“Oh, they will all go!” the king says. “Be very sure of that! The Seymours, the Howards, the Dudleys, every single one of them. Your brother will earn his new title and ride at my side. But I shall be at the head of the army. They shall see my standard go out and they will see it enter Paris. We will reclaim our lands in France. I shall be King of France in truth.”

I clasp my hands together to keep them from trembling at the thought of Thomas Seymour going to war. “I’m afraid for you.”

He takes my hands. “Why, you’re icy! Are you so fearful?” He smiles. “Don’t be afraid, Kateryn. I shall come home safe. I shall ride to victory and come home triumphant. And you shall rule England in my absence. You will be regent, and should God require of me the greatest sacrifice”—he pauses and his voice quavers a little at the thought of my loss, of England’s loss—“should I be taken from you and from my army and from my country, then you will rule England for me until Edward is a man.”

God forgive me, the first thing I think is that if England loses its king then I will be free to marry, and Thomas will be free, and there is no one who could stop us. Then I think: I will be queen regent. Then I think: I will be the most powerful woman in the world.

“Don’t even say it.” I put my cold fingers to his little mouth. “I can’t think of it.” It is true. I really must not. I cannot allow myself to think of another man, as my husband leans back on the heaped pillows, the bed ropes creaking, and beckons me to come to him, his big pink face gleaming with sweat and anticipation.

He kisses my fingertips. “You shall see me return in triumph,” he promises me. “And I shall know that you are my faithful wife and helpmeet in every way.”

WHITEHALL PALACE, LONDON,

SPRING 1544

Bishop George Day comes to find me in my rooms, a roll of manuscript in his hand. “My clerk has completed the copying,” he says with triumph in his voice. “It’s done. It’s fair.”

He gives me the pages. For a moment I simply hold them, as if they were my newborn baby and I wanted to feel his weight. I have never borne a child, but I imagine I feel something of a mother’s pride. This is a new joy for me. This is the joy of scholarship. For long moments I don’t unfurl the pages; I know well enough what they are, I have waited for them.

“The psalms,” I whisper. “Bishop Fisher’s psalms.”