He must travel back to Oxford, taking a circuitous route, to tell Lady Margaret that he had failed. She had moved to the King’s capital, preferring other Royalists about her to refuge in the Parliamentary house of her son-in-law, and Simon Perilly knew how desperately she wanted Campion’s freedom. To Lady Margaret, Campion’s survival would be a blow against her enemies. Yet she would be disappointed.

He called on one last friend in London, a man he had known since Cambridge, and a man he knew would not betray him. Luke Condign was a lawyer, but of no use to Perilly, for he worked to the Commons. His office was in Westminster itself and it was there, in the very heart of the enemy stronghold, that Perilly found Condign. The lawyer was gloomy. “There’s nothing to be done, Simon, nothing.”

“It’s so unfair. So unfair.”

Condign shrugged. He doubted there could be smoke without fire, but he did not wish to disappoint his friend. “I’m sorry.”

“There is one thing you can do for me.”

Condign was wary. “Tell me.”

“Can I send a message to her? I suppose it’s hopeless trying to see her.”

“Not unless you want to take her place, my friend.” Condign smiled. “Yes, I can get a message to her.” Each evening an official bag of papers went to the Tower. Some were letters to embassies abroad, sent from the Tower wharf, while others were orders for the movement of armaments from the Tower’s armory. A few were letters to prisoners. “You know they’ll read it? They won’t give her anything which they see as unfriendly to Parliament.”

“I know.” Simon Perilly took the offered paper and ink. He sighed, thought, then wrote swiftly, “Toby is well, recovering the use of his arm. He is in Oxford at Lord Tallis’s house. All there pray for you.” He wondered briefly whether he should put down that they would meet in heaven, but decided it might be inappropriate. “Be strong in the Lord.” He signed it, sanded the ink, then pushed it to his friend.

Condign nodded. “They should allow that. You know that my Lords Fleet and Atheldene pleaded for her?”

“I know.” Lady Margaret had written to her friends and acquaintances, begging help.

Luke Condign sighed. “Strange days, my friend, strange days. There was a time when the Commons beseeched the help of these Lords, but now?” He shrugged again. “You’ll sup with us tonight? Grace will be delighted to see you.”

“Of course.” The Reverend Simon Perilly had done his duty. He had done all he could, and the rest was up to Sir John Henge.

Judge Sir John Henge, tyrant of lawyers, groaned with the pain of the stone that he refused to let the doctors cut out.

The trial, he reflected, had been more tiresome than he expected. Caleb Higbed, forever smiling ingratiatingly and bobbing up and down like a pigeon, had been overlong. At least the prisoner had not had a lawyer, but that had not stopped her making protests at the proceedings. He had growled her into silence.