On the twenty-eighth day of July, at the Palace of Oatlands, my cousin Katherine married the king.

Of course she was as meek as milk in public, but once we were out of the public gaze, in the queen’s own apartments overlooking the park, her triumphant crowing and queenly airs made me almost ill with jealousy. I was sickened too by my own sense that I’d been made to look a fool. Having set out to entrap the king, I’d been beaten at my own game. And of course it was Katherine who had beaten me. Whatever she wanted, she would take. She would always win.

I tried to act as if I hadn’t a care in the world during our week at Oatlands, the small and private pleasure palace surrounded by parks and gardens and a green glassy moat.

I danced and swayed with the ladies, flirted with the men, even brought myself to simper at the king himself. But he now had eyes for no one but Katherine, and her hand was never out of his. No one knew how long their relationship had been more than was strictly proper between sovereign and subject, and Katherine wasn’t saying. The king was utterly besotted and constantly called her his “rose without a thorn.”

It was very bitter for me to experience my cousin’s triumph. All over the palace, courtiers were to be heard sharing their astonishment that such a young woman, indeed a girl only two years older than me, could have brought off such a coup.

It was even harder to swallow the situation alone. There was simply no one to whom I could talk about it. Ned had shown his disdain for the dilemmas of a maid of honour, and in any case I had not spoken to him for weeks. The Countess of Malpas was wreathed in delighted smiles and claimed that she had known all along. And I’m pretty sure that behind their animated social masks, the rest of the unmarried maids — barring sweet Anne Sweet — were feeling as sick inside as I was myself.

I now remembered the advice my father had given me, which had been backed up by Will Summers. I reviewed my own plan of action and realised that although I had made the right moves, I had left it too long and begun too late. And Katherine had gone even further than becoming the king’s mistress. Somehow, using the fabled charms of her body and mind, she’d persuaded him to make her his queen. It seemed astonishing.

But then I remembered Queen Anne Boleyn, who’d pulled a similar trick. Anything could happen at court. I’d had my own opportunity, I’d lacked Katherine’s boldness, and I’d squandered it.

After the court’s late nights, I woke groggy and sleepy, unwilling to face a new day. Dear Henny would bring me a cup of hot milk, just like the old days. The difference was that she would now place it silently by my bed, rather than scold me into drinking it. One morning I opened my eyes to find her sitting right by my bed, one hand on the coverlet. She must have been watching me sleep. The sight of her solid, kindly form made my throat tighten and my eyes prick. But neither of us spoke.

With an air of great condescension, Katherine had asked me, as her cousin, to remain in her household as a maid of honour. Thinking grimly of my father, the poverty of our home, and the unfinished business of finding a husband for myself, I reluctantly agreed. In the queen’s household, my chances of finding a rich husband could only be increased. Now that the king was married, I must revert back to my original plan.

There had been a great influx of our relations to Oatlands Palace for the wedding. There was the old duchess, Katherine’s grandmother, our cousins from Trumpton, and my own father and aunt. It seemed that everyone in England related to the Howards had turned up to see what pickings could be found now that our girl wore the crown.

Anne Sweet was to be a maid of honour in the new household of the queen, just like myself, and indeed I was glad of her company. But the sight of another familiar face from Trumpton Hall astonished and horrified me.

A few days after the wedding, I was turning the pages of a music book in Katherine’s private chamber late in the afternoon, glad for once to be by myself and reluctant to go down to the chapel for prayers as I knew I should. It was a strain pretending all the time that everything was wonderful, and I just wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep for a week.

I was disturbed by a masculine cough, and I looked up, startled, for no men were supposed to stray into the queen’s apartments. At Oatlands, the royal rooms were secluded in a new wing with a wonderful view of the private park, and they were not overlooked by any other suite. I wondered that the guards had let anyone in. For a moment, a fearful thought of French spies or assassins flitted across my mind.

“Sir!” I called out. “Step forward so that I may see who you are! I must see you to know whether you may be here or not.”

To my surprise, there was something familiar about the figure who stepped out from behind the loop of tapestry slung across the door. Yes, I recognised that tuft of auburn hair and those strong and muscular calves. I recognised the peacock breeches and the musician’s hands. It was Master Manham, carrying a stack of books and an inkwell, and trying and failing to bow to me politely with these impediments before him.

“I believe that the queen’s new secretary may have access to her private rooms,” he said with a smile. “It’s delightful to see you again, Mistress Eliza! I am so glad that you are not yet a married countess or duchess, or whatever, and that we can serve the queen together.”

I swallowed hard, unsure what to say. I was disgusted to see him again, for his handsome face brought back nothing but memories of shame. His dig at my unmarried status also gave me a sharp little pain, as if he had stepped on my toe.

But I was deeply troubled by what this development revealed about Katherine’s own discretion. I was furious with her for bringing Master Manham to court, for she had placed me in an intolerable position. If the king were ever to discover that her former lover was here at the palace, what would he do? What would he do to those of us who had knowledge of his wife’s youthful relationships? And did Katherine mean to pick things up where she’d left off?

As my face froze for a moment or two, I was afraid that he could see the whole sequence of my thoughts flitting across my face. “It’s been a long time since we met at the Duchess of Northumberland’s,” he said loudly, as if to an audience.

But then he crossed the room to stand over me, the corners of the books in his arms almost poking my chest. The only word for his expression was menace. “What happened at Trumpton stays there,” he said softly.

I knew that I must appear as frosty as a frozen lake. “I have not the slightest idea what you’re talking about, Master Manham,” I said, lowering my lashes. “Let me help you with those books.”

Shortly afterwards, I used the excuse of Mass to retreat to the gloom of the chapel and the blessed requirement of silence.

By some unlucky chance, though, I found Ned beside me in the pew as the voices of the choir lit up the summer evening.

“Eliza!” he whispered. “Are you all right?”

It was the first time in weeks that he had spoken to me, and as I turned it was a shock to see his face, so familiar, so close to mine. A pleasant smell, like green grass, came off him, and I noticed that he’d had his hair cut. But as well as realising that I missed Ned, it was doubly painful that he could tell I was upset. I couldn’t bear to have anyone commiserate with me.

“Of course I am!” I hissed back like an angry cat, although there was a burning feeling in my throat. To clear my eyes, I fixed them firmly upon one of the golden cherubs decorating the rafters, as if I were contemplating the Almighty.

“My apologies for asking,” he said with cold formality, and turned his face away.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that Anne Sweet was on his other side. And I could not help noticing too that Ned handed her a prayer book and extended his arm to help her back to her feet after we had knelt. Obviously little Anne, the newcomer, had taken my place as Ned’s friend.

Despite my best efforts, a scalding hot teardrop insinuated itself between the cherub and my vision. “Don’t let it run down my cheek,” I silently begged the Almighty. “I can’t cry here. He mustn’t see me crying.”

I suddenly remembered how warm and lovely it had felt in the old days when Ned had enfolded me in his arms at the merest hint that I was unhappy. The feeling struck me hard, like a blow between the shoulders. I staggered and swayed as we stood.

“Dear Lord,” I prayed when the time came to kneel. “Being in prison couldn’t be worse than this. Please, please, release me from my life.”