I’d not been able to do likewise.

He finally came to me. “Would you care to take a respite of your continuous merrymaking, my lady?” he teased. Though I should have to repent of it later, I was well pleased to hear a suggestion of possessiveness in his voice.

“I would rest a spell and keep company with you, Will Ogilvy,” I said, having not a care for the Jane Rochfords of this world, who were certainly training their eyes upon us. I was safe within Anne’s, and the king’s, circlet of protection.

Will smiled, his eyelids crinkling with real pleasure, throwing off for a moment the shadows that dogged them. He took my hand, and I melted with the familiar, most welcome touch of it as he led me to a table well within the public gaze but without the focus of attention.

We made merry talk for a while and I shared, quietly, how he had pleased me through the gift of the New Testament, and how I had grown and changed because of it. “’Tis a good thing you are not often here,” I said. “I may be prepared to spar with you again—and win!” I brought up a passage I found, mayhap cumbersomely translated, and wondered of his opinion. He smiled and shared a thought, but his heart seemed heavy. I knew why.

I thought mayhap he would suggest meeting me in the gardens on the morrow. Instead, he said, “I would like to speak with you privately too. Can you come to my chambers later this night?”

My face must have shown my surprise.

“’Tis all honorable,” he was quick to reassure me.

At that, I laughed. “I do not think that you have ever had a dishonorable intent, Will Ogilvy, however much I should have liked to have discovered one and held it against you for blackmail or to make my own mixed motives appear more seemly.”

He smiled back. “Oh, lady, then mayhap you do not know me as well as you think.” His eyes drew me in with their sense of familiarity and I blushed. “I am thus trapped and cannot decide whether to disabuse you of your false, but flattering, notions or let you continue to entertain them and envision me as heroic.” He leaned closer to me and whispered, “In any case, I shall stay here for another hour, and if you can disentangle yourself without being noticed, meet me in my quarters.” He explained to me where he would be chambered and that he would leave a small slip of paper peeping out from under his door so I would know that it was the right one.

I made light conversation with some others, danced a few songs, and then slipped away. Although my gown was tight enough to bruise my rib cage and my feet begged to escape their tight slippers, pride won, and I remained in my fine dress. I soon found his chambers and, after looking about me to ensure that I had not been followed, knocked lightly.

He opened the door and allowed me in. Although we’d already greeted one another earlier he drew near to me and gently kissed each cheek. Though his family was highborn his rooms were only two, a sleeping chamber and a greeting chamber, where we sat. He had modestly closed the door to the sleeping chamber. “Please,” he said, pointing to the most comfortable chair next to the fire, and then handed me a small cup of wine. He sat down next to me and I couldn’t help but let my thoughts wander to what it might have been like had we been able to sit together of an evening, every evening, and exchange thoughts on the day and other pleasantries.

“Will, I must confess something,” I said. “I spoke indiscreetly about you. My brother wanted me to marry Baron Blackston, Simon, and I was about to. But there were things that frightened me.” I explained to him about the sleeping draughts, and the temper, and my fear that I myself could end up at the mercy of Simon’s London physic should I become inconvenient someday. “And so I admitted to still…. caring for you. Though I assured him nothing improper was between us he was disinclined to believe it. I fear it may call your reputation into question.”

He nodded. “I know of the matter. Rose told me in an effort to blacken your name because she wanted the baron for Charlotte. You’ve done nothing wrong. I am glad you are out of his grasp.”

Relief swelled within me and I let a few tears slip down my face. “I could not have lived with your ill opinion of me.”

He reached over and tenderly wiped the tears from my cheek. “There is nothing and no one who could ever compel me to hold an ill opinion of you, Meg,” he said. His voice was rough and he took a care to keep a distance between us. “And now, there is something I’d like to speak of to you.”

I nodded and sipped my wine.

“As you well know, I’ve been serving the merchants in Antwerp as chaplain. But I’ve also done some translating, and have been of late helping to get Tyndale’s copy of the New Testament printed in England, to save shipping fees and the danger of import, so it might be more widely distributed.”

I nodded. “’Tis noble work.”

He hung his head. “I am afraid I am not so noble. Because of my father’s rank and title I felt that I was well able to prevail upon those who are better funded to provide money for the presses here in London. I also felt myself to be a fine judge of good character. Only I was mistaken. Lord Abney had indicated an interest in our work and, blinded by pride, I invited him to a meeting. I wanted to show all that I had powerful connections as well as bring good to the cause.”

“I thought Abney was a strong conservative,” I said. “He has no use for English Bibles.”

“’Tis true,” Will said. “Only he professed otherwise and I was so eager to get his goodwill and fortune that I disclosed too much to him. He arrived at the meeting, took note of all who were there, and reported back to Cromwell.”

“Oh,” I said, horrified. “But surely Cromwell, as a reformer, took their case.”

“Cromwell may be a reformer, but he is also the holder of the king’s purse strings and a lawyer, a man building his own fortunes. ’Tis illegal to run the presses for Scripture in English. ’Tis illegal to print without paying tax, but how can one pay tax on that which is illegal?”

I nodded and sipped my wine. “What happened?”

He let his head drop into his hands. “Cromwell savagely enforced the law. All lost their positions, and Chelsey’s presses were confiscated, as were all of his materials and receipts, leaving his family penniless and without means to support themselves.” His voice broke at the end.

“’Tis not your fault,” I said, reaching over to take hold of his arm. “We are all righteous and yet still sinners.” I quoted Luther’s famous saying, heard often at reformist meetings.

Will took his head from his hands and looked at me. “I suspect I am more sinner than righteous. A good man has lost his means because of me. His family is broken. As I have taken vows of poverty and have little means, I have asked my father to reimburse Chelsey. My father has refused.”

“I’m sorry,” I said quietly. “What can I do?”

He looked me in the eye. “You can advise me if I should leave the priesthood or not. I fear that I am more man than priest, more proud than humble”—he looked away and finished—“more flesh than spirit, sometimes. I tire with the struggle and yet know not what to do. I trust you. I value your opinion. I need your counsel. I have no one else to ask who considers both my needs and our Lord’s. My other friends will invariably favor one side or the other. Not you.”

My head and heart throbbed. Was he really asking me to tell him whether or not to leave the priesthood? Sitting here, alone, in his chambers? I, unmarried and in favor with the king, and Anne ripe with the son who would not only deliver the kingdom but my dowry in just a few months?

“That’s not a decision I can make,” I said. Though I’d like to.

“I ask you not to make the decision. I ask you to offer counsel,” he said. “Will you pray about it and meet me tomorrow night and share your thoughts?”

I nodded. He leaned over and rested his head heavily on my shoulder. I looked wistfully at the beckoning thick brown locks but obediently kept my hands at my sides. It put me in mind of Saint Paul’s letter to the Galatians wherein he exhorts Christians to bear one another’s burdens. I would gladly do so if ’twere Will’s burdens I could carry.

Shortly after, I slipped back to my room and the next morn I thought through my dilemma. Anne’s coronation was too public of an event for me to miss anything at all, and she was always surrounded by ladies, or His Majesty, so there was no way for me to even talk with her about my situation. I loved my sister, Alice, but she would not be a help here because, I knew, she would always take our Lord’s part, but I had to consider both. Afore dinner I rested in my room and took out the New Testament. I opened it up and it fell open to Romans 8 because of the wreath. I glanced down at the verse I’d looked at so many times, lately with fulfillment and joy; my eye was drawn directly to it. This time, though, the verse brought me not comfort but pain. I sat there till I was certain I had an answer that did right by our Lord and Will. ’Twas just as well he hadn’t asked me to consider my own needs along with theirs or my answer might have been quite different. Once certain, I gathered the dried wreath of daisies into a small silken pouch and went to meet Will.

I passed the Duchess of Norfolk in the hallway. “My lady Duchess,” I said politely. She grunted at me, chewed out a command to her lady servant, and swished away. Not yet dinnertime and she smelt of soured wine.

When I was certain the hallway was empty I knocked quietly on Will’s door. He opened it up and let me in. He was casually dressed in a dark brown riding outfit and never, ever looked finer to mine eyes. The injustice of it all screamed inside me and I held my inner tongue lest I lash out at God and undo what years of tight weaving of faith and circumstance had accomplished to close the breach between us.