“And the authors have published what they think is their truth,” he replies evenly.

“Didn’t you commission the book?” I demand, knowing that he did.

“No,” he lies. “And those who are associated with it will suffer. The queen has issued a warrant of arrest for your uncle John Grey; for John Hales, the author; for Robert Beale, his clerk; for Edward Seymour’s stepfather, Francis Newdigate. Even for Nicholas Bacon, the lord keeper, who gave his opinion in favor of your sister.”

I go cold with shock. “My uncle arrested? The lord keeper arrested? But what about Katherine?” I clasp my hands on his sleeve. “Oh, Sir Robert! They’re not taking her back to the Tower, are they?”

“No.”

“But where is she to go, if my uncle is taken from his home? Are they leaving her there with Lady Grey? Or is she released? Oh, Sir Robert, is she released?”

“No.” He straightens up. “Lady Mary, I have to leave about Her Majesty’s business. I have to send out guards to arrest these men for questioning.”

I look up the long handsome length of him. “You, arrest them? You, who had nothing to do with the book, now arrest them?”

“Yes,” he says concisely. “As the queen commands me to do.”

There is no point complaining that he always does whatever the queen wants, that he never opposes her. You don’t get to be a favorite at a tyrant’s court without beheading your principles every day. All I can do is to try to keep him on Katherine’s side.

“Sir Robert, this is cruel to my sister and to her little boys. They have done nothing. She has done nothing. Someone else commissioned this book—perhaps even friends of yours—but she did not. Someone wrote it—not her. Someone published it—not her. Can’t you ask for her to be free? Even if you have to arrest these others?”

He shakes his dark head. “The queen won’t listen to me about this,” he says. “She won’t listen to anyone. She has the right to grant pardon only where it pleases her.”

“Margaret Douglas our cousin has been forgiven for far worse!”

“That is Her Majesty’s decision. It is within her power.”

“I know that!” I say. “She is—”

He throws his hand up to remind me that he cannot hear anything that is critical of the woman who rules us both.

“She is determined,” I continue, and as he turns and goes I whisper to myself: “Determined to be vile.”

* * *

I am at the gatehouse with Thomas Keyes, who is watching the gate and the guard on duty from the little window, when I hear the clatter of horses, and Thomas says: “That’s your sister’s advocate, under arrest, poor fellow.”