“I took the liberty of showing them to Nicholas Ridley,” he remarks, naming the great reformer and friend of Thomas Cranmer. “He was deeply moved. He said that this is as great a gift to the faithful Christians of England as the Bible that your husband the king gave them. He said that these will be spoken and sung in every church in England where the priest wants the people to understand the beauty of God as well as His wisdom. He said that if you will lead the court and the country to a true understanding you will be a new saint.”

“But not a martyr!” I say, cracking a weak joke. “So it can’t be known that I am the translator. My name, and the names of my ladies, especially Lady Mary and Lady Elizabeth, cannot be attached to it. The king’s daughters must never be mentioned. I will make many enemies at court if people know that I believe that psalms should be read in English.”

“I agree,” he says. “The papists would be quick to criticize, and you cannot risk Stephen Gardiner turning against you. So these will be known only as the bishop’s psalms. Nobody need know that it is your study and scholarship that has brought them into English. I have a very discreet printer. He knows that the manuscript comes from me, and that I serve you at court, but I have not told him the name of the author. He thinks highly of me—I must say, he thinks far too highly of me—for he imagines that I could have done this translation. I have denied it, but not so strongly that he is searching for another candidate. I think we can publish and you not own it. Except...”

“Except what?”

“I think it’s a pity,” he says frankly. “These are fine translations with the ear of a musician, the heart of a true believer, and the language of a serious writer. Anyone—I mean any man—would be proud to publish them under his own name. He would boast of them. It seems unfair that you have to deny that you have such a gift. The king’s grandmother collected translations and published them.”