The councillors are assembled, and none looks happy. My Lord Bishop Stephen Gardiner has an irritated expression as he glances briefly at me and then rolls his eyes upwards to the Tudor Rose in the ceiling. Lord Paget is inspecting his fingers as though he expects them to yield up some fascinating secret. Feet are shuffling constantly. We are often kept waiting for long stretches and the actions taken individually seldom vary. My own distraction has been the raindrops dripping down the windowpanes and I wonder, idly, when and if we will ever receive clement weather this year.
When we hear the first scuffle outside and the door creaks open, we all jump to our feet like Jacks-in-the-box. Queen Mary strides in imperiously and sits at the head of the table.
“Please be seated, gentlemen.”
Sh
