“Those afflicted with pride and vanity,” said Lord Coke, observing me closely, “easily fall prey to the greater sins of which you stand accused.”

“It is a crime to wear a hat now?” I snapped, my composure gone. “What poor Weston has been forced to say is no concern of mine. I will not confess to crimes I know not of.”

Weston lifted his eyes to mine for a moment. I saw in them not defeat, or fear, nor even resentment, but admiration for my steadfastness in the face of a bully.

At a nod from Coke, the guard wrested Weston to the door. I ran forward, ignoring Coke’s shouts, and raised Weston’s hands to my lips. I kissed them gently as he looked into my eyes with such deep sadness that my guilt felt too vast for my body to carry. I knew that even after this torture, Howard heavies would visit Weston and “press” him to remain silent at his trial, by threatening his beloved son, William. It was my fault. I had thrust him, unwilling, into Frankie’s world, and for most of the time he had tried to drag me out. The guard wrenched him from me and the door was closed.

How had this happened? Why had Frankie and Carr not secured my release, and Weston’s too? I looked around for somewhere I could sit; there was nowhere. Was Frankie also being questioned? I felt almost mad with knowing nothing.

“What have you to say?” Coke asked me.

“I must beg you grant bail for the sake of my children.”

Coke looked up to the ceiling as if there lay patience.

“Very well, Mistress Turner. Petition me for bail. I shall refuse it. Let us see if your friends are in a position to overrule me. Alderman Smith? Has Mistress Turner received any messages?”

“This gentleman is spy as well as jailer?”

“Several notes from her children whose distress at her absence is genuine,” he said with a note of kindness that undid me worse than Coke’s aggression. “They are in the apartments of the Countess of Somerset and—”

“Mistress Turner’s children are not my concern,” interrupted Coke. “Other messages?”

“Several from the Countess of Somerset.” Coke nodded at him. The man pulled a letter from a leather satchel and unrolled it. “This latest says, ‘My dearest soul, be of good cheer, you shall want for nothing…’”

“That is addressed to me,” I said.