‘It is printed anonymously,’ I say quickly. ‘There is no acknowledged author.’
‘And that is wise. There are many people who would deny the right of common people to understand the Bible or the psalms, and there are many who would be quick to criticise a man brave enough to translate Bishop Fisher’s Latin psalms.’ He pauses, his smile warm. ‘I don’t think it would occur to anyone that a woman might have done it.’
‘It had better stay that way,’ I say.
‘I agree. I just wanted you to know that I received this little book from someone who had no idea of the author, but who thought that it was an exceptional translation; and I was glad to have it. Whoever the author, he should be proud of his work. It is very good, very good indeed.’
I find I am blushing furiously, like an embarrassed clerk. ‘You are kind . . .’
‘I give praise where it is due. This is the work of a linguist and a poet.’
‘Thank you,’ I whisper.
Encouraged by the publication and the success of the book of psalms I suggest to the archbishop that I might dare to start a great project – the translation of the four gospels of the New Testament, the key documents of the life of Christ. I am afraid that he will say it is too great a task, but he is enthusiastic. We will start with the Latin translation of the scholar Erasmus, and try to render it into English, in beautiful but simple words that anyone can read.
And if they read of the life of Christ in simple language and understand it, can they not follow Him? The more that I study, the more certain I am that men – and equally women – can take charge of their own souls, can work for their own salvation, and can pray directly to God.
Of course, once I think this, the more I come to believe that the tricks and trades and treats of the Church of Rome are a shameful battening on ignorant people. To sell a woman a pilgrim badge and tell her that it shows that she has been on pilgrimage and her sins are forgiven is surely a sin itself. To assure someone that if enough nuns sing enough Masses then her dead child will go to heaven is trickery as low as passing a false coin as good. To buy a pardon from the pope, to force the pope to annul a marriage, to make him set aside kinship laws, to watch as he fleeces his cardinals, who charge the bishops, who rent to the priests, who seek their tithes from the poor – all these abuses would have to fall away if we agreed that a soul can come to God without any intervention. The crucifixion is the work of God. The church is the work of man.
I think of the night when I prayed and I knew that God came to me. I heard him, I truly did. I think of the simplicity and beauty of the sacrifice of Christ, and I know in every way – from reading and from revelation – that the rituals of the old church must fall away and the people come to Christ one by one as He calls them. There shall be no blind obedience, there shall be no mumbling in a foreign tongue. The people will learn to read and will have a Bible so that they can learn their own way. This is what I believe now, and this is what I will achieve as Regent General and as queen. It is my holy duty. It is my calling.
In September the town of Boulogne falls to the English siege, and the king prepares to come home to a hero’s welcome. Indeed, he writes from France to command a hero’s welcome and it is my task to make sure that he has one. The king’s victory procession will march from Dover to London and the whole court will ride down to greet him at Leeds Castle, in Kent. I must commission the royal glazier to make special windows for the banqueting hall, bedrooms and chapel at Leeds Castle, and Master Glazier Hone comes to my rooms and shows me his design of the doomed castle of Boulogne and the king and his army before it.
‘The sun will stream through the glass and the walls of Boulogne will seem to glow with pride as they face the sunset for the last time before they fall into rubble,’ Galyon Hone tells me. ‘The glass is with the painters and the cutters now.’
‘It will be ready in time?’
‘We are working all day and into the night, and we can get the banqueting hall windows made in time for the feast. The others will follow later.’
‘You must get the chapel window finished too,’ I say. ‘The king will want it ready. We are to have a celebration Mass; the windows must be there. I have to insist, Master Glazier.’
He nods. He is a busy little man, his hands as rough as old leather from a lifetime of cuts. ‘Very well, Your Majesty, you are a hard taskmaster. But look at the designs! See how I have shown the king and his nobles before the walls of Boulogne!’ He shows me another drawing. ‘See, here is the Duke of Norfolk, the Duke of Suffolk Charles Brandon, Sir Thomas Seymour. See, Your Majesty, here is your noble brother.’
He has made quick clever sketches of the nobles of the court around the king; some are in armour, their standards flying. In the background, miniature horses wait loaded with armour, cannons recoil with little puffs of cloud above them.
My eyes rest on the clear profile of Thomas Seymour. ‘You have them to the life,’ I say unsteadily. ‘May I have a copy of this?’
‘It is a very good likeness of the king.’ He is pleased. ‘Take it, take this one, Your Majesty. I have another made fair for the glass cutter. And here is the moment when the walls fall. It’s a great moment. Like Jericho for Joshua.’
‘Yes,’ I say. I wonder if I am safe to keep the picture of Thomas. The king is at the very centre of the design, Thomas’s beloved profile half-hidden at the back. Nobody looking at the picture could guess that I wanted it for the tiny glimpse of him. I could keep it safely hidden away, with my study books, with the manuscript of the psalms that I have translated. I could keep it tucked inside my Bible. Nobody would know that I long to see his face when I open the page.
Hone shows me the other designs he has made. They will be a sequence, telling the story of the invasion of France, the alliance with Spain, and the triumphant siege. The window for the chapel is one of thanksgiving and celebration. An angel blesses the campaign, the king rides home under an arch of laurel leaves, angels look down on him.
‘I’ll have it ready for when the king arrives,’ he promises me. ‘I go to Kent tomorrow with the pieces of glass and we will lead them in place there, for fear of breakages. We will be ready. The lead will be cooling as he enters, but we will be ready.’
I let him gather up his papers and prepare to bow. I push back the portrait of Thomas Seymour with the other designs.
‘Did you not want this, Your Majesty? Shall I get it framed for you?’
‘It’s of no matter. I’ll wait till I can see the real thing in glass,’ I say indifferently. Katherine Howard went to the gallows on the evidence of one note that she wrote to Thomas Culpepper in her silly childish little hand, misspelled, with a tear blot, asking if he was well. I don’t dare to have anything that could ever be cited against me. I don’t even dare to keep a charcoal sketch of his profile half-hidden at the back of a crowd. Not even that.
LEEDS CASTLE, KENT, AUTUMN 1544
The king’s arrival at his castle is staged like a masque. It is all for show. The steward of his household and the master of horse have arranged all the details with my stewards and we have our places as precisely as if we were learning a dance. At eight o’clock the grateful people of Kent start to assemble on either side of the road leading to the castle and the first yeomen of the guard take their posts along the road to hold back the wildly excited crowd, or, in the case of their not being wildly excited, to lead the cheers and command applause.