The household retainers, decked in their best livery, waited in a military-style line behind him. He tried to pretend he was not bathed in sweat beneath his murrey doublet and shirt of white lawn. He prayed Juliana would have the sense to obey him and stay hidden.King Henry, ponderous as a storm-swollen cloud in his great high-bowed saddle, entered through the main gate. Sunlight blazed around him, catching on his gold-braided doublet and chain of office. Retainers flanked him like lesser stars around the sun. Stephen recognized Sir Anthony Browne and Sir Francis Bryan, the king’s young minions, and a host of others who had managed to snare the royal favor. Behind the king rode the sharp-eyed, pinch-faced Thomas Cromwell in his customary midnight black.“A royal visit,” whispered Nance Harbutt. “Why, we ain’t had a royal visit since his lordship were newly married to our dearest Marg—”“Nance.” Stephen silenced her, furious that she had reminded him of that day. He had been naught but a gawking green youth, overwhelmed by the arrival of the king, who, in Stephen’s credulous mind, had achieved the proportions of legend.
