Whitehall Palace, London, August, 1554

Pippa was aware of the bright sunlight before she opened her eyes. She lay still until she was fully awake. She knew almost without waiting for the sensations to make themselves apparent that her mouth would be dry, her limbs heavy, a faint dull ache in her joints. Whenever she slept past daybreak, it was always thus.

It was so unusual for her to sleep late. She had always awoken at cockcrow, ready for whatever the new day might hold. But in the last weeks, since the queen's wedding to Philip of Spain, there had been these mornings when she'd awoken feeling leaden and listless, a pain behind her eyes that took half the day to dissipate.

She moved her body carefully on the deep feather mattress. Stuart was beside her. He had not come to bed with her the previous evening, but that was generally the case. Wine still lingered on his breath and she guessed it had been dawn before he had left his friends and the cards and dice to which he was addicted.

She turned onto her side away from him, unwilling as yet to ring the handbell for her maid and begin the tedious process of dressing for the day.

As she moved her legs apart she noticed the slight discomfort, the dried stickiness on her thighs. Why? she thought with exasperation. Just why did Stuart only make love to her when she was asleep? She had never shown herself an unwilling partner. Indeed, in the early weeks after their marriage she had done everything she could to make their bedplay inviting and exciting. His enthusiasm had been distinctly muted, she reflected, but at least she'd been awake on each occasion.

Her husband stirred beside her, and with renewed energy Pippa rolled over, propp...