‘We render thanks to thee, oh Lord, that after so many strange accidents that have befallen the king’s marriages, that Thou hast been pleased to give him a wife so entirely conformed to his inclinations as her, he now has.’

I cannot help myself, my head bobs up from reverent submission and I meet the surprised gaze of the Richmond priest in the choir stalls. He is reading the celebration of the king’s wife from an official document, he has been ordered to read this as he might be ordered to read a new law. Henry, in his madness, has commanded every church in England to thank God that after the many ‘strange accidents’ of his previous marriages, he now has a wife who conforms to his inclinations. I am so outraged by the language of this, by the sentiment of it, and by the fact that I have to be on my knees listening to this insult, that I half-rise to my feet in protest.

At once an insistent hand grabs the back of my gown and pulls me down, I stumble for a moment and fall back to my knees again. Lotte, my translator, gives me a small smile, puts her hands together in a portrait of devotion and closes her eyes. Her gesture steadies me. This is indeed an insult, most gross and thoughtless; but to respond to it is to charge into danger. If the king requires me to go on my knees and describe myself to the kingdom as a strange accident, then it is not for me to point out that our marriage was no accident but a well-planned and thoughtfully considered contract which he broke for the simple and sufficient reason that he preferred someone else. It is not my place to point out that since our marriage was real and valid he is now either an adulterer, or a bigamist, living in sin with a second wife. It is not my place to point out that if little Kitty Howard, a light-hearted, light-mannered child, is the only woman he has ever found who conforms to his inclinations then either she must be the greatest actor that ever lived, or he must be the most deluded fool that ever married a girl young enough to be his own daughter.

Henry is a madman now, doting on a girl like a senile fool, and he has just ordered the whole of his country to thank God for his folly. In churches up and down the land people will be biting their lips to contain their smiles, honest men will be cursing the luck that puts them in Henry’s church with this nonsense included in their prayers. ‘Amen,’ I say loudly, and when we rise to our feet for the blessing I show the priest a serene and devout face. My only thought, as we leave the church, is that poor Princess Mary at Hunsden will be choking with indignation at the insult to her mother, at the blasphemy of having to pray for Kitty Howard, and the idiocy of her father. Please God she has the sense to say nothing. It seems whatever the king likes to do, we must all say nothing.