Martin came out of the dining room, a letter in his hand, his manner deferential as usual. ‘This came while you were out, sir.’

‘Thank you.’ I recognized Hugh Curteys’s handwriting. Martin said quietly, ‘Sir, is there any more news concerning – that matter? About my going to that house?’ Though his face remained expressionless, I saw the signs of strain about his narrowed mouth and eyes.

‘No, Martin,’ I replied coldly. ‘I will let you know as soon as I have instructions.’

‘Will it be soon?’

‘I hope so. I do not know. I will tell you as soon as I do. You brought this on yourself,’ I added.

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.