I will have to write with care, always aware that my rivals at court will read it and use it against me if they can; but I am driven to tell the truth as I see it. I am going to call this new work The Lamentation of a Sinner as an echo of the title of a book by another learned lady, Margaret of Navarre, who wrote Mirror of the Sinful Soul. She had the courage to write and publish under her own name, and someday so will I. She was accused of heresy but it did not stop her thinking and writing, and I will not stop either. I will make it clear that the only forgiveness of sins, and the only way to heaven, is through personal faith and a complete commitment to Christ. The lie of purgatory, the nonsense of the chantries, the superstitions of indulgences, pilgrimages, Masses—none of these mean anything to God. They have all been created by man to make money. All that God requires of us was explained by His Son in the precious Gospels. We do not need the long explanations of scholars, we do not need the magic and tricks of the monks. We need the Word. Nothing but the Word.

I am the sinner of the title, though my greatest sin I keep concealed. In my daily life I sin in my constant love for Thomas. His face comes to me when I am dreaming and when I am waking and—worst of all—when I am praying and should have my mind on the cross. The only thing that comforts me for sacrificing him is the knowledge that I have given him up so that I can do God’s work. I have given him for my soul, for the souls of all Christians in England that they may pray in a true church. I have surrendered the great love of my life for God, and I will bring reformed religion into England so that my suffering is worthwhile.

I pray for him; I fear he is in constant danger. His ships are commanded to take his brother, Edward, as the new commander, and reinforcements to Boulogne, and I have a long night of vigil when I think that Thomas may attack the French fleet, within the very reach of their shore guns, to clear the seas for his brother’s safety. I go down in the morning, white-faced, to see Edward Seymour leave. He is leading his men down to Portsmouth to take ship.

“Godspeed,” I say to him miserably. I cannot send him with a message for Thomas. I cannot even name him, not even to his brother. “I shall pray for you and for all in your company,” I say. “I wish you very well.”