By request, I've uploaded a preview of what's to come in the story. At this exact moment, Jane is patiently waiting for me to finish with Eliana over at Whore of Babylon to come back and write the next section of her story. However, I do have plenty of sections from later parts of the novel written and waiting.

For the special friend that requested the chapter where Jane and Henry first begin to develop feelings for each other, I offer you this.

Setting: It's September 1535. Anne and Henry have been married for nearly 3 years. The court is nearing the end of its summer progress and is enjoying a brief sojourn at Jane's childhood home, Wolf Hall, before returning to London. Jane's brother Edward is rising fast at the court, and this visit is a mark of the King's respect for him.

Parts of this are earmarked for editing later on - for example, I don't feel that the exchange between Anne and Jane at the feast is strong or sharp enough.

Let's begin:

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To celebrate the King’s arrival, Sir John laid on a sumptuous feast, serving the royal couple with the venison he himself had killed in Savernake.

The great barn was swept and scrubbed, festooned with drapes and banners in Tudor colours of white and Lincoln green. Wine flowed freely; the room was alive with festival atmosphere and gaiety.

As hosts, Jane’s parents were accorded a position of honour at the top table with the royal couple and the highest-ranking nobles on the progress. Jane, as one of Anne’s lesser ladies, was seated with her counterparts further down the room. It gave her a perfect view of her sovereigns: she watched Henry’s cheeks bloom to the colour of the wine he drank in such copious quantities. Anne, unusually, partook of almost as much as her husband; growing more sallow and withdrawn with each cup.

Jane wondered what was in her mind to make her so miserable.

The King, a smile splitting his face, raised his cup high. ‘A toast!’ he bellowed, ‘to the hosts! And to the finest venison in the country!’

Courtiers grinned and raised their own goblets, glad to oblige. ‘To the hosts!’ they chorused, draining their cups.

‘Pah!’ exclaimed Anne, startling the court into silence. ‘Sir John would do better to save his money. All this,’ she gestured carelessly about her, ‘it’s a barn! And a haunted one at that, with his sickly-pale daughter always hanging about the place.’ She threw her head back and laughed uproariously, expecting the court to join her. Her favoured gentlemen managed a few weak smiles.

Jane glanced at her father as the Queen slighted his ancestral home and his favourite daughter in the same breath. He was livid, lips pressed into a barely visible line and a muscle working violently in his jaw.

Henry’s voice was low with anger as he rebuked her, ‘you are drunk, Madam. You embarrass yourself.’ And me, he added silently.

Anne didn’t heed the warning, ‘well, she is! The man clearly can’t afford to pay anyone to marry her – and who would take her without a dowry? A little spinster ghost with no fight in her! Not a shred of wit or sparkle.’ She gave another derisive laugh; this time, nobody smiled.

The King’s face visibly darkened, his voice heavy with sarcasm as he replied, ‘perhaps Mistress Seymour doesn’t value showiness as you do, my dearest. Why don’t you ask her?’

All eyes turned expectantly to Jane. Blood boiling, emboldened by wine, and trembling with fury, she felt she must reply, and to hell with the consequences. The thrill of defying a queen pulsed through her as she stood – she’d not allow herself, her family and her home to be slandered by some upstart cousin, crowned or not.

She cleared her throat and held Anne’s gaze as she spoke, ‘indeed, Sire, I do not. Glass may be polished until it shines as brightly as diamonds, but that does not make it a diamond’s equal, or fit for a Prince.’

From the corner of her eye, she could see Henry’s mouth purse with suppressed mirth.

Anne’s face betrayed a flicker of rage; she hadn’t been expecting a reply at all, least of all a challenging one. ‘Well, shine is in the eye of the beholder, Mistress Seymour,’ she said pointedly, ‘polished or not, glass is as sharp, as fit for purpose and as capable of drawing blood as diamond. At least I have the breeding to tell one from the other.’

Jane met the barely veiled threat without so much as a raised eyebrow. ‘Perhaps, Madam,’ she conceded, unwilling to keep the argument going, ‘but if Your Majesties will please excuse me, I have some chores to complete before I retire for the night.’ Without waiting for permission, she executed a perfect courtier’s curtsey and made to leave the room. She paused on the threshold, turning back to the still-silent assembly, ‘I believe my precise instructions, if I recall, were to “polish the pewter until it gleams like silver”.’

As she exited, she caught a gleam of triumph in her father’s eye, and a broad grin of amusement on the King’s face.

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I smile and stretch luxuriously as the first rays of sunlight stream through my chamber window, falling across my face and waking me.

The room is awash with the pink-gold hue of dawn; I sit up and rub my eyes clear of sleep, gazing around with pleasure. It is a beautiful morning – I immediately banish any thoughts of going back to bed. Only the servants will be awake this early, and these may be the only peaceful moments I have all day; no doubt I shall be summoned to the Queen later and have to face the consequences of insulting her.

No matter, it is too lovely a day to care at this moment. I slide out of bed and tiptoe to the window, walking right around the room to avoid the squeaky floorboards.

The world outside my window glitters with dew under the morning sun. The trees of Savernake stand tall and proud at the bottom of the garden; but for the two sparrows dancing overhead, the whole pretty picture could be a scene on a tapestry.

I suddenly want nothing more than to be secluded in that forest, shaded by the protective canopy, shielded from the drama and passion of the court by those ancient, implacable pillars.

It’s just a whim, but I can’t get out there fast enough.

Washing quickly and silently at the ewer on my nightstand, I shiver; the water is freezing. I choose a simple, lavender-coloured linen dress over a cream woollen kirtle that I embroidered myself; I leave my jewels, court sleeves and headdresses at the bottom of the chest. It’s too early to imagine that I might meet anyone important – they will all be sleeping off the effects of the wine that flowed in such abundance last night.

Seating myself before the polished silver mirror, I hum softly as I brush my hair until it gleams with life. I wonder if anyone will remember the Queen’s remarks last night; considering the quarrel, I’m in a remarkably good mood this morning.

It’s strange, but I no longer want Anne’s approval. Her bizarre moods, insults and empty threats just don’t bother me anymore. In a way, I almost pity her; her frenzied, jealous attempts to keep the King’s eye from roving are only pushing him further from her, and the only person who cannot see it is Anne herself.

I tie my hair back loosely with a ribbon, and hang my Book of Hours from my waist as I slide my feet into my softest kid slippers. The grass looks so inviting that I don’t think I shall need to take the loose stone path to the forest – I’ll cut directly across the lawn. As I leave the room, I swing on a cloak lined with beaver against the chill of the morning.

Slipping through the house, still cool and dim at this early hour, I meet only a couple of servants, neither of whom bat an eyelid at my simple attire or dawn wanderings – they remember me well from my pre-court days.

I blink in the sudden brightness as I emerge into the rear courtyard. This is the kind of morning that makes you glad to be alive.

As I cross the courtyard and step onto the grass, I feel a rush of elation – an overwhelming sense of peace and freedom, as though all is right with the world. I have seldom been in such a good mood since rejoining the court. At this moment, I feel as though I’m hundreds of miles from its politics and intrigue, though it sleeps just yards from me in the house.

The sun is warm and dazzling; there’s a cool freshness to the morning breeze that blows downy clouds across the azure sky – they drift idly, as though not yet quite awake. Birds chirrup to one another as they soar overhead, and the kitchen is clattering with life in the house behind me, as if to remind me that my moments of solitude are limited. Gazing up at the birds, I have a sudden desire to run, to fly free!

I’m laughing as I pick up my skirts and race for the forest. My Book of Hours bangs against my knees and the ribbon slips from my hair, leaving it to stream behind me as I run. I pant and laugh and run in a moment of completely carefree abandon.

As I step into Savernake, it’s like someone has drawn the curtain behind me. I’ve stepped into a cocoon. A hush falls over the world, and I am the only one in it. I drop my skirts and press my hand to my chest, my heart hammering as my breath comes hard and fast. The blood pounds in my ears.

Slowly, my heart returns to its normal pace; I’m breathing more evenly as my serenity returns. I begin to walk. A songbird whistles somewhere in the leafy canopy overhead. The sunlight filtering through the foliage gives everything an eerie greenish tint, with dapplings of amber where leaves have begun to turn. Occasionally, the sun breaks though, streaming in golden columns into shimmering puddles of light on the bracken underfoot.

I inhale deeply as I walk, taking in all the scents of my youth with every breath. I’m flooded with vague half-memories of wandering through the forest with my siblings as children. If only I could recapture the innocence of those days – chasing each other through the trees, our only care being to not get so filthy as to invoke our nurse’s wrath. I’m gripped by a powerful maternal longing to chase my own toddler through these trees on a bright autumn morning, and the desperate fear that I may never marry and have children of my own. I’m already almost double the usual age for marriage; I should have a whole pack of children by now. Would that William Dormer’s parents had not been so stubborn!

This forest is full of memories. I feel a sudden rush of guilt as I’m assailed by a memory of walking this path with Tom many years ago: he must have been no more than about 8 years old – his face was lit up with sheer joy as he banged two sticks together, just delighting in the noise he made. I winced, and gave him a sharp look. Tom threw the sticks into a bush, then stopped to pick up another one, almost as big as himself. He held it like a staff and grinned, ‘There! Like Moses!’ he exclaimed.

I rolled my eyes. ‘No, like a small boy with a stick,’ I said witheringly. His little face fell in a sullen pout as he snapped the stick in two and flung it from him.

My heart aches at this memory as the scent of late autumn flowers and fresh earth bring me back to the present. Church bells ring for Mass in the distance. The forest floor crackles beneath my feet as I move deeper; I occasionally spot a rabbit darting to its burrow, or a fleet-footed deer escaping this unexpected intruder. Beginning to feel chilled in the shade, I pull my cloak more tightly around myself.

I come across a clearing, perhaps the same clearing that I used to meet William in – it was so many years ago that I’ve forgotten exactly where. The ground is carpeted with thick moss, and the sun falls in a warm, welcoming shaft, pooling invitingly on the undergrowth. Seating myself in the centre, I arrange my skirts around my legs and begin to read aloud from my Book of Hours.

Time escapes me as I take comfort in the familiar litany of prayers, the ancient words intimate and reassuring. As I pause for a moment there’s a crack behind me.

I wheel around, momentarily forgetting to breathe, wondering whether I should have brought an escort for safety. Though an escort, or any other person, would have spoilt the solace I sought in my own company. I stared into the trees for a long moment, alert to any sound, any movement.

Nothing.

I decide it must have been a deer, but my tranquillity is shattered. I close my eyes and turn my face up to the sun, breathing deeply. My still-loose hair dances about my face and neck, stirred by the breeze. Stray snatches of psalms carry from the church – I listen contentedly, joining in where I can.

As a third psalm ends, there is another crack. I spin around.

‘Who’s there?’ I call sharply.

A broad, magnificently-dressed figure steps from behind a tree, looking rather sheepish. The King!

I gasp in horror and scramble to my feet, hastily smoothing my skirts before throwing myself back to the ground in a curtsey.

‘No, fair lady, please, no ceremony,’ he advances on me, ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’ He takes me gently by the hands and raises me up.

‘Your... Your Majesty, I’m... I’m sorry... I...’ the familiar tongue-tie that I always experience in his presence overwhelms me. He is still holding my hands.

‘What are you sorry for, Mistress Seymour?’ he smiles down at me in kindly amusement.

‘I don’t... I’m not...’ searching for suave, courtly words, I raise my eyes to his, as though expecting to find them there; I drop them immediately, blushing furiously, my stomach writhing with embarrassment.

‘I had no wish to disturb you. I rose early this morning, and wanted to take a walk to clear my head before Mass. To enjoy the peace of the forest. I had no idea that I would come across a very angel in the flesh, giving a private service in her very own Eden.’

‘An angel, Your Majesty?’ I smile in disbelief.

‘A fair and radiant maiden with flowing red-gold hair, seated in a column of the purest light, reading aloud the word of God. Dear lady, what was I supposed to think?’

I open my mouth, but no words come out. How do I respond to this poetic, chivalric flattery? It’s been a long while since a man spoke to me this way, and never with this skill. I smile up at him in what I hope is a charming, utterly helpless way.

He offers me his arm, ‘would you do me the honour of walking with me a while, Mistress Seymour?’

‘I would be delighted, Your Majesty.’ I slip my hand into the crook of his elbow, my heart thudding wildly.

We move slowly, weaving between the trees and heading in the general direction of the path that leads back to Wolf Hall. As we walk, the King draws me into conversation, asking about my life here, my childhood, my memories of the forest. I recount story after story, and he seems to take a genuine pleasure in listening to me.

He smiles wistfully, ‘it sounds like you led such a charmed life here in this secluded corner of Wiltshire. Would that I had such freedom growing up.’

‘It is the ideal place to raise a family.’ I agree.

‘And what of your family? Your father is notoriously prolific. You have no desire for children? A husband? It does not seem right that a woman of such obvious character remains tucked away here unwed.’

I sigh, ‘I yearn for nothing so much as a husband and children of my own, Your Grace, but my father has other daughters to dower, and I am not much in demand.’

He raises an eyebrow, expressing such disbelief that I feel I should be flattered. ‘Come now,’ he urges, ‘I cannot believe that you have never had an offer of marriage.’

I cast my mind back to that charmed summer with William. ‘There has been just one... many years ago. At the time, we thought ourselves very much in love, but his parents did not consider me an adequate match.’

‘Then that is truly their loss, and my gain. Had you been wed and sent to live with your husband, I should not be experiencing the pleasure of your company just now.’

Oddly, this does make me feel a little better.

‘You are not in court dress this morning, Mistress Seymour?’ he changes the subject. ‘No jewels? No hood?’

‘In truth, I have not many jewels, Your Majesty. But I had no intention of seeing anyone but the servants this morning, so did not look too carefully to my appearance.’

‘It’s rather endearing,’ he smiles, ‘it gives you an honest guise. Too many ladies of the court measure somebody’s worth by the weight of the baubles on their person.’

I shake my head, ‘they are misguided. The worth of a woman is measured by her godliness.’ I repeat my parents’ teachings. ‘Chastity, obedience and piety are more valuable in a woman than any title or estate she might hold.’

The King ponders this. ‘Well said. You are yet wiser than most of the ladies of my wife’s court.’

Not sure how to respond correctly to this, I bow my head.

We stop. Henry touches my chin gently, and raises it until I am looking into his eyes. His sunny expression has clouded. ‘I am truly sorry for the way my wife behaved towards you last night. Your reaction was most admirable. She was drunk, completely without grace, insulting you and our hosts in such a way. I will rebuke her when we leave Wolf Hall, but I try to avoid her in the heat of my fury. It invariably results in some unpleasant scene.’

‘It’s quite alright, Your Majesty. The Queen has never been fond of me. I believe she simply forgot where she was, and I must certainly apologise for forgetting myself so and speaking above my station.’

‘Nonsense, do not try to excuse her. There is no defence for treating one of her ladies in that way, no matter where she happens to be at the time. But honestly, I hesitate to reprimand or aggravate her for fear of provoking another embarrassing temper tantrum. I find it best to avoid her altogether at such times.’

‘May I speak freely, Sire?’

‘I would be offended if you did not,’ he smiles.

‘From what I have observed in the Queen’s household, she seems to be at her wildest and most jealous when you avoid her presence. When she feels threatened and unsure of your love. She loves you so much, Your Majesty, and I’m sure that if you treat her with patience and gentleness, she will respond in kind.’

He nods, thoughtfully.

‘Be gentle,’ I urge, ‘humour her. I’m sure you both wish for nothing but a harmonious life together. The Queen shies and lashes out like a frightened horse when she is unsure of her Lord; I am certain his presence and reassurance would be a great comfort to her.’

The King chuckles, a deep, throaty sound that emanates from the very pit of his stomach. ‘You are so bold! No-one has ever before dared to compare the Queen to a horse in my hearing.’

I flush a deep pink, ashamed of my own forwardness, ‘I beg your pardon, Sire, I...’

He holds up a hand, ‘hush! It was most amusing. I value your honesty; it is a most admirable asset in a courtier, and a valuable asset in a woman.’

At this moment, I cannot understand why I ever feared the King. Walking arm-in-arm with him, he is a man like any other – sharing the hopes, fears and domestic troubles universal to all men. I could almost forget that he is the King. Almost.

By this time, we have reached the path. My kid shoes are not designed for this, and the sharp stones cut my feet as though I were walking barefoot. The King notices me hobbling and leaning more heavily on his arm, though I am trying my best to brave it out.

‘How now, Mistress Seymour? You limp!’ he glances down at my slippers, ‘you should have said something! Come, I’ll carry you.’

‘Oh, that’s really not necessary...’ I try to protest, but he cuts me off as he sweeps me from my feet, one arm under the crook of my knees, the other around my shoulders.

‘How could I call myself a knight in all good conscience if I stood back and allowed a lady to suffer? I’ll brook no argument!’

The matter is clearly settled as he strides up the path, with me in his arms as though I weigh nothing at all. Crushed against his chest, I feel completely safe and relaxed. Somewhere deep in my heart, the seeds of something more than a subject’s love for her King are sown.

Back at the house, he sets me gently on my feet in the rear courtyard. He takes my hand, ‘I thank you for your companionship this morning, Mistress Seymour. I trust I’ve not kept you from your duties too long?’

‘Indeed not, Your Majesty, I’ve much enjoyed your company.’ I sweep a curtsey.

Taking my hand and pressing it to his heart, he near-whispers, ‘I hope we shall see more of each other... Jane.’ He gives my hand a fierce little kiss before dropping it, turning on his heel and striding off towards his apartments.

I watch his back in silent awe as he departs. His use of my Christian name has dispelled any last pretence that this was just an innocent morning walk, a subject with her sovereign.

Leaning back against the wall of the house, I try to comprehend what has happened this morning, to fathom the subtle way in which my life has just changed.

I suddenly become aware of the buzz and bustle of activity within, as though someone has unstoppered my ears, breaking the morning’s enchantment. Shaking myself from my stupor, I glance back at the illuminated forest once last time before hastening to my room to change into court dress and begin the day.

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                As Henry made his way back to his rooms, Jane lingered in his mind. That perfect first sighting of her in the forest and the feel of her in his arms, her scent, that sense of trust and submission... he knew he desired her. And yet his desire was complicated by an undeniable admiration for her integrity, her tact, her dignity, her demure demeanour, and, most of all, her forthright honesty. At no point did she seem to be pretending, flattering, or trying to extort something from him; a pleasant change from his usual company.

Her lack of ostentatious finery, too, had been endearing. With no jewels, just her Book of Hours, and no headdress to cover that glorious, rippling red-gold hair, she appealed to his sense of the romantic. Jane was the maiden from all the fairytales of old come to life – as modest, chaste and virtuous as any woman ever conceived by a bard. A perfect Griselda.

As he walked, Henry reflected upon Jane’s counsel on his marriage. Her words seemed to stem from such quiet good sense.

He decided to act on her advice. After all, he reasoned, he had nothing to lose by trying.