I distinctly remember two years earlier in 1562, his mother Lady Mary had nursed the Queen through a terrible bout with smallpox, an occasion of which the nation feared the imminent death of its Monarch. Elizabeth recovered without affect from the disease, however, Philip’s dear mother herself contracted the virus and, although she recovered, was left with gross disfigurement and mental suffering. This caused Philip’s father to effect separate residences, households and retinues for himself and his wife.

With an honesty and closeness that belies true friendships, he recounted his bout with measles and smallpox in the same year that his mother fell ill. It was as if I had never observed his pockmarked features until that moment. His travails with this wretched disease, unlike his mother, affected only his physical appearance, for inside was a human being who had transcended the calamities of our sometimes fragile bodies. When I looked at Philip, this was the Philip I saw and loved.