There is vanity as well, perhaps. For Thomas à Becket was a saint who defied a tyrant King of England. His body lay in the crypt of this most lavish cathedral, encased in gold and jewels, and the king himself—who ordered the throwing down of this shrine—used to come here to pray for help. But now the king needs no help, and rebels are hanged in this country, and the wealth and beauty must all belong to the king. My brother would say that this is a good thing and that a country cannot have two masters.

I am wearily changing my gown for dinner when I hear another roar of guns and although it is pitch black and nearly midnight Jane Boleyn comes smiling to tell me that there are hundreds of people in the great hall come to welcome me to Canterbury.

‘Many gentlemen?’ I ask her in my stilted English.

She smiles at once, she knows that I am dreading a long line of introductions.

‘They just want to see you,’ she says clearly, pointing to her eyes. ‘You just have to wave.’ She shows me a wave and I giggle at the masque that we play to each other while I learn her language.

I point to the window. ‘Good land,’ I say.

She nods. ‘Abbey land, God’s land.’

‘Now the king’s?’

She has a wry smile. ‘The king is now head of the church, you understand? All the wealth—’ she hesitates ‘—the spiritual wealth of the church is now his.’

‘And the people are glad?’ I ask. I am so frustrated by being unable to speak fluently. ‘The bad priests are gone?’

She glances towards the door as if she would be sure that we cannot be overheard. ‘The people are not glad,’ she says. ‘The people loved the shrines and the saints, they don’t know why the candles are being taken away. They don’t know why they cannot pray for help. But you should not speak of this to anyone but me. It is the king’s will that the church should be destroyed.’

I nod. ‘He is a Protestant?’ I ask.

Her quick smile makes her eyes sparkle. ‘Oh, no!’ she says. ‘He is whatever he wishes to be. He destroyed the church so that he could marry my sister-in-law; she believed in a reformed church and the king believed with her. Then he destroyed her. He has turned the church almost back to being Catholic, the Mass is almost completely restored—but he will never give back the wealth. Who knows what he will do next? What will he believe next?’

I understand only a little of this so I turn away from her and look out of the window at the driving rain and the pitch darkness. The thought of a king who can determine not only what life his people lead but even the nature of the God they worship makes me shiver. This is a king who has thrown down the shrine of one of the greatest saints in Christendom, this is a king who has turned the great monasteries of his country into private houses. My brother was quite wrong to command me to lead this king into right-thinking. This is a king who will have his own way, and I daresay nobody can stop or turn him.