Tombland

But Protector Somerset had promptly launched a massive war against Scotland, hoping the growing number of Scottish Protestants would support him, and that the marriage of the six-year-old Mary, Queen of Scots to King Edward would take place, uniting the kingdoms. He had built a series of forts in the new Italian style which he believed unassailable, throughout the Scottish lowlands and up as far as the River Tay. But the Scotch had resisted everywhere; the forts, poorly built, had been taken one by one, while Mary herself had been sent to France, Scotland’s ally, which had also provided troops. Although the war was a disaster, the Protector refused to accept defeat, and was said to be planning yet another campaign even while his soldiers in the remaining forts were deserting for lack of pay.

I dropped a coin into the cap of yet another beggar shivering against a wall. The man was missing a leg, probably a veteran of the wars. The Protector made much of his claims to be a friend to the poor, and blamed the economic problems on the illegal enclosures of rural manors by landlords, and the turning of tenants off their land to make way for the more profitable sheep. There had been rebellions in Hertfordshire the previous year, and remedies were promised.

I walked downhill, the great spire of St Paul’s Cathedral starkly outlined against the cold blue sky. I was reminded of how, when the cathedral’s great rood screen had been taken down, two workmen had been killed, which religious traditionalists had said was a punishment from God. For religious change, greater by far than under King Henry, was convulsing the country. Under the Protector, Protestant radicals were now firmly in charge. Images were being removed from the churches, wall paintings whitewashed. The chantries where prayers were said for the dead had been abolished and their revenues appropriated to the Crown. And soon there would be a new prayer book in English. It was said that in it the Mass – with the belief that the priest turned the wafer and wine into the actual blood and body of Christ – would be replaced by a Communion commemorating Christ’s sacrifice – a view punishable by burning to death only three years before. I shuddered at the memory of the execution of Anne Askew at Smithfield, which I had been forced to witness.

I entered Knightrider Street and arrived at Parry’s chambers, kicking the snow from my boots before entering the building. To my surprise, the outer office was empty, so I went in and knocked on Parry’s door. A voice called me to enter. I went in, then almost staggered back with surprise. The chair behind the broad desk was occupied, not by the stout figure of Thomas Parry, but by a thin, grey-haired man in black silk robes, the gold chain of the Lord Chancellor of England round his neck. Lord Richard Rich, my oldest enemy. Standing behind him I saw, with almost equal surprise, the spare brown-bearded figure of William Cecil. I had worked with Cecil three years ago, when he was employed by Catherine Parr. His rise since then had been very fast. Not yet thirty, he was one of the Protector’s senior secretaries, already a powerful man. When I worked with him before, he had been a friend. But even then I knew that he put his own success, and the Protestant cause, before anything else. And now he was in company with Rich. I looked at him. Cecil’s protuberant grey eyes fixed on mine, but he said nothing as Rich sat studying me, wolfishly.

Taken utterly by surprise, I blinked, and asked, ‘Where is Master Parry?’

‘In the Tower,’ answered Rich, in a voice as icy as the weather.

I stared at him. He continued, in severe, accusatory tones, his eyes never leaving my face. ‘As is the Lady Elizabeth’s chief gentlewoman Kat Ashley, and sundry others, accused of conspiring treason with Lord Thomas Seymour. The Lady Elizabeth herself is under interrogation by Sir Robert Tyrwhit at Hatfield.’

My heart pounded. Grasping the back of a chair with a trembling hand to steady myself, I asked, ‘Of what treason is Seymour accused?’

Rich smiled and turned to Cecil. ‘See, Master Secretary, he is unmanned now all is discovered.’ Cecil continued to stare at me impassively. Rich leaned forward over Parry’s desk, clasping his long fingers together. His voice deepened with indignation.