We said little as we rode along Chick Lane, heading for the Inns of Court. Eventually Coleswyn broke the uneasy silence. ‘I spoke too freely of my private thoughts, Brother Shardlake. I know one must be careful.’

‘No matter,’ I answered. ‘Hard to keep one’s counsel when watching such a thing.’ I remembered his comment that any of us could come to this, and wondered whether he had links with the radicals. I changed the subject. ‘I am seeing my client Mistress Slanning this afternoon. There will be much for both of us to do before the case comes on in September.’

Coleswyn gave an ironic bark of laughter. ‘That there will.’ He gave me a look which showed his view of the case to be the same as mine.

We had reached Saffron Hill, where our ways divided if he were to go to Gray’s Inn and I to Lincoln’s Inn. I did not feel ready to go back to work yet. I said, ‘Will you come for a mug of beer, Brother?’

Coleswyn shook his head. ‘Thank you, but I could not. I will return to the Inn, try to lose myself in some work. God give you good morrow.’

‘And you, Brother.’

I watched him ride away, slumped a little over his horse. I rode down to Holborn, pulling off my cap and coif as I went.

I FOUND A QUIET INN by St Andrew’s Church; it would probably fill up when the crowds left Smithfield, but for now only a few old men sat at the tables. I bought a mug of beer and found a secluded corner. The ale was poor, cloudy stuff, a husk floating on the surface.

My mind turned, as it often did, to the Queen. I remembered when I had first met her, when she was still Lady Latimer. My feelings for her had not diminished. I told myself it was ridiculous, foolish, fantasy; I should find myself a woman of my own status before I grew too old. I hoped she possessed none of the books on the new forbidden list. The list was long – Luther, Tyndale, Coverdale, and of course John Bale, whose scurrilous new book about the old monks and nuns, Acts of the English Votaries, was circulating widely among the London apprentices. I had old copies of Tyndale and Coverdale myself; an amnesty for surrendering them expired in three weeks. Safer to burn them quietly in the garden, I thought.

A little group of men came in. ‘Glad to be out of that smell,’ one said.

‘’Tis better than the stink of Lutheranism,’ another growled.

‘Luther’s dead and buried, and Askew and the rest gone now too.’

‘There’s plenty more lurking in the shadows.’

‘Come on, have a drink. Have they any pies?’

I decided it was time to leave. I drained my mug and went outside. I had missed lunch, but the thought of food revolted me.