“Hannah, are you better now?” The words were kind but her eyes were dead, she was trapped in her own world of grief. One of her ladies bent and straightened the train behind her but she did not turn her head, it was as if she did not feel it.

“I am better, but I have been much distressed by a letter which came to me this day,” I said. The strain on my white face supported my story. “My father is ill, near to death, and I would like to go to him.”

“Is he in London?”

“In Calais, Your Grace. He has a shop in Calais, and lives with my betrothed and his family.”

She nodded. “You can go to him, of course. And come back when he is well again, Hannah. You can go to the Household Exchequer and get your wages to date, you will need money.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” I felt my throat tighten at the thought of her kindness to me when I was running from her. But then I remembered the cinders which were always warm at Smithfield and the woman with the bloody hands in St. Paul’s, and I kept my eyes down, and held my peace.

She reached out to me and I knelt and kissed her fingers. For the last time, her gentle touch came on my head. “God bless you, Hannah, and keep you safe,” she said warmly, not knowing that it was her own trusted cardinal and his inquiry which was making me tremble as I knelt before her.

The queen stepped back and I rose to my feet. “Come back to me soon,” she commanded.

“As soon as I can.”

“When will you set out?” she asked.

“At dawn tomorrow,” I said.

“Then God speed and safe return,” she said with all her old sweetness. She gave me a weary little smile as she went to the double doors and they threw them open for her, and then she went out, her head high, her face drained, her eyes dark with sadness, to face the court which no longer respected her though they would bow as she walked in and eat well and drink deep at her cost.

I did not wait for dawn. As soon as I heard the court settle to their dinner, I put on my dark green livery, my new riding boots, my cape and my cap. I took my little knapsack from my box and put in it the missal the queen had once given me, and the wages I had from the Exchequer, in their little purse. I owned nothing else, not even after three years of service at court – I had not lined my pockets as I could have done.

I crept down the side stairs and hesitated at the entrance to the great hall. I could hear the familiar sound of the household at dinner, the buzz of conversation and the occasional shout of laughter, the higher voices of the women seated at the far end of the hall, the scrape of knife on trencher, the clink of bottle on cup. They were the sounds of my life for the past three years, I could not believe that this was no longer my home, my haven. I could not believe that this was increasingly the most dangerous place for me to be.

I closed my eyes for a moment, longing for the gift of Sight, that I might know what I should do for my own safety. But it was not the Sight that decided me, it was my oldest fear. Someone had burned something in the kitchen and the scent of scorched meat suddenly blew into the hall with a running servant. For a moment I was not at the queen’s dinner hall, smelling roasted meat, I was in the town square of Aragon, and the scent of a burning woman was making the air stink as she screamed in horror at the sight of her own blackening legs.

I turned on my heel and dashed out of the door, careless of who saw me. I headed for the river, as my quickest and least noticeable route into the city. I went down to the landing stage and waited for a boat to come by.

I had forgotten the fears of Mary’s court, now that the Spanish were openly hated and Mary had lost the love of her people. There were four soldiers on the landing stage and another dozen of them on guard along the riverbank. I had to smile and pretend I was sneaking out for a secret meeting with a lover.

“But what’s your fancy?” one of the young soldiers jeered. “Dressed like a boy but a voice like a maid? How d’you choose, my pet? What sort of a thing d’you like?”

I was spared having to find an answer by a boat swinging across the current and bringing a group of London citizens to court.

“Are we too late? Is she still dining?” a fat woman at the front of the boat demanded as they helped her on to the landing stage.

“She’s still dining,” I said.

“Under the canopy of state and all?” she specified.

“As she should be,” I confirmed.

She smiled with satisfaction. “I’ve never seen it before, though I’ve often promised myself the pleasure of seeing her,” she said. “Do we just walk in?”

“There is the entrance to the great hall,” I directed her. “There are soldiers on the door but they will let you and your family pass. May I take your boat? I want to go to the city.”

She waved the boatman away. “But come back for us,” she said to him.

I stepped into the rocking boat and waited till we were out of earshot before directing him to the steps at The Fleet. I did not want the court guards to know where I was going.

Once again I came down the road to our shop at a reluctant dawdle. I wanted to see that the place was untouched before I approached it. Suddenly, I came to an abrupt standstill. To my horror, as I turned the corner I could see that it had been broken and entered. The door was thrown wide open, the dark entrance was lit with a flickering light as two men, three men moved about inside. Outside waited a great wagon with two horses. The men were taking away great barrels of goods, I recognized the packed manuscripts that we had stored away when my father left, and I knew they would be evidence enough to hang me twice over.

I shrank back into a dark doorway and pulled my cap down low over my face. If they had found the barrels of manuscripts then they would also have found the boxes of forbidden books. We would be named as purveyors of heresy. There would be a price on our heads. I had better turn and head back for the river and get myself on a ship to Calais as soon as I could, for my father and I were baked meats if we were found in London.

I was just about to slide backward into the alley when one of the shadows inside the shop came out with a big box and loaded it into the back of the wagon. I paused, waiting for him to go back into the shop and leave the street clear for me to make my escape when something about him made me pause. Something about the profile was familiar, the scholar’s bend of the shoulders, the thinness of his frame below his worn cape.

I felt my heart thud with hope and fear but I did not step out until I was sure. Then the two other men came out, carrying a well-wrapped piece of the printing press. The man in front was our next-door neighbor, and the man carrying the other end was my betrothed, Daniel. At once I realized that they were packing up the shop and we were not yet discovered.

“Father! My father!” I cried out softly, and sprang from the dark doorway into the shadowy street.

His head jerked up at the sound of my voice and his arms opened wide. I was in his embrace in a moment, feeling his warm strong arms wrapped around me, hugging me as if he would never let me go again.

“Hannah, my daughter, my girl,” he said, kissing the top of my head. “Hannah, my daughter, mi querida!”

I looked up into his face, worn and older than I remembered, and saw him too tracing my features. We both spoke at once:

“I got your letter, are you in danger?”

“Father, are you well? I am so glad…”

We laughed. “Tell me first,” he said. “Are you in danger? We have come for you.”

I shook my head. “Thank God,” I said. “They arrested me for heresy, but I was released.”

At my words, he glanced quickly around. I thought anyone in England would have known him for a Jew now, that furtive ever-guilty glance of the People with no home and no welcome among strangers.