I cling to the cold cup, my hands covering hers. “Nan! Nan!”

“Hush. You’re awake now. You’re safe now.”

“I dreamed of Anne.” I am still choking as if the smoke were still burning my lungs.

“God bless her and keep her,” Nan says instantly. “What did you dream?”

Already the horrific clarity of the dream is fading from me. “I thought I saw her... I thought I saw the rack...”

“There’s no rack in Newgate,” Nan says, firmly practical. “And she’s not a common traitor to be racked. They don’t torture women, and she is a gentleman’s daughter. Her father served the king, no one can lay a hand on her. You just had a bad dream. It means nothing.”

“They wouldn’t rack her?” I clear my throat.

“Of course not,” Nan says. “Many of them knew her father, and her husband is a wealthy yeoman. They’ll hold her for a couple of days, hoping to give her a fright, and then send her home to that poor husband of hers, like they did before.”

“She won’t stand trial?”

“Of course they’ll say that she must face a jury and threaten her with a guilty verdict. But they’ll send her home to her husband and tell him to beat her. Nobody is going to torture a lady with a noble father and a wealthy husband. Nobody is going to send a woman as argumentative as that into a public courtroom.”

* * *

Despite Nan’s words I can’t sleep, and next morning I have my maids pinch my cheeks and powder me with rouge to try to make me look less haggard. I must not resemble a woman sleepless with fear, and I know that the court is watching. Everyone knows that my woman preacher is in Newgate Prison today; I have to appear completely indifferent. I lead my ladies to chapel and then to breakfast as if we are in good spirits, and the king himself, wheeled in his chariot, meets me at the door to the great hall. There, to my amazement, bounding through the great front doors, is George Blagge, like Lazarus up from the grave, released from prison, fat and cheerful as ever, a man accused of heresy but galloping into the king’s presence like a friend returned from an adventure.

Stephen Gardiner has a face like thunder. Behind him Sir Richard Rich scowls as this man, thrown into prison for nothing worse than attending the sermons in my rooms, kneels before the king and looks up to show him a beaming face.

“Pig! My pig!” cries the king, laughing and leaning forward in his chair to pull him to his feet. “Is it you? Are you safe?”

George snorts in his joy, and at once Will Somers triumphantly snorts in reply as if a herd of swine were celebrating George’s return. The king roars with laughter; even William Paget hides a smile.