Anne was shooting arrows with her closest circle on a frosty morning in the first week of November when the news of her mother’s death reached Ludlow. Sybil and Meg stood either side of her, watching as she drew back the string of her bow with a grace that betrayed what a skillful huntress she was, while Susan, unable to help herself, was keeping a half-maternal eye on little Bessie Sinclair, who played merrily nearby, well wrapped up against the cold. Bessie’s uncle, meanwhile, was taking his turn at a butt not far from the Princess.
It was a mark of how high Henry now stood in Anne’s favour that no one thought to question why he wasn’t going about his duties in the Prince’s household, or why his little niece was with them, rather than being in her house in the town or shut away in the n
