The duke bows, smiling. “I am afraid to say that she is not an admirer of Thomas Seymour,” he says. I grit my teeth in irritation at his sneering tone. “I think she is not confident of his beliefs.”

This is to imply he is a heretic. “Your Majesty...” I start.

The duke dares to speak over me. I break off as I realize that he thinks he can interrupt me—the Queen of England—and that no one has challenged him.

“The Seymours are all famously in favor of reforming the church,” Norfolk says, hissing the “s” through his missing front tooth like the snake that he is. “From Lady Anne in the queen’s rooms, to his lordship Edward. They’re all very intent on their scholarship and their reading. They think they can instruct us all. I’m sure we should be grateful, but my daughter is more traditional. She likes to worship in the church that Your Majesty has established. She seeks no change except as you command.” He pauses. His dark eyes flicker downwards as if he might manage to squeeze out a tear in memory of his son-in-law. “And she loved Henry Fitzroy with a true heart—we all did. She cannot bear another man in his place.”

The mention of his bastard son trips the king into sentimental memory. “Ah, don’t speak of him,” he says. “I can’t bear to think of my loss. The most beautiful boy!”

“I can’t see Thomas Seymour taking our beloved Fitzroy’s place,” the duke says scathingly. “It would be a mockery.”

With mounting rage I hear the old man insult Thomas, and I see that no one says a word to defend him.

“No, he’s not the man our boy would have been,” the king agrees. “Nobody could be.”

* * *

Nicholas Throckmorton, my cousin, comes back from Newgate with good news of Anne Askew. She has many supporters in the city of London, and warm clothes, books, and money have been arriving hourly to her little room. She is certain to be released. The importance of her late father and the wealth of her husband count in her favor. She has preached before some of the greatest citizens of London and the city fathers, and she herself has done nothing worse than say what thousands of other people think. There is a general belief that the king has acted only to frighten the more vocal supporters of reform into silence, and that they will all, like Tom Howard, like George Blagge, be quietly released over the next few days.

“Can you talk to the king?” Nicholas asks me. “Ask for a pardon for her?”

“He’s in a difficult mood,” I confess. “And the churchmen are always with him.”

“But he has definitely turned to our side?”

“All his recent decisions are in favor of reform but he is equally irritable with everyone.”

“Can you not advise him as you used to do?”