I’ve walked past the seventeenth-century royal Banqueting House on Whitehall numerous times, without ever detouring inside. But a cold recent morning tempted me off the street, and I immediately felt guilty for having ignored the palace for so long. The Rubens ceiling is astonishing – a true masterpiece, quite the equal of anything in the National Gallery on the opposite side of Trafalgar Square.

The curators have thoughtfully provided viewing mirrors: you peer in, and the delights of the paintings can be seen clearly without suffering a crick in the neck. And yet…

This should be a birching block

Yes, here I was, in a famous royal hall, equipped with an original birching block. I was all for hoisting Haron into position, tying her down and flogging her, when I noticed the stern guard throwing suspicious glances in our direction.

At the end of the room is the royal throne; around its edges, numerous benches. Noble girls who’d offended would be ordered to report to the court: they’d sit, nervously, awaiting their turn.

The king sits here waiting for his subjects to be birched

One by one, a courtier would call a name. The chosen girl would step forward, a lonely walk across the wooden floor. She’d curtsey as she presented herself to His Majesty: details of her offence would be read out. He might ask her a question, seek an explanation, before pronouncing sentence.

The fortunate ones would be despatched down the road to offer up a prayer of apology in Westminster Abbey. More likely, though, the King would award her a birching. “Three strokes” would suffice for a girl needing to be taught a memorable lesson; more often, he’d instruct the guards to award ten, twenty or more.

She’d be led across to the flogging horse, the eyes of the other girls following her. (“My turn next,” terrifying some, whilst others – sitting in agony – squirmed from the discomfort of their own recent thrashing, moments before). Her skirts would be lifted; she’d be tied tightly; a fresh bundle of rods would be selected, and the annointed punishment laid on – hard, so as not to displease His Majesty. Afterwards, she’d walk forward to the throne, and curtsey once again before retaking her seat, painfully, to observe the remainder of the morning’s proceedings.

As I say, the place is worth a visit…