He bows. He turns and kisses his wife, Anne, good-bye and then he mounts his horse, wheels it around, and salutes us all, as if he were a hero in a portrait, and leads his men out, south down the muddy lanes to Portsmouth and over the rough seas, stormy with spring gales, to France.

* * *

For several weeks we wait for news from Boulogne. We hear that they have landed safely and are preparing to engage the French forces. We are on the brink of war again with Edward commanding on land and Thomas at sea, but then the king decides that he is not yet ready to fight the French, and orders them all back. He says that John Dudley and Edward Seymour must meet with the French envoys and write a treaty of peace.

I don’t think of the small English force trying to defend Boulogne. I don’t even think of the fleet on the dark seas with the high spring tides. I just think that my prayers have been answered by a caring God, a God that loves Thomas for his bright courage as I do. God has saved Thomas Seymour because I prayed for him with all my heart, with my sinful, sorry heart, and I go to the chapel and gaze up at the cross and thank God that there will be no war and death has missed Thomas once again.

WHITEHALL PALACE, LONDON,

SPRING 1546

I am seated at my table, books all around me, ink drying on the nib of my quill as I try to find the right thing to say, how to express the concept of obedience to God, which is such a central part of the God-given duty of a woman, when Princess Mary comes into the room and curtseys to me. The ladies of my court look up. Each of us has a book or some writing—we could be posing for a drawing of a godly company—but all of us are alerted by Princess Mary’s grave face and the way she comes to my table and says quietly: “May I speak with Your Majesty?”

“Of course, Princess Mary,” I say formally. “Will you sit?”

She draws up a stool to the table and sits at the head of it so that she can lean towards me and speak very quietly. My sister, Nan, always ready to protect me from trouble, says, “Why don’t you read to us, Princess Elizabeth?” and Elizabeth stands at the lectern, puts her book on it, and offers to translate extempore from Latin to English.

I see Mary’s doting smile at her clever little sister and then she turns back to me and her face is grave. “Did you know that my father has proposed a match for me?” she asks.

“Not that he was ready to go ahead,” I say. “He spoke to me some time ago only of a marriage that might come. Who is it?”