Summer 1513

The death of Edward Howard made Katherine work even harder for the preparations of the English army to leave for Calais. Henry might be going to play-act a war, but he would use real shot and cannon, swords and arrows, and she wanted them to be well made and their aim to be true. She had known the realities of war all her life, but with the death of Edward Howard, Henry now saw, for the first time, that it was not like in a story book, it was not like a joust. A well-favoured, brilliant young man like Edward could go out in the sunshine and come home, butchered into pieces, in a cart. To his credit, Henry did not waver in his courage as this truth came home to him, as he saw young Thomas Howard step up to his brother’s place, as he saw Edward’s father summoning his tenants and calling in his debts to provide troops to avenge his son.

They sent the first part of the army to Calais in May, and Henry prepared to follow them with the second batch of troops in June. He was more sombre than he had ever been before.

Katherine and Henry rode slowly through England from Greenwich to Dover for Henry’s embarkation. The towns turned out to feast them and muster their men as they went through. Henry and Katherine had matching great white horses and Katherine rode astride, her long blue gown spread out all around. Henry, riding at her side, looked magnificent, taller than any other man in the ranks, stronger than most, golden-haired and smiling all around.

In the mornings when they rode out of a town they would both wear armour: matching suits of silver and gilt. Katherine wore only a breastplate and a helmet, made from finely beaten metal and chased with gold patterns. Henry wore full armour from toes to fingertips every day, whatever the heat. He rode with his visor up and his blue eyes dancing, and a gold circlet around his helmet. The standard bearers carrying Katherine’s badge on one side, and Henry’s on the other, rode either side of them and when people saw the queen’s pomegranate and Henry’s rose they shouted ‘God Bless the King!’ and ‘God Bless the Queen!’ When they left a town, with the troops marching behind them, and the bowmen before them, the townspeople would crowd the sides of the road for a good mile to see them ride by, and they threw rose petals and rosebuds on the road in front of the horses. All the men marched with a rose in their lapels or in their hats, and they sang as they marched: bawdy songs of old England, but also sometimes ballads of Henry’s composing.

They took nearly two weeks to get to Dover and the time was not wasted, for they gathered supplies and recruited troops in every village. Every man in the land wanted to be in the army to defend England against France. Every girl wanted to say that her lad had gone to be a soldier. The whole country was united in wanting revenge against the French. And the whole country was confident that with the young king at the head of a young army, it could be done.

I am happier, knowingly happier, than I have been since the death of our son. I am happier than I had thought possible. Henry comes to my bed every night during the feasting, dancing, marching tour to the coast, he is mine in thought and word and deed. He is going on a campaign of my organising, he is safely diverted from the real war that I will have to fight, and he never has a thought, or says a word, but he shares it with me. I pray that in one of these nights on the road, riding south to the coast together, in the heightened tension that comes with war, we will make another child, another boy, another rose for England as Arthur was.

Thanks to Katherine and Thomas Wolsey the arrangements for the embarkation were timed to perfection. Not for this English army the usual delay while last-minute orders were given, and forgotten essentials desperately ordered. Henry’s ships – four hundred of them – brightly painted, with pennants flying, sails ready-rigged – were waiting to take the troops to France. Henry’s own ship, blazing in gold leaf with the red dragon flying at its stern, bobbed at the dock. His royal guard, superbly trained, their new livery of Tudor green and white, spangled with sequins, were paraded on the quay, his two suits of gold-inlaid armour were packed on board, his specially trained white horses were in their stalls. The preparations were as meticulous as those of the most elaborate of court masques and Katherine knew that for many of the young men, they were looking forward to war as they did to a court entertainment.

Everything was ready for Henry to embark and sail for France when in a simple ceremony, on the strand at Dover, he took the great seal of state and before them all invested Katherine as regent in his place, Governor of the Realm and Captain General of the English forces for home defence.

I make sure that my face is grave and solemn when he names me Regent of England, and I kiss his hand and then I kiss him full on the mouth to wish him God speed. But as his ship is taken in tow by the barges, crosses the bar of the harbour, and then unfurls her sails to catch the wind and sets out for France, I could sing aloud for joy. I have no tears for the husband who is going away because he has left me with everything that I have ever wanted. I am more than Princess of Wales, I am more than Queen of England, I am Governor of the Realm, I am Captain General of the army, this is my country indeed, and I am sole ruler.

And the first thing I will do – indeed, perhaps the only thing I will do with the power vested in me, the only thing that I must do with this God-given chance – is defeat the Scots.

As soon as Katherine arrived at Richmond Palace she gave Thomas Howard, Edward’s younger brother, his orders to take the cannon from the armouries in the Tower, and set sail with the whole English fleet, north to Newcastle to defend the borders against the Scots. He was not the admiral that his brother had been but he was a steady young man and she thought she could rely on him to do his part to deliver the vital weapons to the north.

Every day brought Katherine news from France by messengers that she had already posted along the way. Wolsey had strict instructions to report back to the queen the progress of the war. From him she wanted an accurate analysis. She knew that Henry would give her an optimistic account. It was not all good news. The English army had arrived in France, there was much excitement in Calais and feasting and celebrations. There were parades and musters and Henry had been much congratulated on his handsome armour and his smart troops. But the Emperor Maximilian failed to muster his own army to support the English. Instead, pleading poverty but swearing his enthusiasm to the cause, he came to the young prince to offer his sword and his service.

It was clearly a heady moment for Henry, who had not yet even heard a shot fired in anger, to have the Holy Roman Emperor offering his services, overwhelmed by the glamorous young prince.

Katherine frowned when she read that part of Wolsey’s account, calculating that Henry would hire the emperor at an inflated amount, and would thus have to pay an ally who had promised to come at his own expense for a mercenary army. She recognised at once the double-dealing that had characterised this campaign from the start. But at least it would mean that the emperor was with Henry in his first battle, and Katherine knew that she could rely on the experienced older man to keep the impulsive young king safe.

On the advice of Maximilian, the English army laid siege to Therouanne – a town which the Holy Roman Emperor had long desired, but of no tactical value to England – and Henry, safely distanced from the short-range guns on the walls of the little town, walked alone through his camp at midnight, spoke comforting words to the soldiers on watch, and was allowed to fire his first cannon.

The Scots, who had been waiting only until England was defenceless with king and army in France, declared war against the English and started their own march south. Wolsey wrote with alarm to Katherine, asking her if she needed the return of some of Henry’s troops to face this new threat. Katherine replied that she thought she could defend against a border skirmish, and started a fresh muster of troops from every town in the country, using the lists she had already prepared.

She commanded the assembly of the London militia and went out in her armour, on her white horse, to inspect them before they started their march north.

I look at myself in the mirror as my ladies-in-waiting tie on my breastplate, and my maid-in-waiting holds my helmet. I see the unhap-piness in their faces, the way the silly maid holds the helmet as if it is too heavy for her, as if none of this should be happening, as if I were not born for this moment: now. The moment of my destiny.

I draw a silent breath. I look so like my mother in my armour that it could be her reflection in the mirror, standing so still and proud, with her hair caught back from her face, and her eyes shining as bright as the burnished gilt on her breastplate; alive at the prospect of battle, gleaming with joy at her confidence in victory.

‘Are you not afraid?’ Maria de Salinas asks me quietly.

‘No.’ I speak the truth. ‘I have spent all my life waiting for this moment. I am a queen, and the daughter of a queen who had to fight for her country. I have come to this, my own country, at the very moment that it needs me. This is not a time for a queen who wants to sit on her throne and award prizes for jousting. This is a time for a queen who has the heart and stomach of a man. I am that queen. I shall ride out with my army.’

There is a little flurry of dismay. ‘Ride out?’ ‘But not north?’ ‘Parade them, but surely not ride with them?’ ‘But isn’t it dangerous?’

I reach for my helmet. ‘I shall ride with them north to meet the Scots. And if the Scots break through I shall fight them. And when I take the field against them I shall be there until I defeat them.’

‘But what about us?’

I smile at the women. ‘Three of you will come with me to bear me company and the rest of you will stay here,’ I say firmly. ‘Those behind will continue to make banners and prepare bandages and send them on to me. You will keep good order,’ I say firmly. ‘Those who come with me will behave as soldiers in the field. I will have no complaints.’

There is an outburst of dismay, which I avoid by heading for the door. ‘Maria and Margaret, you shall come with me now,’ I say.

The troops are drawn up before the palace. I ride slowly down the lines, letting my eyes rest on one face and then another. I have seen my father do this, and my mother. My father told me that every soldier should know that he is valued, should know that he has been seen as an individual man on parade, should feel himself to be an essential part of the body of the army. I want them to be sure that I have seen them, seen every man; that I know them. I want them to know me. When I have ridden past every single one of the five hundred, I go to the front of the army and I take off my helmet so that they can see my face. I am not like a Spanish princess now, with my hair hidden and my face veiled. I am a bare-headed, bare-faced English queen. I raise my voice so that every one of them can hear me.

‘Men of England,’ I say. ‘You and I will go together to fight the Scots, and neither of us will falter nor fail. We will not turn back until they have turned back. We will not rest until they are dead. Together we will defeat them, for we do the work of heaven. This is not a quarrel of our making, this is a wicked invasion by James of Scotland; breaking his own treaty, insulting his own English wife. An ungodly invasion condemned by the Pope himself, an invasion against the order of God. He has planned this for years. He has waited, like a coward, thinking to find us weak. But he is mistaken for we are powerful now. We will defeat him, this heretic king. We will win. I can assure you of this because I know God’s will in this matter. He is with us. And you can be sure that God’s hand is always over men who fight for their homes.’

There is a great roar of approval and I turn and smile to one side and then the other, so that they can all see my pleasure in their courage. So that they can all see that I am not afraid.

‘Good. Forward march,’ I say simply to the commander at my side and the army turns and marches out of the parade ground.

As Katherine’s first army of defence marched north under the Earl of Surrey, gathering men as they went, the messengers rode desperately south to London to bring her the news she had been expecting. James’s army had crossed the Scottish border and was advancing through the rolling hills of the border country, recruiting soldiers and stealing food as they went.

‘A border raid?’ Katherine asked, knowing it would not be.

The man shook his head. ‘My lord told me to tell you that the French king has promised the Scots king that he will recognise him if he wins this battle against us.’

‘Recognise him? As what?’

‘As King of England.’

He expected her to cry out in indignation or in fear, but she merely nodded, as if it were something else to consider.

‘How many men?’ Katherine demanded of the messenger.

He shook his head. ‘I can’t say for certain.’

‘How many do you think?’

He looked at the queen, saw the sharp anxiety in her eyes, and hesitated.

‘Tell me the truth!’

‘I am afraid sixty thousand, Your Grace, perhaps more.’

‘How many more? Perhaps?’

Again he paused. She rose from her chair and went to the window. ‘Please, tell me what you think,’ she said. ‘You do me no service if, thanks to you, trying to spare me distress, I go out with an army and find before me an enemy in greater force than I expected.’

‘One hundred thousand, I would think,’ he said quietly.

He expected her to gasp in horror but when he looked at her she was smiling. ‘Oh, I’m not afraid of that.’

‘Not afraid of one hundred thousand Scots?’ he demanded.

‘I’ve seen worse,’ she said.

I know now that I am ready. The Scots are pouring over the border, in their full power. They have captured the northern castles with derisive ease, the flower of the English command and the best men are overseas in France. The French king thinks to defeat us with the Scots, in our own lands, while our masquing army rides around northern France and makes pretty gestures. My moment is now. It is up to me, and the men who are left. I order the royal standards and banners from the great wardrobe. Flown at the head of the army the royal standards show that the King of England is on the battlefield. That will be me.

‘You will never ride under the royal standard?’ one of my ladies queries.

‘Who else?’

‘It should be the king.’

‘The king is fighting the French. I shall fight the Scots.’

‘Your Grace, a queen cannot take the king’s standard and ride out.’

I smile at her, I am not pretending to confidence, I truly know that this is the moment for which I have waited all my life. I promised Arthur I could be a queen in armour; and now I am. ‘A queen can ride under a king’s standard, if she thinks she can win.’

I summon the remaining troops; these will be my force. I plan to parade them in battle order, but there are more comments.

‘You will never ride at their head?’

‘Where would you want me to ride?’

‘Your Grace, perhaps you should not be there at all?’

‘I am their Commander in Chief,’ I say simply. ‘You must not think of me as a queen who stays at home, influences policy by stealth, and bullies her children. I am a queen who rules as my mother did. When my country is in danger, I am in danger. When my country is triumphant, as we will be, it is my triumph.’

‘But what if…?’ The lady-in-waiting is silenced by one hard look from me.

‘I am not a fool, I have planned for defeat,’ I tell her. ‘A good commander always speaks of victory and yet has a plan for defeat. I know exactly where I shall fall back, and I know exactly where I shall regroup, and I know exactly where I shall join battle again, and if I fail there, I know where I shall regroup again. I did not wait long years for this throne to see the King of Scotland and that fool Margaret take it from me.’

Katherine’s men, all forty thousand of them, straggled along the road behind the royal guard, weighed down by their weapons and sacks of food in the late summer sunshine. Katherine, at the head of the train, rode her white horse where everyone could see her, with the royal standard over her head, so that the men should know her now, on the march, and recognise her later, in battle. Twice a day she rode down the length of the line with a word of encouragement for everyone who was scuffing along in the rear, choking with the dust from the forward wagons. She kept monastic hours, rising at dawn to hear Mass, taking communion at noon, and going to bed at dusk, waking at midnight to say her prayers for the safety of the realm, for the safety of the king, and for herself.

Messengers passed constantly between Katherine’s army and the force commanded by Thomas Howard, Earl of Surrey. Their plan was that Surrey should engage with the Scots at the first chance, anything to stop their rapid and destructive advance southwards. If Surrey were defeated then the Scots would come on and Katherine would meet them with her force, and fling them into defence of the southern counties of England. If the Scots cut through them then Katherine and Surrey had a final plan for the defence of London. They would regroup, summon a citizens’ army, throw up earthworks around the City and if all else failed, retreat to the Tower, which could be held for long enough for Henry to reinforce them from France.

Surrey is anxious that I have ordered him to lead the first attack against the Scots, he would rather wait for my force to join him; but I insist the attack shall go as I have planned. It would be safer to join our two armies, but I am fighting a defensive campaign. I have to keep an army in reserve to stop the Scots sweeping south, if they win the first battle. This is not a single battle I am fighting here. This is a war that will destroy the threat of the Scots for a generation, perhaps forever.

I too am tempted to order him to wait for me, I so want to join the battle; I feel no fear at all, just a sort of wild gladness as if I am a hawk mewed-up for too long and now suddenly set free. But I will not throw my precious men into a battle that would leave the road to London open if we lost. Surrey thinks that if we unite the forces we will be certain to win, but I know that there is no certainty in warfare, anything can go wrong. A good commander is ready for the worst, and I am not going to risk the Scots beating us in one battle and then marching down the Great North Road and into my capital city, and a coronation with French acclaim. I did not win this throne so hard, to lose it in one reckless fight. I have a battle plan for Surrey, and one for me, and then a position to retreat to, and a series of positions after that. They may win one battle, they may win more than one, but they will never take my throne from me.

We are sixty miles out of London, at Buckingham. This is good speed for an army on the march, they tell me it is tremendous speed for an English army; they are notorious for dawdling on the road. I am tired, but not exhausted. The excitement and – to be honest – the fear in each day is keeping me like a hound on a leash, always eager, straining to get ahead and start the hunt.

And now I have a secret. Each afternoon, when I dismount from my horse, I get down from the saddle and first thing, before anything else, I go into the necessary house, or tent, or wherever I can be alone, and I pull up my skirts and look at my linen. I am waiting for my monthly course, and it is the second month that it has failed to come. My hope, a strong, sweet hope, is that when Henry sailed to France he left me with child.

I will tell no-one, not even my women. I can imagine the outcry if they knew I was riding every day, and preparing for battle when I am with child, or even in hopes of a child. I dare not tell them, for in all truth, I do not dare do anything which might tilt the balance in this campaign against us. Of course, nothing could be more important than a son for England – except this one thing: holding England for that son to inherit. I have to grit my teeth on the risk I am taking, and take it anyway.

The men know that I am riding at their head and I have promised them victory. They march well, they will fight well because they have put their faith in me. Surrey’s men, closer to the enemy than us, know that behind them, in reliable support, is my army. They know that I am leading their reinforcements in person. It has caused much talk in the country, they are proud to have a queen who will muster herself for them. If I were to turn my face to London and tell them to go on without me, for I have a woman’s work to do, they would head for home too – it is as simple as that. They would think that I had lost confidence, that I had lost faith in them, that I anticipate defeat. There are enough whispers about an unstoppable army of Scotsmen – one hundred thousand angry Highlanders – without me adding to their fears.

Besides, if I cannot save my kingdom for my child, then there is little point in having a child. I have to defeat the Scots, I have to be a great general. When that duty is done, I can be a woman again.

At night, I have news from Surrey that the Scots are encamped on a strong ridge, drawn up in battle order at a place called Flodden. He sends me a plan of the site, showing the Scots camped on high ground, commanding the view to the south. One glance at the map tells me that the English should not attack uphill against the heavily armed Scots. The Scots archers will be shooting downhill and then the Highlanders will charge down on our men. No army could face an attack like that.

‘Tell your master he is to send out spies and find a way around the back of the Scots to come upon them from the north,’ I say to the messenger, staring at the map. ‘Tell him my advice is that he makes a feint, leaves enough men before the Scots to pin them down, but marches the rest away, as if he is heading north. If he is lucky, they will give chase and you will have them on open ground. If he is unlucky he will have to reach them from the north. Is it good ground? He has drawn a stream on this sketch.’

‘It is boggy ground,’ the man confirms. ‘We may not be able to cross it.’

I bite my lip. ‘It’s the only way that I can see,’ I say. ‘Tell him this is my advice but not my command. He is commander in the field, he must make his own judgement. But tell him I am certain that he has to get the Scots off that hill. Tell him I know for sure that he cannot attack uphill. He has to either go round and surprise them from the rear; or lure them down off that hill.’

The man bows and leaves. Please God he can get my message through to Surrey. If he thinks he can fight an army of Scots uphill he is finished. One of my ladies comes to me the minute the messenger has left my tent, she is trembling with fatigue and fear. ‘What do we do now?’

‘We advance north,’ I say.

‘But they may be fighting any day now!’

‘Yes, and if they win we can go home. But if they lose we shall stand between the Scots and London.’

‘And do what?’ she whispers.

‘Beat them,’ I say simply.

10th September 1513

‘Your Grace!’ A page boy came dashing into Katherine’s tent, bobbed a most inadequate, hurried bow. ‘A messenger, with news of the battle! A messenger from Lord Surrey.’

Katherine whirled around, her shoulder strap from her halberk still undone. ‘Send him in!’

The man was already in the room, the dirt of the battle still on him, but with the beam of a man bringing good news, great news.

‘Yes?’ Katherine demanded, breathless with hope.

‘Your Grace has conquered,’ he said. ‘The King of Scotland lies dead, twenty Scottish lords lie with him, bishops, earls, and abbots too. It is a defeat they will never rise up from. Half of their great men have died in a single day.’

He saw the colour drain from her face and then she suddenly grew rosy. ‘We have won?’

‘You have won,’ he confirmed. ‘The earl said to tell you that your men, raised and trained and armed by you, have done what you ordered they should do. It is your victory, and you have made England safe.’

Her hand went at once to her belly, under the metal curve of the breastplate. ‘We are safe,’ she said.

He nodded. ‘He sent you this…’

He held out for her a surcoat, terribly torn and slashed and stained with blood.

‘This is?’

‘The coat of the King of Scotland. We took it from his dead body as proof. We have his body, it is being embalmed. He is dead, the Scots are defeated. You have done what no English king since Edward the First could do. You have made England safe from Scottish invasion.’

‘Write out a report for me,’ she said decisively. ‘Dictate it to the clerk. Everything you know, and everything that my lord Surrey said. I must write to the king.’

‘Lord Surrey asked…’

‘Yes?’

‘Should he advance into Scotland and lay it waste? He says there will be little or no resistance. This is our chance. We could destroy them, they are utterly at our mercy.’

‘Of course,’ she said at once, then she paused. It was the answer that any monarch in Europe would have given. A troublesome neighbour, an inveterate enemy lay weakened. Every king in Christendom would have advanced and taken revenge.

‘No. No, wait a moment.’

She turned away from him and went to the doorway of her tent. Outside, the men were preparing for another night on the road, far from their homes. There were little cook-fires all around the camp, torches burning, the smell of cooking and dung and sweat in the air. It was the very scent of Katherine’s childhood, a childhood spent for the first seven years in a state of constant warfare against an enemy who was driven backwards and backwards and finally into slavery, exile and death.

Think, I say to myself fiercely. Don’t feel with a tender heart, think with a hard brain, a soldier’s brain. Don’t consider this as a woman with child who knows there are many widows in Scotland tonight, think as a queen. My enemy is defeated, the country lies open before me, their king is dead, their queen is a young fool of a girl and my sister-in-law. I can cut this country into pieces, I can quilt it. Any commander of any experience would destroy them now and leave them destroyed for a whole generation. My father would not hesitate; my mother would have given the order already.

I check myself. They were wrong, my mother and father. Finally, I say the unsayable, unthinkable thing. They were wrong, my mother and father. Soldiers of genius they may have been, convinced they certainly were, Christian kings they were called – but they were wrong. It has taken me all my life to learn this.

A state of constant warfare is a two-edged sword, it cuts both the victor and the defeated. If we pursue the Scots now, we will triumph, we can lay the country waste, we can destroy them for generations to come. But all that grows on waste are rats and pestilence. They would recover in time, they would come against us. Their children would come against my children and the savage battle would have to be fought all over again. Hatred breeds hatred. My mother and father drove the Moors overseas, but everyone knows that by doing so they won only one battle in a war that will never cease until Christians and Muslims are prepared to live side by side in peace and harmony. Isabella and Ferdinand hammered the Moors, but their children and their children’s children will face the jihad in reply to the crusade. War does not answer war, war does not finish war. The only ending is peace.

‘Get me a fresh messenger,’ Katherine said over her shoulder, and waited till the man came. ‘You are to go to my lord Surrey and tell him I give him thanks for this great news of a wonderful victory. You are to tell him that he is to let the Scots soldiers surrender their arms and they are to go in peace. I myself will write to the Scots queen and promise her peace if she will be our good sister and good neighbour. We are victorious, we shall be gracious. We shall make this victory a lasting peace, not a passing battle and an excuse for savagery.’ The man bowed and left. Katherine turned to the soldier. ‘Go and get yourself some food,’ she said. ‘You can tell everyone that we have won a great battle and that we shall go back to our homes knowing that we can live at peace.’

She went to her little table and drew her writing box towards her. The ink was corked in a tiny glass bottle, the quill especially cut down to fit the small case. The paper and sealing wax were to hand. Katherine drew a sheet of paper towards her, and paused. She wrote a greeting to her husband, she told him she was sending him the coat of the dead Scots king.

In this, Your Grace shall see how I can keep my promise, sending you for your banners a king’s coat. I thought to send himself to you, but our Englishmen’s hearts would not suffer it.

I pause. With this great victory I can go back to London, rest and prepare for the birth of the child that I am sure I am carrying. I want to tell Henry that I am once again with child; but I want to write to him alone. This letter – like every letter between us – will be half-public. He never opens his own letters, he always gets a clerk to open them and read them for him, he rarely writes his own replies. Then I remember that I told him that if Our Lady ever blessed me with a child again I would go at once to her shrine at Walsingham to give thanks. If he remembers this, it can serve as our code. Anyone can read it to him but he will know what I mean, I shall have told him the secret, that we will have a child, that we may have a son. I smile and start to write, knowing that he will understand what I mean, knowing what joy this letter will bring him.

I make an end, praying God to send you home shortly, for without no joy can here be accomplished, and for the same I pray, and now go to Our Lady at Walsingham, that I promised so long ago to see. Your humble wife and true servant,

Katherine.

Walsingham, Autumn 1513

Katherine was on her knees at the shrine of Our Lady of Walsingham, her eyes fixed on the smiling statue of the Mother of Christ, but seeing nothing.

Beloved, beloved, I have done it. I sent the coat of the Scots king to Henry and I made sure to emphasise that it is his victory, not mine. But it is yours. It is yours because when I came to you and to your country, my mind filled with fears about the Moors, it was you who taught me that the danger here was the Scots. Then life taught me a harder lesson, beloved: it is better to forgive an enemy than destroy him. If we had Moorish physicians, astronomers, mathematicians in this country we would be the better for it. The time may come when we also need the courage and the skills of the Scots. Perhaps my offer of peace will mean that they will forgive us for the battle of Flodden.

I have everything I ever wanted – except you. I have won a victory for this kingdom that will keep it safe for a generation. I have conceived a child and I feel certain that this baby will live. If he is a boy I shall call him Arthur for you. If she is a girl, I shall call her Mary. I am Queen of England, I have the love of the people and Henry will make a good husband and a good man.

I sit back on my heels and close my eyes so the tears should not run down my cheeks. ‘The only thing I lack is you, beloved. Always you. Always you.’

‘Your Grace, are you unwell?’ The quiet voice of the nun recalls me and I open my eyes. My legs are stiff from kneeling so long. ‘We did not want to disturb you, but it has been some hours.’

‘Oh, yes,’ I say. I try to smile at her. ‘I shall come in a moment. Leave me now.’

I turn back to my dream of Arthur but he is gone. ‘Wait for me in the garden,’ I whisper. ‘I will come to you. I will come one day soon. In the garden, when my work here is done.’