I have to wait for long months in silence, guarding my tongue, afraid even to write to my own ambassador for news, imprisoned in anxiety. In the end I hear from Paris, in a letter that has been opened and read by others, that Norfolk is arrested and will be charged with treason.

Last time he was in the Tower it was Cecil himself who argued that the duke was imprudent but not treasonous and had him released to his London house. But this time it is all different. Cecil is leading the duke’s accusers and has the duke and all his household under arrest. Undoubtedly the servants will be tortured and they will either confess the truth or make up lies to escape the pain. If Cecil is determined that the duke will face a charge of treason, then he will find the evidence to prove it, and the luck of the Howards will turn bad in this generation, as it has done so often before.

There is worse news on the second page. Bishop John Lesley, my faithful friend who chose exile in my service rather than his comfortable palace at home, is a broken man. He has turned up in Paris resolved to live the rest of his days as an exile in France. He will say nothing of what took place in England nor why he is now in France. He is dumb. The gossip is that he turned his coat and told Cecil everything. I cannot believe it: I have to read and reread the report but it assures me that John Lesley has abandoned my cause and gave the evidence which will condemn Norfolk. They say that Lesley told Cecil everything he knew, and of course, he knew everything. He knew all about Ridolfi—why, he was the joint author of the plot. The world now believes that the duke, the banker, the bishop, and I sent a mission around Europe begging the French, the Spanish, and the Pope to assassinate Elizabeth and to attack England. The world knows that I chose as my conspirators a braggart, a weakling, and a fool. That I am a fool myself.

Shrewsbury will never forgive me for dishonoring my parole with him, for lying to Cecil, to Morton, to him. He has hardly spoken to me since that day in the garden when he said I had broken my word and his heart. I have tried to speak to him but he turns away; I have put my hand on his but he quietly withdraws. He looks ill and tired but he says nothing to me of his health. He says nothing to me of anything anymore.