Spent and exhausted from the exertions of making love to me, Henry fell immediately to sleep. I only wish that I could so easily find respite. We will be leaving Ampthill soon, and I am glad of it. We are traveling next to the More in Hertfordshire, another manor once owned by the late Cardinal Wolsey. We will spend much of October there, and then make our journey to London for my first official entrance to the city as queen. I watch the moonlight filter through the curtains into the dim chamber. The air is heavy and warm, no fire blazes in the cold hearth. The king’s arm shudders against me, and I leap from the bed in fear. The room is dim, the floor cold beneath my bare feet. “Edward . . . he is . . . Arthur. He is—it is Arthur,” Henry mutters. It must be a nightmare, but I can hear the distress in his voice. I think to call the men of the king’s privy chamber, but the words stick in my throat: Thomas would answer the call. I look down over my naked body, my hair flowing over my bare breasts.
