IN MY ROOM I read Hugh’s letter. Apparently Emperor Charles had decided to curb the independence of the Flanders cities: ‘There have been arrests of many reformist citizens here, and in other places in Flanders, and there are like to be imprisonments and burnings. Certain English and other foreigners have crossed into Germany.’ I wondered if Bale was among them, Anne Askew’s book hidden in his luggage. Probably; he must have become used to moving quickly since he fled England after the fall of his patron Cromwell. This would surely delay the publication of Anne Askew’s writings now.
The letter continued: ‘Many in the English merchant community are worried, and I fear if the atmosphere in the city changes for the worse I, too, may consider going to Germany.’
I sighed; I thought my ward had found a safe haven, but it seemed not. I remembered that it was over Hugh’s wardship case that I had first crossed swords with Vincent Dyrick. Thoughts of Dyrick led me to Isabel; what would happen to her, now that the whole weight of what she had done – and Edward’s death – lay upon her? I remembered her frantic, deranged slashing at the painting she had fought for so single-mindedly. On an impulse, I sat down, took up quill and ink, and wrote a note to Guy:
I have not seen you since I visited that poor man at St Bartholomew’s, but you have been in my thoughts. There is a woman I represented in a case – a sad family matter – who is now in great travail of soul. She is of the old faith, and I asked her lawyer to arrange for her priest to see her, but I am anxious how she fares. If you have time, perhaps you might visit her. I think perhaps you could comfort her.
I added Isabel’s name and address, signed the note ‘your loving friend’, and sanded and sealed it. There, I thought, he will see I do not cavil at religious counselling being offered to one of the old beliefs, and he might even be able to do something for Isabel, though I feared her mind was broken now.
ON THE MORNING of Monday 23rd I dressed in my finery again and went down to the stables. Today’s ceremony was to welcome d’Annebault to Hampton Court. It was to take place three miles from the palace, beside the river, and the admiral was to be greeted by little Prince Edward. It was the boy’s first public occasion. Those of us coming from the city had to ride out there, but it was some consolation to me that during the occasion we would remain on horseback. I had gone to be shaved yesterday and my cheeks were smooth: Blower would not be able to make remarks at my stubble today.
I had asked Martin to tell Timothy to ensure Genesis was well rubbed down, and his mane tied in plaits. When I entered the stable I was pleased to see the boy had done a good job. He did not look me in the eye as he placed the mounting block beside the horse. As I slid my feet into the stirrups, though, he looked up and smiled nervously, showing the gap where his two front teeth had been punched out when he was still an orphaned urchin, before I took him in.
‘Master,’ he said nervously. ‘You said you would talk to me again about – about the burned books.’
‘Yes, Timothy. But not now. I am due at an important occasion.’
He grasped the reins. ‘Only – sir, it must have been Martin who told people about the books; I wouldn’t have, yet Martin is still in his place, and he was sharp as ever with me last night.’ He reddened and his voice rose a little. ‘Sir, it isn’t fair, I meant no harm.’
I took a deep breath, then said, ‘I have kept Martin on for my own private reasons.’ Then I burst out, ‘And what he did pains me less than your spying. I trusted you, Timothy, and you let me down.’ Tears filled the boy’s eyes and I spoke more calmly. ‘I will speak to you tomorrow, Timothy. Tomorrow.’