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apart from the yard, a grand tent had been erected, where a throng of men was standing around, buzzing like bees around a honey pot. Or perhaps vultures around their carrion would be a better comparison, Bridget thought, surprising herself with her cynicism. The court environment was already having its effect on her.

    Bridget scanned the crowd but saw no one she knew. Feeling like a fish out of water, she looked in frustration to Joanna for help. “Do you know any of these men?” she asked desperately.
    “Yes, but only a little,” Joanna answered. “You must remember, Bridget that I had visited the court before you and I joined the queen’s household. The abbess brought me with her when she was asking, or rather pleading, with Master Secretary Cromwell to save the abbey. That is him over there,” she said, pointing out a squat man, all in black, who was hovering outside the tent flap. He had a young man with him who drew Bridget’s eye.

    The young man was tall, possibly scraping six feet, a fact which caused him to tower over all the others who were hanging about. He had golden-brown hair and a smooth face, with just a hint of boyishness. He appeared to observe the scene before him with an unruffled calm, perhaps even a hint of amusement, as a parent sometimes looked at a slightly maddening child. He stayed close to Cromwell, and had to incline his head considerably to catch what he was saying. Bridget saw that the latter barely opened his mouth when he spoke, the words, in consequence, seeming to spill out the sides.

    “Since you know the Master Secretary,” Bridget said, “we will ask him and that young man he is speaking to what is going on.”
    “Bridget, Thomas Cromwell is not the kind of man you just walk up to!” Joanna answered, but Bridget stubbornly ignored her friend’s protest. She had made up her mind, and the two men watched her fast approach with obvious curiosity.

    Bridget bobbed a curtsey and smiled to hide her nerves. “Master Secretary Cromwell, young sir,” she began, looking at each man. “I am Bridget Manning, maid of honour to the queen, and this is . . .”
    “Yes,” Thomas Cromwell interrupted silkily. “I know who you are, Mistress Manning. Additions to the queen’s household are always of interest to me, and of course I already know your young colleague here, Mistress De Brett. Tell me, how does the abbess these days?”

    Joanna looked amazed that Cromwell had spoken to her, and she stammered a little in her response. “Sh-she is well, sir, thank you for asking.”
    Cromwell smiled, exhibiting a set of small, even teeth, and looked genuinely pleased. “I am glad to hear it. A most capable woman is the Abbess Joan. Wasted in the church really, like so many people of talent are. My young friend here, Master Redcliff, once considered going into the church before I managed to talk him round. He was meant for greater things. Isn’t that right, Will?”

    The young man, now identified as Will Redcliff, merely smiled and looked a little bashful. Cromwell laughed and clapped him once on the back. “I fear I have embarrassed him and in front of such pretty young ladies too! My apologies, Will, you have a most inconsiderate master.” He turned from his servant and all amusement fled from his face. His expression hardened. His dark eyes fixed on Bridget, and she quaked a little inside. He had the most intelligent, searching eyes she had ever seen, even more so than the abbess’s or Anne’s, and they were both formidable personages in their own right. But this man, this square-shaped block of a man, fairly radiated both intellect and power. He had clasped his hands before him and Bridget glanced at them. She noticed how big and rough they were, the hands of a labourer, not a courtier. This man was no pampered gentleman, born to a life of softness. No, this man was a brawler, a scrapper, a street fighter. A survivor.

    “Have a care, young lady,” Cromwell said softly, his eyes