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other side of the room. The page must have decided to flee rather than chase me down.
    â€œAre those drops of blood on the floor?” exclaimed the young man. “Are you wounded?”
    â€œNo, it’s his blood,” I said. “I bit his hand. Quite hard.”
    The young man looked at me, his lip curling with distaste as I tucked the loosened strands of black hair back into my hood. “What were you doing with one of His Majesty’s pages?” he said. “Was this some kind of assignation?”
    â€œIt was not . He said he was leading me to the master of the king’s wardrobe. I have a summons. I am expected this week.”
    He snorted. “The wardrobe master in this part of the palace? This is for equipment. I was seeing to the work on a new jousting lance when I heard you. Very well, what was his name?”
    â€œHe never said.”
    The young man sighed. “You’re telling me that a royal page led a woman he didn’t know to a room in Whitehall for a bit of frolic? Do you know how carefully trained these pages are? I should know, for I served as a page in His Majesty’s service myself.”
    â€œHe didn’t want a frolic,” I said. “He wanted to hurt me.” My voice caught. “I think he wanted to kill me.”
    â€œKill a woman he didn’t even know?” His voice again rose in disbelief.
    â€œHe knew who I was,” I said. “He used my name in this hallway, moments ago.”
    Something gnawed at me, some source of confusion, but before I could sort it out, the young man found my summons, on the floor of the room where I was attacked, and read it. “This summons is signed by Cromwell,” he said, turning somber. “You are Joanna Stafford, the daughter of Sir Richard Stafford—you are related to the third Duke of Buckingham?”
    â€œMy uncle.”
    â€œAh, so the Earl of Surrey is your cousin,” he exclaimed.
    â€œCorrect,” I said, rather surprised my family connections were this widely known. My cousin, Elizabeth Stafford, married the Duke of Norfolk, and their eldest son was indeed the Earl of Surrey, a poet and soldier and someone who had acted as a friend to me.
    â€œI apologize for disbelieving anything you said,” he said. His eyes traveled up and down my clothing. “In my defense, you’re hardly dressed for court.”
    I sighed. “I am aware of that.”
    â€œI don’t have much time—I must make my way to Westminster Hall—but I will take you to the sergeant-in-arms to make report. He will launch a thorough inquiry, believe me. The palace will be turned upside-down. He will find this criminal. And the matter will be addressed by the lord steward, perhaps even the chamberlain himself. The king will be made aware. This is one of his most particular rules, that there be no violence within the boundaries of the court.”
    â€œNo, I don’t want that,” I said. “I don’t want that sort of attention.” I had no idea where such an inquiry would lead, and I kept too many dangerous secrets to risk it.
    The young man said, “You can’t just proceed to the keeper of the wardrobe now, after this. The page—he could be searching for you. That would be the first place he’d look. Or do you think he was too deranged by violence to seek you out?”
    I said slowly, “His actions were deranged, but in words he did not seem so. No, he seemed very . . . calm.”
    â€œAll the worse, if he is able to conceal his vile nature behind a gentle manner,” he declared. “We must find this page, and be sure he is punished.”
    I rubbed my temples, trying to think.
    â€œDo you just want to go home?” he asked, gently.
    My attacker knew who I was, so he could easily find me in Dartford, where I lived, defenseless. How could I press suit to my cousin, Lord Henry Stafford, for the return of Arthur, when violence