Of course, she was raised a Lutheran, though who knows what she believes now? Certainly, she has never written anything of note.

“The king is a great scholar of the Bible,” I say, choosing my words carefully.

“We make progress,” Nan assures her. “We really do.”

* * *

That night at dinner I sit on one side of the king, Anne of Cleves on my right hand, honored before the court as the king’s sister—as he chooses to call her. I make sure I am smiling as if I am without any care in the world, while beside me I hear him eat, grunt, belch, pant, and eat again. I have become ridiculously sensitive to the noise of him dining; no music can drown it out, no conversation can distract me. I hear the snuffle that he makes when he is tipping a bowl to drink the juices of the meat, the crack of the bones of little birds in his strong jaws, and the loud sucking on sweetmeats and sugar. He makes another noise when he drinks his wine, great gulps and then a sort of pant into the bowl of the wineglass as he catches his breath, as if he is swimming and drinking the lake. I turn my head and speak to Anne of Cleves; I smile down the table at Princess Elizabeth. Catherine Brandon dips her head coquettishly as the king sends down a special dish to her, and Nan glances at me as if to ensure that I have noticed this. I look around the court, at all the people serving themselves onto their heaped plates, snapping their fingers for the servers to bring them more and more wine, and I think: this court has become a monster that is devouring itself, a dragon that eats its own tail for greed.

I am afraid of the cost of keeping this bloated household, the thousands of servants to run after the hundreds of lords, their ladies, their horses, their dogs. It is not that I am cautious—I was raised to run a noble household; I don’t like anything mean—but this is extravagance and luxury fueled by the destruction of the churches. Only the wealth of a thousand years of the church could pay for this excess. It is as if the court is a great clockwork toy, with a gear and a great wheel that takes in holy wealth and throws out dross every hour, every minute, just as the king will feast now but will vomit later, or strain in pain on the closestool, clinging to Anthony Denny’s extended hand and calling for Doctor Wendy to administer an enema to purge him.