‘Disloyalty,’ I murmured.
‘Quite so. The Queen could have been in trouble there and then. For several days he considered arresting her. But then your hunt for the book, and Rich’s for Anne Askew’s writings, caught his attention and he ordered me to let the matter play itself out, although of course those Anabaptists had to die.’
‘Curdy was your spy.’
‘Yes. And when the allegations from that Slanning woman came before me, I decided you should be brought before the Privy Council, so I could see for myself whether there might indeed be a chance you were a heretic.’
‘So we were all moved like puppets,’ I said bitterly.
‘Be grateful that you were. That allowed time for Bertano’s mission to fail, and the King’s mind to turn finally and decisively against the conservatives.’
I looked at his slab of a face and thought, you enjoy all this; you would side with radicals or conservatives alike to keep your position. Another of those great men in the middle, bending with the wind.
Paget spoke again, his voice stern now. ‘Of course, you will forget everything that was said in there, not least what the King let slip about authorizing strong measures against Anne Askew.’
I took a deep breath. ‘Of course, Master Secretary.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘And you heard what the King said. Make sure he has no more trouble from you. Do not cross me again, either. And now, fetch your boy; then get out of here. And, as the King said, never, ever, return.’
Chapter Fifty-three
PAGET BECKONED A GUARD, then without further word led the way back through the King’s Gallery, then to the Presence Chamber. He crossed the room to speak briefly with one of the guards standing there. I looked again at the Holbein mural, the King in his prime; the swagger, the square hard face, the ferocious little eyes and mouth. The candlelight caught Jane Seymour’s face, too: demure, placid. Paget returned with the guard. ‘Take him to the boy, then get them both out of the palace. Quickly.’ And then Master Secretary turned and walked away, without so much as a nod or a backward glance, his long black robe swishing round his legs. He was done with me. The mind of the King’s Master of Practices had probably already returned to its coils of conspiracy.
Nicholas was crouched in the corner of a small, bare receiving room, his long arms folded round his bent knees. When he stood I saw spots of blood on his doublet. Barak’s blood. ‘Come, Nicholas,’ I said quietly. ‘We are free, but we must go quickly.’
The guard led us along the dark corridors to the Guard Chamber, then down the stairs again, across the cobbled court, and through the gates. As soon as we were out in the street Nicholas said, ‘I thought we were undone.’
‘I, too. But I think we are safe, so long as we never come here again.’ I looked upwards at the Holbein Gate and its windows, wondering if the King were watching. I turned away hastily; it was dangerous now even to glance in that direction.
‘Stice and his men, are they – ?’
‘Free as air,’ I answered bitterly, looking at him. His face looked haunted. ‘But do not ask me to tell you more, ever.’
He ran a hand through his red hair, then gave a little choking laugh. ‘I was told before I came to London how magnificent the royal palaces were. And I have seen for myself, it is true. And yet – fear and death stalk there, even more than in the rest of the world.’
I smiled with desperate sadness. ‘I see you are beginning to learn.’
‘In there – I felt it.’ He gulped. ‘What now? What of – Jack?’
‘We must go back to get him at once,’ I said, though I was terrified of what we would find there.
WE REACHED THE LANE near an hour later, the clocks striking one shortly before we arrived. It was easy to find the place. I half-ran to the rubbish heap, full of dread at what I might see, then drew up abruptly. Barak’s body was gone.
‘Where is he?’ Nicholas asked in astonishment. ‘He couldn’t have – got up?’
‘That would have been impossible. Someone has taken him.’ I looked frantically round the darkness of the lane, but there was nothing to be seen.
‘But where?’
I thought hard. ‘If someone found him, they might have taken him to St Bartholomew’s. It is hard by. Come, we will go there first.’
We arrived at the hospital ten minutes later: Nicholas had had not only to accommodate his long stride to my own, but almost to run. The doors were closed, but a porter answered our knock, holding up a lamp. I spoke urgently. ‘We wish to ask whether a man was brought here tonight. He had a sword wound to the body and – he had lost his hand.’
The man’s eyes narrowed. ‘Was it you that left him there? A man so wounded, left on a dungheap?’
‘No, it was not us, we are his friends.’
‘Old Francis Sybrant found him, and brought him in.’