“Kate, I want a learned, thoughtful people walking in the ways of God, not a pack of fearful fools plagued by witches and priests. All of Europe but the papal states are persuaded that this is the way to understand God. I want to be part of this. I want to advise them, I want England to lead them. And if the day ever comes, I want to leave you as a regent and my son as a king to reign over people who say prayers that they understand and take part in a Mass—in a Communion that makes sense to them, as Our Lord described—not some kind of mumpsimus-sumpsimus invented in Rome.”

“I think it too, I think it too!” I can no longer contain my enthusiasm.

He smiles at me. “We’ll bring the new learning, the new religion into England,” he says. “You will see this, even if I do not.”

WINDSOR CASTLE,

AUTUMN 1546

We go on progress after the French visit and the king is even able to hunt. He cannot walk, but his indomitable spirit drives him on and they lift him into the saddle, and once astride he can ride to hounds. At each of our beautiful palaces on the river they build a hide for him, equipped with bows and arrows, and drive the game towards him. Dozens of deer and many stags go down before the royal box, with arrows in their eyes and their faces ripped open. It is more intensely cruel than when we are in the open field. The king takes careful aim with the beautiful beast herded towards him, the animal goes down with a barb in its face and a hound tearing at its hindquarters. Henry is not troubled by the cold savagery of killing a trapped animal. He watches the huntsman cut the throat of a struggling beast with complete calm. Indeed, I almost think that the suffering pleases him. He watches the little black hooves kicking until they are still and then he gives a short laugh.

He is watching the death throes of some poor doe when he suddenly remarks, “What do you think of Thomas Seymour as a match for Princess Elizabeth? I know the Seymours would like it.”

I flinch, but he is not looking at me but at the glaze that is coming over the sloe-black eye of the wounded deer.

“Whatever you think best,” I say. “Of course, she is still young. She could be betrothed and stay with me until she is sixteen.”

“Do you think he would make her a good husband? He’s a handsome devil, isn’t he? Does she like him? Would he get a boy on her, d’you think? Is she eager for him?”

I hold my scented leather glove to my lips to hide the tremble that I can feel. “I can’t say. She’s very young still. She likes him well enough, as she should, as her half brother’s uncle. I think that he would make her a good husband. His courage cannot be questioned. What do you think, Your Majesty?”