“I have books,” said Thomasin, seeing a way to distract him. “Come to my chamber.”
She led Sadler across the hall, to the little bedroom at the back of the house that overlooked the gardens. “I share this with Ellen, my cousin, when we visit. And here, I keep a few books: poetry, a few romances and legends, the tales of King Arthur, the movements of the stars. That is all: nothing that might cause offence.”
“Are there any letters hereabout, Thomasin?”
“None that I know of. Why has Father been arrested?” She looked Sadler straight in the eye. “You are a good man, I believe. You worked with my Venetian friend Nico once; you helped him. You cannot believe this is right.”
“I believe that my master believes it to be right.”
“And that is enough for you? You are happy to blindly follow orders, even when they are clearly mistaken?”
“I am happy to follow the king’s orders without question. As we all must. My master derives his authority from the king.”
“And the king knows that your master has imprisoned one of his oldest friends?”
“The king does not take kindly to being questioned by the servants of his servants. You should be careful, Thomasin. Keep your peace and do not be seen to be questioning his authority, then it will all be resolved sooner. I will leave you in peace.”
“And what about my father, and his peace?”
“I cannot untie that knot for you, even though I wish I could.”
A man’s voice called Sadler from below. He hurried down the stairs and Thomasin followed him, her heart in her mouth.
A guard was holding up a sheaf of letters. “To the Abbot of Guisnes, Pale of Calais,” he read aloud.
“What are these?” Sadler snatched the papers.
“Sir Richard’s innocent correspondence with an old friend,” said Sir Matthew, “nothing more. Read them for yourself. Calais is English — there is no crime in writing to a friend in England, is there?”
“It depends upon the letters’ contents. Calais is well placed to entertain rebels and plotters.”
“But the king is on friendly terms with Francis. Read them and see. It is merely news, nothing more.”
“We shall see.” Sadler tucked the letters into a leather packet.
“When shall we hear about Sir Richard?” asked Sir Matthew.
“In due course. I can say nothing more. I recommend you stay at home and remain quiet. That is the best way to help this situation pass.”
“He is not…” Sir Matthew shot a glance at Thomasin, but decided to speak despite her presence. “He is not in any danger, is he?”
“I should hope not.”
“Is there nothing we can do?” Thomasin asked.
“Nothing more.”
They watched the carriage and horses pull away from the courtyard. A servant closed the great gates behind them and finally, peace descended upon Monk’s Place. It was only then that Thomasin felt a sob rise up her throat.
“I cannot understand,” she said, turning to her uncle, “how God allows this. How the king does. Why must bad things happen to good people?”
“That is the nature of our suffering as human beings,” said Sir Matthew, sighing. “The lack of answers is almost worse than the suffering itself.”
Thomasin nodded. “I will go back up and check on Mother. She is set to hurry off to the Tower, to ensure Father has all he needs.”
“Let us hope it does not come to that.”
About an hour later, when they had put Cecilia to bed with a warming spiced caudle, Thomasin and Lady Elizabeth heard the courtyard gates open again. Two horsemen rode up to the front door, dismounting amid the yapping of dogs.
