But I make sure that I say nothing. Only when the conversation turns to Cranmer’s liturgy do I speak to defend the reform version. Thomas Cranmer was commissioned by the king to translate the Latin into English. The king himself worked on it, and I sat at his side and read and reread the English version, compared it to the old Latin original, checked it for copying errors when it came back from the printers, wrote my own translations. In a low voice I suggest that Cranmer’s work is adequate and should be used in every church in the land; but then I get stirred and argue that it is more than adequate, it is beautiful, it is even holy. The king smiles and nods as if he agrees with me, and I am emboldened. I say that people should be free to speak directly to God in church, their contact with God should not be mediated through a priest, should not be undertaken in a language that they cannot understand. As the king is father to his people, so God is father to him. The line between king and people is just like the communion between people and God; it should be clear and open and direct. How else shall there be an honorable king? How else shall there be a loving God?

I know in my heart that this is true; I know that the king believes it too. He has gone so far to drive popery and paganism out of this country, to bring his people to true understanding. I forget to sweeten every sentence with praise of him as I speak earnestly and passionately, and then I realize that his face has grown dark with ill temper and Stephen Gardiner is looking down, hiding a smile, not meeting my bright eyes. I have spoken too passionately, too cleverly. Nobody likes a clever, passionate woman.

I try to retreat. “Perhaps you are tired. I will say good night.”

“I am tired,” he agrees. “I am tired, and I am old, and it is a fine thing in my old days that I should be taught by my wife.”

I curtsey very low, leaning forward so that he can see down the top of my gown. I feel his eyes on my breasts and I say: “I could never teach you, Your Majesty. You are so much wiser than I.”

“All of this I have heard before,” he says irritably. “I have had wives before, who thought they knew better than me.”

I flush. “I am sure not one ever loved you as much as I do,” I whisper, and I bend and kiss his cheek.

I hesitate at the smell of him: the stink of his rotting leg, like decaying meat, the sweet sickly smell of old sweat on old skin, the bad breath from his mouth, his constipated flatulence. I hold my breath and I lay my cool cheek against his hot damp face. “God bless Your Majesty, my lord husband,” I say gently. “And give you good night.”