WE WALKED ALONG the Strand, under Temple Bar and down Fleet Street. It was afternoon now, and I was glad of the bread and cheese Tamasin had given me earlier. Nicholas’s natural walk was a fast lope, and I told him to slow down a little, reminding him that lawyers are men of dignity and should walk gravely. We crossed the Fleet Bridge, and I held my breath at the stink of the river. A rooting pig had fallen in and was thrashing about in the mud. Its owner stood knee-deep in the green, scummy water, trying to get it out.

We passed the Fleet Prison where, as always, the dirty hands of prisoners stretched through the bars seeking alms, for if no one brought them food, they starved. I thought of Anne Askew in Newgate, being brought money by the Queen’s ladies. From there she had gone to the Tower to be tortured, and then to the stake. I shuddered.

We went under the city wall at Ludgate, the great edifice of St Paul’s Cathedral ahead, its soaring wooden spire reaching five hundred feet into the blue sky. Nicholas looked at it with wonder. ‘No building so fine in Lincolnshire, eh?’ I said.

‘Lincoln Cathedral is beautiful, but I have only seen it twice. My father’s estate is down in the southwest of the county, near the Trent.’ I caught a bite of anger in the boy’s voice when he mentioned his father.

Beyond Ludgate, Bowyer Row was busy with trade. A butcher had set up a stall on which lay some stiff-looking, greenish meat. Prices were so high these days that stallholders could get away with selling rancid meat. To attract customers, he had set a live turkey in a cage at the end of his stall. People paused to stare at this extraordinary bird from the New World, like a gigantic chicken, with enormous brightly coloured wattles.

An elderly peddler approached us, his tray full of pamphlets newly purchased from the printers. He leered at us. ‘Buy my new-printed ballads, sirs. Full of naughty rhymes. The Milkmaid and the Stallion Boy, The Cardinal’s Maidservants.’ Nicholas laughed and I waved the man aside. Another peddler stood in a doorway, an old arrowbag full of canes over his shoulder. ‘Buy my fine jemmies!’ he called. ‘Buy my London tartars! Well soaked in brine! Teach wives and sons obedience!’

A group of seven or eight little children, ragged shoeless urchins, ran towards us. I had glimpsed the sharp knife one boy was carrying. ‘Cutpurses,’ I murmured to Nicholas. ‘Watch your money!’