“Or his advisors are thinking of a new queen. A new queen who favors the old ways,” Nan replies. “You have disappointed them.”

We are all silent for a moment.

“Did Charles say who added the clause?” Anne Seymour asks Catherine.

She gives a little shrug. “I think it was Gardiner. I don’t know for sure. Who else would want to prepare for a new queen, a seventh queen?”

“A seventh queen?” I repeat.

“The thing is,” Nan concludes, “as King of England and head of the church, he can do what he likes.”

“I know that,” I say coldly. “I know that he can do exactly as he likes.”

WHITEHALL PALACE, LONDON,

SUMMER 1544

Thomas Cranmer has worked constantly on his liturgy; he brings it to the king, prayer by prayer, and the three of us read it and reread it. Cranmer and I study the original Latin, and rephrase it, and read it again to the king, who listens, beating his hand on the chair as if he were listening to music. Sometimes he nods his head approvingly at the archbishop or at me and says: “Hear it! It’s like a miracle to hear the Word of God in our own language!” and sometimes he frowns and says: “That’s an awkward phrase, Kateryn. That sticks on the tongue like old bread. No one will ever say that smoothly. Rework it, what d’you think?” And I take the line and try it one way and then another to make it sing.

He says nothing about the Act of Succession and neither do I. It goes before the Houses of Parliament and is passed into law without my remarking to my husband that he is providing for my death, though I am young enough to be his daughter, that he is providing for a queen to follow me, though he has made no complaint of me. Gardiner is away from court, Cranmer is a frequent companion, and the king loves to work with us both.

Clearly, he is serious about this translation being made and offered to the churches. Sometimes he says to Cranmer: “Yes, but this has got to be heard up in the gallery, where the poor people stand. It’s got to be clear. It’s got to be audible even when an old priest is muttering away.”

“The old priests won’t read it at all unless you force it on them,” Cranmer warns him. “There are many who think that it cannot be the Mass unless it’s Latin.”

“They will do as I command,” the king replies. “This is the Word of God in English, and I am giving it to my people whatever the old priests and the old fools like Gardiner want. And the queen is going to translate the old prayers, and write some new ones.”

“Are you?” Cranmer asks me with a gentle smile.