed her royal uncle once already, and been punished for a flirtation that could have been far worse. She was married to Thomas Howard, one of our kin. He died in the Tower for his attempt to marry a Tudor, and she was sent to live at the nunnery of Syon until she begged the king’s pardon and said she would marry only at his bidding. But now she is wandering out of the queen’s rooms in the middle of the morning and doesn’t come back until she arrives with a rush to go into dinner with us, straightening her hood and giggling. I tell Katherine that she should watch her ladies and make sure that their conduct befits a royal court, but she is hunting or dancing or flirting herself with the young men of the court, and her behavior is as wild as anyone’s, worse than most.

Perhaps I am overanxious. Perhaps the king would indeed forgive her anything; this summer he has been like a young man besottedly in love. He has taken her all round his favorite houses on the summer progress, and he has managed to hunt with her every day, up at dawn, dining in tented pavilions in the woods at midday, boating on the river in the afternoon, watching her shooting at the butts, or at a tennis tournament, or betting on the young men tilting at the quintain all the afternoon and then a late dinner and a long night of entertainment. Then he takes her to bed and the poor old man is up at dawn again the next day. He has smiled on her as she has twirled and laughed and been embraced by the most handsome young men at his court. He has staggered after her, always beaming, always delighted with her, limping for pain and stuffing himself at dinner. But tonight he is not coming to dinner, and they say he has a slight fever. I should think he is near to collapse from exhaustion. He has lived these last months like a young bridegroom when he is the age of a grandfather. Katherine gives him not a second thought and goes into dinner alone, arm in arm with Agnes, Lady Margaret arriving in the nick of time to slip in behind her; but I see my lord duke is absent. He is waiting on the king. He, at least, will be anxious for his health. There is no benefit to us if the king is sick and Katherine is not with child.

The king won’t see me, and it’s as if I have offended him, which is tremendously unfair because I have been an absolutely charming wife for months and months without stopping, two months at least, and never a cross word from me, though God knows I have reason. I know well enough that he has to come to my room at night and I endure it without saying a word; I even smile as if I desire him. But does he really have to stay? All night? And does he really have to smell so very badly? It is not just the stink of his leg, but he trumps like a herald at a joust, and though it makes me want to giggle, it’s disgusting really. In the morning I throw my windows open to be rid of the stink of him, but it lingers in the bed linen and in the hangings. I can hardly bear it. Some days I think, I really think, I cannot bear another day of it.

But I have never complained of him, and he can have no complaint of me. So why will he not see me? They say that he has a fever and that he doesn’t want me to see him when he is unmanned. But I can’t help but be afraid that he is tired of me. And if he is tired of me, no doubt he will say that I was married to someone else and my wedding will be put aside. I feel very discouraged by this, and though Agnes and Margaret say that he could never tire of me, that he adores me and anyone can see that, they weren’t here when he put Queen Anne aside. That was done so easily and so smoothly that we hardly knew it was happening. Certainly, she didn’t know it was happening. They don’t realize how easy it is for the king to be rid of one of his queens.

I send a message to his rooms every morning, and they always send back and say that he is on the mend; and then I have a great fear that he is dying, which would not be surprising for he is so terribly old. And if he dies, what will happen to me? And do I keep the jewels and the gowns? And am I still queen even if he is dead? So I wait until the end of dinner and then beckon the king’s greatest favorite, Thomas Culpepper, to step up to the top table; he comes to my side at once, so deferential and graceful, and I say very seriously, “You may sit down, Master Culpepper,” and he takes a stool beside me. I say, “Please tell me truly, how is the king?”

He looks at me with his honest blue eyes; he is desperately handsome, it has to be said, and he says: “The king has a fever, Your Grace, but it is from weariness, not the wound on his leg. You need not fear for him. He would be grieved if he caused you a moment’s worry. He is overheated and exhausted, nothing more.”

This is so kind that I feel myself become quite sentimental. “I have worried,” I say a little tearfully. “I have been very anxious for him.”

“You need not be,” he says gently. “I would tell you if there was anything wrong. He will be up and about within days. I promise it.”

“My position-”

“Your position is impossible,” he exclaims suddenly. “You should be courting your first sweetheart, not trying to rule a court and shape your life to please a man as old as your grandfather.”

This is so unexpected from Thomas Culpepper, the perfect courtier, that I give a little gasp of surprise and I make the mistake of telling the truth, as he has done.

“Actually, I can only blame myself. I wanted to be queen.”

“Before you knew what it meant.”

“Yes.”

There is a silence. I am suddenly aware that we are before the whole of the court and that everyone is looking at us. “I may not talk to you like this,” I say awkwardly. “Everyone watches me.”

“I would serve you in any way I can,” he says quietly. “And the greatest service I can do for you now is to go right away from you. I don’t want to make grist for the gossips.”

“I shall walk in the gardens at ten tomorrow,” I say. “You could come to me then. In my privy gardens.”

“Ten,” he agrees, and bows very low and goes back to his table, and I turn and talk to Lady Margaret as if nothing in particular had happened.

She gives me a little smile. “He is a handsome young man,” she says. “But nothing compared to your brother Charles.”

I look down the hall to where Charles is dining with his friends. I have never thought of him as handsome, but then I hardly ever saw him until I came to court. He was sent away for his upbringing when he was a boy, and then I was sent to my step-grandmother. “What an odd thing to say,” I remark. “You surely cannot like Charles.”

“Good gracious, no!” she says, and she flushes up quite scarlet. “Everyone knows I’m not allowed even to think about a man. Ask anyone! The king would not allow it.”

“You do like him!” I say delightedly. “Lady Margaret, you sly thing! You are in love with my brother.”

She hides her face in her hands, and she peeps at me through the fingers. “Don’t say a word,” she begs me.

“Oh, all right. But has he promised marriage?”

She nods shyly. “We are so much in love. I hope you will speak for us to the king? He is so strict! But we are so very much in love.”

I smile down the hall at my brother. “Well, I think that’s lovely,” I say kindly. I so like being gracious to the king’s niece. “And what a wonderful wedding we can plan.”