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Laughter.

“But in these perilous days, it is not so simple to distinguish. Our ancestors had only to be alert for snakes and rats. But in our sad days, alas—even Satan can disguise himself as an angel of light.

“That is a quotation from Scripture,” I continued. “That is just an example of how things have changed. For translated Scriptures abound, and any man might chance to read them—aye, read them, and misunderstand them!”

and1em">“Parliament has taken the Oath, and all the heads of London guilds,” I said. “When the weather breaks, then we shall send the commissioners to the rest of the realm.”

“It will be June before Northumberland and the Marches are accessible,” he said. “You will have to rely on the Percys to protect the commissioners and smooth their task. The Percys ... a thorn in Your Grace’s palm. Henry can be trusted, but he’s dying, so they say.”

Anne’s Henry, her girlhood love. Dying? He was so young, Anne’s age.

“He was puny.” Crum—as always—answered my unspoken question. “The North did not agree with his delicate constitution—neither the climate nor the manners. He could thrive only in the softness of a court.”

But you made that impossible. Tactfully, he did not say it.

“The French court, more like.”

“Indeed. Where one could be—what was it ‘twas said about Caesar?—‘every man’s woman and every woman’s man.’ He evidently could not satisfy his wife. She left him and returned to her father’s home. Wretched creature, Percy. A decrepit boy.”

“So by August the Oaths should have been given, and received, in every reach of the realm.” Enough of Percy, of his dyings and inadequacies.

“Yes. The names of the loyal will be in our hands, also of the dissenters.”

“Then we shall have to decide how to deal with them.”

“Death is the penalty prescribed by law.”

Yes, the law was very clear on that. But executions . . . there had been no executions in England except for heinous, active treason, like the Duke of Buckingham’s, for thirteen years. (The Duke had intended to conceal a knife on his person and assassinate me during an audience.) But automatic executions for refusing to sign a paper?

“The sentences must be carried out, else no one will trust the law or believe Parliament can enforce what it passes,” Crum insisted.

“I pray that all may take it,” he added. “For their sakes, and ours.”

Was I duty-bound to try to warn those who might consider refusing? Those who might not realize that the time for temporizing had run out, that the law would show no mercy? It would be on my conscience if I did not.

Conscience? No, that was my excuse, a high-sounding one. The truth was that love—if I had love for these people—commanded me to do it.

Mary I had already gone to. Katherine I could not, as she was near Cambridgeshire, and travelling was impossible just now betwixt there and London. I could write her, advising her of the danger she was in.

More. Thomas More, in Chelsea, keeping to himself since he had resigned as Lord Chancellor. Writing his everlasting books, his letters, his devotions. The Bishops of Durham, Bath, and Winchester had sent him my twenty pounds to buy proper robes to come to London and attend Anne’s Coronation with them. He had declined the invitation, with an impertinent “parablesisteda little way into the water. Not only had it not been enlarged to accommodate larger vessels, but it had declined sadly from what it was. The planks were gamely mended, but still warped and sagging; the entire thing swayed under my weight.

Down at the watergate More was waiting, leaning against the wicket. He was as brown and plain as a wren, weathered like the planks of his decaying pier.

“Thomas!” I said, hoping not to betray my surprise at his appearance. “I have so looked forward to this time!” I motioned to my servitors, carrying the fitted box with its precious set of one-of-a-kind lenses, and the astrolabe swathed in velvet. “Now we shall catch her out—Dame Luna.”

He reached out his hand and grasped mine. “You are heartily welcome, Your