I walk through the long hall at Bradgate, admiring the tapestries that depict some of the ancestors of my hosts, the newly created Duke of Suffolk and his wife, Lady Frances. A servant opens the front door and I pass out through it to a brisk, chilly morning with mist hovering over the fields and a high sun trying desperately but, at the moment unsuccessfully, to break through. Bird song comes from the high trees to the left of the house.
My host is already out and putting on leather gloves as grooms from the stables bring out two fine, glossy black horses to where we stand.
"Shall we ride, Your Grace?" he asks, satirically.
"I"m ready Henry," I say, not responding to the mock satire.
We mount and set off at a slow gallop; my friend is completely at ease but I, of course, am unfamiliar
