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man who waited personally on the king, entrusted to dress him and sleep in his bedchamber at night, knew anything about me.
    More somberly, Culpepper said, “You fear the king? Is it because you are a Stafford, and your uncle the Duke of Buckingham was executed for treason? I know that your family is not in favor, that the fortune is gone. That is perhaps why your dress is humble, why no family members accompany you, nor even a servant—why, indeed, you find yourself seeking a commission to weave?” I drew back, surprised. It was a more perceptive analysis than I’d given him credit for.
    Culpepper’s voice softened. “I know what it is like to be worried about losing everything, Mistress Stafford. The king favors me, yes, but what is here today may vanish in a fortnight. And I would then be no better than my brother, whose hand is always out for coins and advantages. What must sustain us is . . . true friendship. I told you God’s truth when I said that a relation of the Earl of Surrey would be awarded my every courtesy. If Surrey were at Whitehall, I would take you to him. But, in his absence, I shall help you however I can.”
    These were heartfelt words, and, looking into his clear browneyes, I knew, without a doubt, that Thomas Culpepper would not harm me. I also knew that he deserved a measure of honesty in return. It was a gamble, but I took the plunge.
    â€œMy Stafford birth puts me out of favor,” I said, “but also, I was once a novice at the Dominican Order of sisters in Dartford, now dissolved. That is, I assume, another mark against me, sir.”
    Culpepper showed no disapproval but nodded. “If you were pledged to a priory, I can see why the elevation of Cromwell would disturb you.”
    To that I was silent. Criticism of Cromwell was highly dangerous. He was a man alert to threat and aggressive to protect himself. When, over a year ago, he’d seen me at the tragic execution of Henry Courtenay and Baron Montagu on Tower Hill, he’d made it his business to learn more about me, which inaugurated a frightening period of surveillance.
    â€œI wager that half the nobles will watch today’s proceeding with anger in their heart,” continued Culpepper. “But no man could ever be of more value to the king than Thomas Cromwell.”
    There was an edge to his voice, and I wondered if this gentleman of the privy chamber shared such anger. But I was careful to betray none of my own hatred of Cromwell.
    Culpepper led me into the palace, up some stairs and then, to my surprise, we were outside and atop the gatehouse, walking across it to a manicured walkway that paralleled the street where petitioners still swarmed. It would not do for the courtiers to walk on the same street as the unfavored to the Great Hall and the abbey.
    My heartbeat quickened when a man wearing a red doublet swerved in front of us on the walkway. Before I could say a word, Culpepper grabbed him by the arm. But the man who whirled around to face us was . . . barely a man. A red-haired page of perhaps sixteen gaped at us.
    â€œNever mind, lad, be about your business,” Culpepper said, and we continued to Westminster Hall, walking so quickly that it was but a beat short of running.
    The instant we reached it, I spotted a doublet that plunged meinto a different sort of panic. In front of the main entrance to Westminster Hall milled groups of men, and among them were at least three wearing black doublets sporting golden lions, meaning they were retainers of the House of Howard. The Earl of Surrey was my friend, but his father, Thomas Howard, the third Duke of Norfolk, was my sworn enemy.
    As I nervously scanned the crowd for a slight but vigorous man with graying hair, I remembered my last encounter with the duke, on Tower Hill, the same horrific day I came to the notice of Cromwell. To break free of Norfolk’s control, I had threatened him with a letter revealing his role