On the move again, the barges move in grand procession from Westminster down to the Tower of London. Lords and their ladies in all their finery, dukes, barons, earls and a positive riot of bright colours. I stand with Guildford, resplendent in gold tunic and white trimmings and my own green and white with abundant jewels making for a bright and impressive picture indeed. I try to compose my expression into one of sombre, studied reflection but cannot summon a touch of pleasure in my situation.
The crowds are gathering now in much greater numbers although I do find the silence increasingly depressing and only kindling my own unease even further. Guildford raises an eyebrow and I do, at last, manage to give him a weak smile. Dudley emerges from a group of his acquaintances and positions him
