The Taming of the Queen

I will have to write with care, always aware that my rivals at court will read it and use it against me if they can; but I am driven to tell the truth as I see it. I am going to call this new work The Lamentation of a Sinner as an echo of the title of a book by another learned lady, Margaret of Navarre, who wrote Mirror of the Sinful Soul. She had the courage to write and publish under her own name, and some day so will I. She was accused of heresy but it did not stop her thinking and writing, and I will not stop either. I will make it clear that the only forgiveness of sins, and the only way to heaven, is through personal faith and a complete commitment to Christ. The lie of purgatory, the nonsense of the chantries, the superstitions of indulgences, pilgrimages, Masses – none of these mean anything to God. They have all been created by man to make money. All that God requires of us was explained by His Son in the precious gospels. We do not need the long explanations of scholars, we do not need the magic and tricks of the monks. We need the Word. Nothing but the Word.

I am the sinner of the title, though my greatest sin I keep concealed. In my daily life I sin in my constant love for Thomas. His face comes to me when I am dreaming and when I am waking and – worst of all – when I am praying and should have my mind on the cross. The only thing that comforts me for sacrificing him is the knowledge that I have given him up so that I can do God’s work. I have given him for my soul, for the souls of all Christians in England that they may pray in a true church. I have surrendered the great love of my life for God, and I will bring reformed religion into England so that my suffering is worthwhile.

I pray for him; I fear he is in constant danger. His ships are commanded to take his brother, Edward, as the new commander, and reinforcements to Boulogne, and I have a long night of vigil when I think that Thomas may attack the French fleet, within the very reach of their shore guns, to clear the seas for his brother’s safety. I go down in the morning, white-faced, to see Edward Seymour leave. He is leading his men down to Portsmouth to take ship.

‘Godspeed,’ I say to him miserably. I cannot send him with a message for Thomas. I cannot even name him, not even to his brother. ‘I shall pray for you and for all in your company,’ I say. ‘I wish you very well.’

He bows. He turns and kisses his wife, Anne, goodbye and then he mounts his horse, wheels it around and salutes us all, as if he were a hero in a portrait, and leads his men out, south down the muddy lanes to Portsmouth and over the rough seas, stormy with spring gales, to France.

For several weeks we wait for news from Boulogne. We hear that they have landed safely and are preparing to engage the French forces. We are on the brink of war again with Edward commanding on land and Thomas at sea, but then the king decides that he is not yet ready to fight the French, and orders them all back. He says that John Dudley and Edward Seymour must meet with the French envoys and write a treaty of peace.

I don’t think of the small English force trying to defend Boulogne. I don’t even think of the fleet on the dark seas with the high spring tides. I just think that my prayers have been answered by a caring God, a God that loves Thomas for his bright courage as I do. God has saved Thomas Seymour because I prayed for him with all my heart, with my sinful, sorry heart, and I go to the chapel and gaze up at the cross and thank God that there will be no war and death has missed Thomas once again.

WHITEHALL PALACE, LONDON, SPRING 1546

I am seated at my table, books all around me, ink drying on the nib of my quill as I try to find the right thing to say, how to express the concept of obedience to God, which is such a central part of the God-given duty of a woman, when Princess Mary comes into the room and curtseys to me. The ladies of my court look up. Each of us has a book or some writing – we could be posing for a drawing of a godly company – but all of us are alerted by Princess Mary’s grave face and the way she comes to my table and says quietly: ‘May I speak with Your Majesty?’

‘Of course, Princess Mary,’ I say formally. ‘Will you sit?’

She draws up a stool to the table and sits at the head of it so that she can lean towards me and speak very quietly. My sister, Nan, always ready to protect me from trouble, says, ‘Why don’t you read to us, Princess Elizabeth?’ and Elizabeth stands at the lectern, puts her book on it and offers to translate extempore from Latin to English.

I see Mary’s doting smile at her clever little sister and then she turns back to me and her face is grave. ‘Did you know that my father has proposed a match for me?’ she asks.

‘Not that he was ready to go ahead,’ I say. ‘He spoke to me some time ago only of a marriage that might come. Who is it?’

‘I thought you might know. I am to marry the heir of the Elector.’