Chapter One

      1540

      ‘Yes, Father,’ Ginny murmured for the fourth time as Sir Walter D’Arvall checked every buckle and strap of the bay gelding’s harness. As the king’s cofferer, he lived his life by lists, weights, and proportions, payments, people and accounts, and his new day had begun even before it checked in over the stable roofs of Hampton Court Palace. Watching her father’s hands roam over the well-stuffed bags and pouches, Ginny caught the eye of the two young grooms who would be her escort, waiting patiently for the inevitable criticism.

      It was levelled at her instead. ‘It’s all very well you “Yes, Father”, my girl,’ he said with a last push at the bulging pack behind her saddle. ‘If things start to fall off, you’ll wish you’d listened to me. Now, don’t ride on after nightfall. You two hear me?’ he admonished the grooms. ‘Not a step. Get as far as Elvetham and stay overnight with Sir Edward Seymour’s lady. She’ll look after you. You should make D’Arvall Hall by tomorrow midmorning, with an early start. These days are so short. We could have done without the snow, too.’ Turning his lined face up to the grey sky, he blinked at the flurry of white settling on his eyelids. ‘I don’t suppose it will do much.’ He delved a hand into the leather pouch hanging from his belt and withdrew a folded parchment, passing it to Ginny with the command, ‘Take this to your mother. Keep it safe. In your pouch, close to your person. It’s important.’ A blob of green wax from the office glistened in the pale light.

      ‘Yes, Father. How important? About the boys, is it?’ Sir Walter was ambitious for his offspring. The message would surely be about her brothers.

      ‘Not about the boys, no. She’ll tell you. Time to be off, Virginia.’

      She wished he might have taken her into his confidence, this once, as he did with Elion and Paul. At almost twenty years old, was it not time he could trust her with a verbal message? If Lady Agnes could tell her, then why could he not?

      Not that she minded being back home for a while. Hampton Court Palace was a fine place to stay, even in winter, but the bewildering intrigues of the royal court demanded all one’s skills in diplomacy these days and, even with father and older brothers to lend advice, each day had been a challenge that made her glad of her temporary position. To leave, she had needed only the new queen’s permission, and the gentle Anna of Cleves was as easy to please as anyone could wish. What a pity, Ginny thought, that the lady had found so little favour in the eyes of her cantankerous husband, Henry.

      At the back of Ginny’s mind was another reason for wanting to escape, for she had not been flattered by King Henry’s unwanted attentions that, instead of being focused on his fourth wife, were being directed at her in an embarrassing juvenile charade she found difficult to evade. Only a month ago, she had been summoned to go and assist the new Queen Anna, whose taste in the heavy German fashions was fast becoming the source of some comment, not to say amusement and scorn. Unable to see past the costume to the sensitive lady beneath, the king had sent for Ginny to educate and remodel his dowdy twenty-four-year-old bride in the English manner before he himself became a laughing stock. Ginny had found the task much to her liking, forming a friendship with Queen Anna to which their mime language added a piquancy.

      But the king had had more than fashion in mind when he’d sent for her, and it was not long before Ginny realised that her father must have been aware of Henry’s interest even then, his easily wandering affections, his ruthless pursuit of passable young maids, his need to be surrounded by admiration, as he had once been. Sadly, Sir Walter’s personal ambition did not allow him to protect his daughter from the royal lust with the same concern he showed over her journey home in the snow on a February morning.

      ‘Yes, Father. Time to be away,’ she agreed, gathering her skirts for her father’s lift up into the saddle.

      ‘Allow me, Mistress D’Arvall.’ The deep musical voice behind her caused an uncomfortable flutter of annoyance, for she’d hoped to be away without notice, and now here was the man who had not until this moment offered her more than two words at a time, much less his assistance to mount. Her father was looking smug, as if he’d arranged it.

      ‘Thank you, Sir Jon,’ she said, taking hold of the stirrup, ‘but I can manage well enough with my father’s help.’

      ‘You’ll manage even better with me,’ Sir Jon replied. ‘Place your foot on my hands and hold the saddle. There... Up!’ In one effortless hoist, he propelled her upwards so fast that, had she not clung to the pommel, she might have gone over the other side.

      Gathering the reins, she looked down on him with tight-lipped irritation, her legs half-bared by the impetus of the movement. ‘I cannot imagine how I managed before,’ she said, suspecting that this impromptu show of interest was more for her father’s sake than hers. Yet in her month at court, Sir Jon Raemon had done nothing to make her days more comfortable. A nod, a slight bow, or an impolite stare had been the sum total of his regard for her, though for others it was quite