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Essex.”

5

    M aster Culpepper was in a hurry to witness the elevation of Thomas Cromwell, but I was not.
    “You would not see the actual ceremony,” he said. “There will be no women present, certainly. I know Westminster Hall well, and there is a small room you can wait in, undisturbed. When the ceremony finishes, I will reclaim you.”
    “I do not want to be seen by any member of the king’s council.”
    Glancing again at my filthy kirtle, Culpepper said, “I can’t blame you for that.”
    I was content for him to believe that it was fashion which motivated me to steer clear of such men as Bishop Gardiner and the Duke of Norfolk.
    “If you can guarantee concealment, I will accompany you,” I said. “But are you certain that afterward we will be able learn the name of this page?”
    With great confidence, Culpepper assured me he would find a way. And so I followed him down the walkway past the gardens of Whitehall, toward Westminster Hall, struggling to keep up, since my hip and my shoulder throbbed.
    But what troubled me more was Master Culpepper’s popularity. While no one had spoken to the page who led me across the grounds to the room of my attack, every single person we passed on this walkway called out a salutation, or made a quick bow. Who was my young protector? I had come to harm by not exercising all caution. That practice must change.
    “A moment, sir?” I called out. “I must speak to you.”
    He swiveled around. “Could it be later, Mistress Stafford? The Great Hall is not directly connected to the residence, and I fear we have not much time.”
    “No,” I said, stopping. “It must be now.”
    Concern outweighed impatience, and Culpepper drew me off the walkway, to a path to the garden, presently chained.
    “I can see you are a respected courtier, but I must know your exact position here before I accept any further assistance,” I said, despising my awkward little speech.
    Master Culpepper took no offense, though. Drawing himself up with pride, he said, “I have the great fortune to be a gentleman of the privy chamber to His Majesty.” He scrutinized my face and then chuckled. “The minute most people discover that, I am buried in petitions and requests for favors, grants, if not marriage proposals. You look as if I’d just declared I were a rag-and-bone man.”
    As always, my face betrayed my feelings. I was indeed dismayed that a 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.
    “My 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