The astronomer is accurate at least in his predictions about my studies. Archbishop Cranmer attends on me every day to discuss the work of the Privy Council and how I should respond to any requests or reports from the country, but as soon as the work of the world is done we turn to the world of the spirit. He is a most inspirational scholar and each day he brings a sermon or a pamphlet, sometimes written by hand, sometimes newly published, for me to consider; and the following day we discuss it together. My ladies listen, and often make a contribution. Princess Mary tends always to defend the traditional church but even she acknowledges the archbishop’s logic and his spirituality. My rooms become a center of debate, a little university for women, as the archbishop brings his chaplains and invites preachers from London to come and share their vision of the church and its future. They are all great students of the Bible in Latin, Greek, and in the modern translations. We often find ourselves turning from one version to another to reach the true meaning of a word, and while I revel in my increasing understanding of Latin I know that I am going to have to learn Greek.

One morning Thomas Cranmer comes into my rooms, bows to me, and whispers: “May I have a word with you, Majesty?”

I step to one side and to my surprise he tucks my hand under his arm and leads me out of the room to the long gallery where we are out of earshot. “I wanted to show you this,” he says, his dark eyes twinkling under his gray eyebrows.

From his sleeve he produces a book bound in leather. Inside is the title page with the one-word title: it says Psalms. With a little start I see that he has my book, my first published book. “There is no author,” Cranmer says, “but I recognized the voice at once.”

“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 criticize 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...”