I have a wry smile on my face. “Ah, George,” I say. “You would lure me with vanity, but neither the king nor any man in England wants to be taught by a woman, not even a queen. And the king’s grandmother was above criticism. I will publish these as you suggest, and I shall get great happiness from knowing that the bishop’s psalms translated by me and my ladies into English may guide men and women to the king’s church. But it must be for the glory of the bishop and the glory of the king. I think it better for all of us if they come without my name emblazoned on the cover, like a boast. We are all safer if we don’t advertise our beliefs.”

“The king loves you. Surely he would be proud...” George starts to argue when there is a tap on the door. At once he shuffles the pages out of the way as Catherine Brandon comes in, drops me a curtsey, smiles at George, and says: “The king is asking for you, Your Majesty.”

I get to my feet. “He is coming here?”

She shakes her head but does not answer. George at once understands that she does not want to explain before him. He gathers up the papers. “I shall take these, as we agreed,” he says, and I nod as he leaves.

“His leg has gone bad,” Catherine says quietly, as soon as the door is closed behind my almoner. “My lord husband warned me, and then sent a messenger to say that the king would see you this morning in his private rooms.”

“Am I to go to him without being seen?” I ask. There are interconnecting rooms between the king’s and the queen’s sides at Whitehall. I can either process through the great hall with everyone observing that I am visiting my husband, or I can go through to his wing by our shared gallery with only a lady in attendance.

“Discreetly.” She nods. “He doesn’t want anyone to know that he has taken to his bed.”

She leads the way. Catherine has been in and out of the royal palaces since childhood. She was the daughter of Katherine of Aragon’s most favored lady-in-waiting, María de Salinas, and is the wife of Henry’s great friend Charles Brandon. She was brought up as an expert way finder around palaces, avoiding wrong turnings and malicious courtiers alike. It is not the first time that I feel like a provincial nobody trailing behind one of the exclusive few, born and bred to this court.

“Are his physicians with him?”

“Doctor Butts and Doctor Owen, and his apothecary is making up a draft to ease the pain. But it is very bad this time. I don’t think I have seen him worse.”

“Did he knock it? Has it broken open?”