I am glad to hear you are well-provided for.
I appreciate your kind words, but I have recently been reminded that I have not been as generous as I should have been. Most specifically, I have gravely wronged you, not once but many times. Apologies if my bluntness causes you pain, or reminds you of days you would wish to forget. It is time to write openly of what I have done, so that I may begin at last to attempt amends.
Long ago I refused you my respect, my trust and my attention, so that you could not feel it safe to confide in me or rely upon me as a wife should on her husband. I gave you no opportunity to plead your case before me. I assumed, in my blindness, that I knew the truth and there was nothing you could say to me. I welcomed your departure as a burden removed from my shoulders, and never thought to ask how you must feel, forced out of your rightful home into the enclosure of the cloister. Most grievously, when I and my court sought shelter in the north, I did not ask whether you would take refuge with us. I left you where you were, thinking not of your wishes, but of my own.
I cannot undo these things now, although I may wish I had not done them. I cannot beg your forgiveness, as I have not earned it, nor do I know any way I may earn it in the future. I can only admit to you that I know that I have injured you, and surrender myself to your will for me.
Your obedient servant,
Arthur of Britain.