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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.
    “I 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.
    “Never 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 in a sordid attempt to procure my cousin Margaret Bulmer for the king’s bed. I could still see his reaction so clearly: his lower lip trembling as he glared at me, his obvious desire to tear me limb from limb, thwarted only by the presence of so many potential witnesses surrounding us.
    “This is not over,” the Duke of Norfolk had whispered, his black eyes murderous, before leaving me behind on Tower Hill.
    It was a desperate gamble, to threaten the duke like that, and with a letter that did not even exist. His despicable procuring was real; he was known for his shoving of young women into the king’s bed. But I had no written proof of what he’d done to Margaret. It was the only thing I could think of, the only weapon that a powerless woman could wield against the senior nobleman of the kingdom. But now, should I come before the duke, I shuddered to contemplate his reaction.
    It was just another reason why coming to Whitehall today was an astoundingly risky decision.
    Culpepper, fortunately, led me to the far end of Westminster Hall, away from the crowd. We hurried to a narrow door, easy for someone like me to miss, but plainly my new friend was an expert of the court and all of its buildings.
    Inside was a narrow passage sparsely occupied. At the far end, I could hear the low rumble of many men’s voices. That must be the large hall where the commons and lords convened. As Culpepper had promised, the room in question was discreet. Inside was a dustychair by the narrow slit of a window and, on the other side, far from the light, a plain bench.
    “What is the room for?” I asked as I stepped inside.
    Culpepper shrugged.