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With a bang, the doors at the other end of the hall burst open and an enormous ship is wheeled in amidst thick smoke and the sound of cannon fire.

At its helm are a troupe of actors and actresses, all masked and wearing red doublets to signify evil.

They each wear a badge affixed to their doublets, naming them.

This was always going to be the trickiest part of the masque, for Boleyn couldn’t suggest they were from Capetia, Quisto, Uuvek or Ezzonid, given her allegiance to the former and Aragon and Cleve’s heritages.

Instead, she has chosen to name them after sins – Greed, Lust, Tyranny, Disloyalty, Treason and so on.

As the ship bears down upon the castle, the cannons firing symbolically, puffs of flame and coloured smoke erupt from each of the turrets.

From inside the castle, actors shift the wood to make it look as though the cannons have blown holes into the structure.

The actor playing Aethelred waves his sword ineffectively, then raises his hands to the sky pleadingly.

At this point in the masque, Cernunnos should appear, his antlers proud and fierce.

There’s a long history of such plays around the kingdom, where Cernunnos brings with him six bosomy queens, handing them over like glorious chattel.

It’s the centrepiece of the traditional masque, usually accompanied by rousing music.

Seymour once watched her father be so moved by this moment that he actually shed a tear.

The crowd quells, awaiting the expected reveal. Some of them look at the ceiling, wondering whether Boleyn has rigged an actor to fly in.

Instead of the rousing pounding of Cernunnos’s entrance, the music quietens.

The harpist and violinist, silent until now, pick up their instruments and begin to play.

Their duet is so gentle it forces the audience into silence.

And the audience wants to hear, because the music is overwhelming in its delicacy.

It makes Seymour’s heart stretch, like some hibernating creature waking up after a long sleep.

A further curtain, draped across the top of the hall, is wound up into the ceiling, revealing six acrobats in shimmering gowns.

Each of them is posed in seemingly impossible positions above the mock castle, and each of them wears a headdress bearing the names of the six castles of Elben – the names of the original queens.

The actor playing Aethelred bows, accepting their help.

As the queens are lowered to the castle floor, there is no ceremonial handing over of women to man.

The queens take their rightful places along the castle’s parapets.

There is no moment where the king urges his power through his consorts – instead, he steps back, arms wide, honouring the queens as they get to work.

The acrobats fly from the castle walls, over the heads of the audience and straight at the enemy ship.

Fireworks spark from their hands. The crowd coos at the masqued battle, as Daven arcs above, lifting Greed into the air and hauling him away.

As Cnothan descends upon the ship, twirling impossibly fast so that the tulle of her gown becomes a tornado.

As together, the queens land amidst emerald silk that is flurried to create a sea.

Together, they place their hands against the ship’s hull, and push it back, out of the hall, the actors inside flailing helplessly.

The guests clap, but they all now understand that something is missing.

The role of the king has been removed – he stands on the castle still, a strong light shining down on him, casting him heroically.

Usually this would be expected, except that he has done nothing heroic.

In previous masques he would be the one doing most of the fighting, while the queens stand stately and elegant on the battlements.

Now, the king looks as he truly is – a thief of glory.

The real queens stand frozen. Their eyes are all on Henry – as is the entire court’s.

They are wondering whether he will shout treason now or whether he has, for some inconceivable reason, approved this change to the well-worn story.

Boleyn whispers something in his ear again, but even though he smiles and nods, there is no warmth behind it now.

He understands what Boleyn is doing. But he can’t do anything about it at the Moon Ball.

Boleyn was counting on his sense of courtly propriety, and once again she was right.

Each of the actors playing the queens approaches their real counterpart, offering them a flower. A single, white blossom. The Queen’s Kiss. Seymour accepts hers with a docile nod and affixes it to her gown.

Edward eyes it beadily, his gaze flicking towards Boleyn.

To anyone who didn’t already understand what Boleyn is trying to do, it is the natural flower to offer to Henry’s queens – it is, after all, a symbol of their history.

But to those who can see the ulterior meanings at work, it is a symbol of unity, for the Queen’s Kiss only ever offers up six flowers, all stemming from a single tree.

Every queen understands what is being offered, and what is being asked.

Seymour is the only one to fix her flower so readily to her gown.

“Take it off,” Edward mutters.

“Why? It’s a gift, is it not?” she says, trying to sound like a dullard.

It is, after all, her greatest armour – that she is considered stupid.

Boleyn’s greatest weakness is that she is known to be intelligent.

For all that she is telling Henry that the masque is meant to soothe the other queens’ jealousy over her new pregnancy, he is no fool.

There is one more part of the masque to play. The final dance.

The minstrels in the gallery strike up a familiar tune.

It is called “Queens of Fire” and is the traditional song of the Moon Ball.

There must once have been lyrics, but most of them have been lost to the ages or were spoken in a tongue so ancient that the words no longer hold meaning.

All that remains is a dance of six pairs that swirls across the floor, punctuated by stamps and claps that are supposed to mimic the sound of Cernunnos ripping open the earth to produce the six consorts.

The partners switch throughout the dance, so that each follow dances with each lead.

Boleyn curtseys to the king and looks at him coquettishly.

For an instant, Seymour sees them as they were on their wedding day: for ever caught in a game of chase and catch, believing wholeheartedly that they could build a marriage on such a courtship.

Then the moment passes, as Henry leads her to the centre of the floor, never anything less than a gentleman.

“Come then, sister,” Edward says, pulling Seymour to her feet and marching her to the floor. Even though she knew this must happen, Seymour’s shoulders hunch instinctively at the prospect of dancing in front of so many people. All those eyes witnessing her awkward steps.

She takes her place beside Boleyn and Henry, and on her other side, Cleves takes to the floor with her Master of Horse – that draws stares from the assembled crowds because he is wearing a doublet made of soft, warm chamlet, rather than the silk or velvet of nobility.

Cleves and her dance partner look over at Seymour, and wink.

Ignoring the flush making its way up her neck, Seymour turns her attention to the other queens – Howard, who has invited George Boleyn to dance with her and is laughing merrily at one of his jokes.

She may be unaware of the plan, but nevertheless she has played into Boleyn’s hands.

George may not know what is about to happen, but he will see what Boleyn is doing and direct Howard to the right place when the time comes.

On the far side of the circle, Princess Tudor takes her place opposite one of Aragon’s inner circle.

Queen Parr accepts Lord Cromwell’s hand.

As the dance moves into its second phase, the lantern dragons are provoked to spout flame in time with the dancers’ movements.

It’s all Seymour can do to remember where her own feet should go, despite the pounding through her heart and head.

The watching crowd applauds, especially when larger dragons emerge, winding lazily across the ceiling.

There are six of them, each wearing a ribboned collar to match one of the queens, and they are a rare breed who live and move in packs – the Annysse dragon.

Henry is watching them too, his smile more and more fixed.

If Boleyn were honouring the traditional symbolism, she would have a larger, male dragon appear to dominate the six.

As the dance continues and no seventh dragon appears, the crowd understands that it won’t.

Some of them mutter darkly. Wolsey whispers furiously to his men.

More’s reaction is less predictable: he watches the dragons with something akin to devastation. The dragonlight glints on his tears.

The song builds to its crescendo. Boleyn and Seymour catch each other’s eye. As the key changes they nod at their respective partners and, defying all the known steps of the dance, turn to each other.

Seymour takes Boleyn’s outstretched hand and places her other lightly on her waist.

“Seymour, what are you…” Edward hisses, but Seymour ignores him, leading Boleyn across the floor so that he’s forced to move aside.

“Stand up straight,” Boleyn says. Seymour uncurls her back and shoulders, until she is looking down at the woman she loves, instead of matching her diminutive height.