I no longer had sympathies with either side in the religious quarrel, and sometimes doubted God’s very existence, but I had a history of association with reformers, and like most people this year I had kept my head down and my mouth shut.

I set out at eleven from my house, just up Chancery Lane from Lincoln’s Inn. Timothy had brought my good horse Genesis round to the front door and set out the mounting block. Timothy was thirteen now, growing taller, thin and gawky. I had sent my former servant boy, Simon, to be an apprentice in the spring, to give him a chance in life, and planned to do the same for Timothy when he reached fourteen.

‘Good morning, sir.’ He smiled his shy, gap-toothed grin, pushing a tangle of black hair from his forehead.

‘Good morning, lad. How goes it with you?’

‘Well, sir.’

‘You must be missing Simon.’

‘Yes, sir.’ He looked down, stirring a pebble with his foot. ‘But I manage.’

‘You manage well,’ I answered encouragingly. ‘But perhaps we should begin to think of an apprenticeship for you. Have you thought what you might wish to do in life?’

He stared at me, sudden alarm in his brown eyes. ‘No, sir – I – I thought I would stay here.’ He looked around, out at the roadway. He had always been a quiet boy, with none of Simon’s confidence, and I realized the thought of going out into the world scared him.

‘Well,’ I said soothingly, ‘there is no hurry.’ He looked relieved. ‘And now I must away – ’ I sighed – ‘to business.’

I RODE UNDER Temple Bar then turned up Gifford Street, which led to the open space of Smithfield. Many people were travelling in the same direction along the dusty way, some on horseback, most on foot, rich and poor, men, women and even a few children. Some, especially those in the dark clothes favoured by religious radicals, looked serious, others’ faces were blank, while some even wore the eager expression of people looking forward to a good entertainment. I had put on my white serjeant’s coif under my black cap, and began to sweat in the heat. I remembered with irritation that in the afternoon I had an appointment with my most difficult client, Isabel Slanning, whose case – a dispute with her brother over their mother’s Will – was among the silliest and costliest I had ever encountered.

I passed two young apprentices in their blue doublets and caps. ‘Why must they have it at midday?’ I overheard one grumble. ‘There won’t be any shade.’

‘Don’t know. Some rule, I suppose. The hotter for good Mistress Askew. She’ll have a warm arse before the day’s done, eh?’