George Day, my almoner, comes to my privy chamber as I am reading with my ladies, with a wrapped parcel under his arm. I know at once what he has for me and I step to the bay of the window, with Rig trotting at my heels, so that he can unwrap the book and show it to me.

“Prayers Stirring the Mind to Heavenly Meditations,” I read, tracing the title on its inner page. “It is done.”

“It is, Your Majesty. It looks very fair.”

I open the first pages and there is my name as the editor, Princess Katherine, Queen of England. I draw a breath.

“The king himself approved the wording,” George Day says quietly. “Thomas Cranmer took it to him and told him that it was a fine translation of the old prayers, that would be read alongside the Litany. You have given the English an English prayer book, Your Majesty.”

“He does not object to my name being on it?”

“He does not.”

I trace my name with a fingertip. “It feels almost too much for me.”

“It is God’s work,” he assures me. “And also...”

I smile. “What?”

“It’s good, Your Majesty. It is a good piece of work.”

* * *

The king returns to health as the summer comes, looking forward to his annual progress down the beautiful valley of the Thames, and he walks from his room in Nonsuch Palace, through the private gallery to my rooms with only two pages and Doctor Butts to accompany him. Nan warns me that he is on his way, and I seat myself at the fireside reading, beautifully dressed in my best nightgown and with my hair in a plait under a dark net.

The pages tap on the door, the guards throw it open, Doctor Butts bows low at the threshold, and the king enters. I rise from my seat at the fireside and curtsey.

“I am so glad to see you, my lord husband.”

“It’s about time,” he says shortly. “I did not marry you to spend my nights alone.”

From the shuttered expression on Doctor Butts’s face I guess that he advised the king against struggling through the passages to my room, and staying here. Without speaking he goes to the table before the fireplace and prepares a draft for the king.

“Is that a sleeping draft?” Henry demands irritably. “I don’t want one. I haven’t come here to sleep, you fool.”

“Your Majesty should not overexert—”

“I’m not going to.”

“This is just to keep your fever down,” the doctor replies. “You are heated, Your Majesty. You will heat up the queen’s bed.”

He strikes just the right note. Henry chuckles. “Should you like me in your bed instead of a warming pan, Kateryn?”

“You are a much warmer bedfellow than Joan Denny,” I smile. “She has cold feet. I shall be glad to have you in my bed, my lord.”