The Taming of the Queen

‘You need never say one word of a lie to me,’ he promises me. ‘There shall never be anything but honesty between us. I don’t need you to say that you love me now. I don’t want any early promises, easy words. I need only to know that you care for me now, that you are glad to be my wife, and that you accept that you might love me in the future. I know that you will.’

‘I will,’ I say. I did not know that he would be like this as a husband. I never dreamed it. I have never had a husband who cared for me. It is an extraordinary sensation to have the devotion of a powerful man. It is extraordinary to feel this tremendous will, this burning concentration turned on me. ‘And love will grow, as you say, my lord.’

‘Love will grow, Henry,’ he prompts.

I kiss him, unasked. ‘Love will grow, Henry,’ I repeat.

I know that I have to understand more about the changes that my husband has brought to the church in England. I ask both Thomas Cranmer and Stephen Gardiner to recommend preachers who can come to my rooms and expound their views to me and to my ladies. By listening to both sides of the debate – the reformers and the traditionalists – I hope that I will understand the cause that divides the court and the country, and the careful route that Henry has so brilliantly traced between the two.

Every afternoon, as we sew, one of the priests attached to the king’s chapel, or a preacher from London, comes to my rooms and reads the Bible to us in English, and delivers a sermon explaining the passage. To my surprise, the task that I have undertaken as a duty becomes my favourite part of the day. I realise that I am a natural scholar. I have always loved to read and for the first time in my life I have time to do so and I am able to study with the greatest thinkers in the kingdom. I take an almost sensual delight in their work. They take a text from the Bible – the Great Bible that the king commanded should be translated into English so that everyone could study it – and they examine it word by word. It is like reading poetry, like studying the philosophers. The shades of meaning that arise and dissolve with translation, with the juxtaposition of one word against another, fascinate me, and then the way that the truth of God shines through, layer after layer like a sun through strips of cloud, as one wrestles with the words.

My ladies, all drawn to the reform of the church, are in the habit of going directly to the Bible rather than to a priest for their learning, and we form a little group of scholars, interrogating the visiting preachers and offering our own suggestions. Archbishop Cranmer says that we should keep a note of our discussions so that we can share them with the colleges and with other theologians. I feel absurdly flattered that he thinks our studies are worthy to be read by others, but he persuades me that we are part of a body of thinkers, sharing what we study. Since I find the sermons so illuminating, will others?

Everything must be scrutinised, everything must be considered. Even the translation of the Bible is a powerful controversy. The king gave the Bible in English to his people, putting a translated Bible into every parish church in the country. But – as the traditionalists point out – people did not read it reverently, they started to discuss passages and dispute meanings. What should have been a gift from the king to his grateful people became the centre of argument and so the king took the Bibles away, and now only noblemen may read them.

I cannot help but think this is wrong. In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God – surely it is the work of the church to bring the Word to the people? Surely it is the work of the church not to bring pictures and stained glass and candles and robes to the people but first, before everything, to bring the Word?

Lady Mary often comes from her own set of rooms to listen to the daily sermon in mine. Sometimes, I know, she fears that the priests stray too far from the teachings of the church; but her love of languages and her devotion to the Bible mean that she always comes back, and sometimes she will offer her own translation of a phrase, or challenge the preacher’s version. I admire her scholarship. She has had the best of teachers and her understanding of Latin and her subtlety of translation are quite beautiful. If she had not been frightened into silence, I think she might have been a poet. She laughs when I tell her this one day and says that we are so alike, we should be sisters rather than a stepmother and daughter – we are both women who love fine clothes and beautiful language.