VIII

to receive the City’s welcome.
    It is just that I cannot wait that long.
    “What was it Fitzwilliam said?” I ask Anthony Browne, my Master of the Horse, as our horses pick their way side by side over a particularly muddy stretch of road. “About her looks?”
    Browne pushes his hood back; the drizzle has stopped. It is New Year’s morning and, though his face is more than usually pale after last night’s Court celebrations, under his cloak he is dressed as meticulously as ever. He is a man who takes notice of appearances. I wonder if he will have to give up any of his jewelled buttons or gold lace-ends; a good deal of money was lost at the gaming tables last night.
    “He certainly praised the lady’s beauty, sir,” Browne says now, flicking a wet leaf off his sleeve. “Though, I regret, I don’t remember the exact words. He had more to say, I think, about the card games he taught her while they were waiting for a fair wind at Calais.”
    “Someone said that, in beauty, she outshines the Duchess of Milan ‘as the golden sun outshines the silver moon’. Was that Ambassador Mont?”
    “The Duchess of Milan …” Tom Culpeper whistles. He is riding at my other side with a hopeful sprig of mistletoe attached to the hood of his cloak.
    I laugh and reach out to dig him in the ribs with my riding crop. The Duchess of Milan, a very young widow, was another marriageable candidate on the list Cromwell compiled for me. I had her portrait taken – and I have kept it, just for its decorative value. Which is high: the Duchess is sixteen, dimpled and breathtaking. Anyone outshining that must be practically an angel.
    Approaching Rochester, we find the city looking far from celestial. The city walls and rooftops huddle grey under a grey sky, while the damp finger of the cathedral spire stirs the low-hanging clouds above.
    We dip through the shadows of the city’s north-east gate and emerge into the cobbled streets beyond. Doorways are hung with holly and yew, small boys run past with pies for the cook shop, and shabby loiterers call out New Year greetings, as they might to any group of well-heeled gentlemen from whom they have hope of a penny. I pull my hood low over my face and leave it to my companions to dish out coins.
    Our destination is the bishop’s palace, not far from the cathedral. Browne rides ahead to warn the bishop’s staff that a party of the King’s men approaches. My presence is not announced; I want to surprise my bride.
    Back at Greenwich now, had I stayed, I would be leaning against the cupboard in my Presence Chamber as my courtiers queued up to present me with their New Year’s gifts: jewels and gold plate, clocks and curiosities. As it is, I am making my own way to the best gift of all.
    “Ready, sir?”
    Our horses have halted, stamping and snorting, just inside the Palace’s main gate, and Browne comes forward to tell me he has forewarned the staff. The lady remains in delicious ignorance.
    “Keep your cloaks on, gentlemen. No clues,” I say and dismount, with Browne’s help. “Where is she, then?”
    “In an upper chamber at the back, sir,” he says, pointing across the courtyard. “She’s watching a bull-baiting in the yard beyond.”
    “Ah, hence the racket.” Barks and shouts are carrying clearly through the cold air. I turn to Browne. “Right. Go to her. Say her New Year’s gift from the King has arrived. I’ll follow.”
    Browne strides ahead to the entrance to the main staircase: an imposing arched doorway in one corner of the courtyard. Energised, despite the long ride, I follow him quickly. I even manage to take the stairs two at a time.
    At the top of the staircase I head past a rank of startled servants, through the great hall and on – following the billowing shape of Browne’s parti-coloured cloak – to the Palace’s best suite of private rooms. My heart is pounding and I feel flushed; my pulse seems to beat in my face.
    Reaching the lady’s chamber door, I meet Browne coming out. “She will receive the gift,” he says, and grins.
    “How is she?” I ask, gripping his sleeve. “Is she stunning?”
    A ghost of pain seems to cross Browne’s face – no doubt because I am crushing some very fine gold-thread embroidery. I release his sleeve. “No, don’t tell me. I’ll see for myself.”
    We enter as a pack, my men and I, our matching cloaks giving no clue to our – to my – true identity. The chamber air hits us: a warm fug of cinnamon and