As we rode I sang to him, the Spanish songs of my childhood, and I was certain that he heard me. His little hand would wave in time to the music, he would give a little wriggle of pleasure when I started singing, but he never joined in the tune. He remained as silent as a leveret in hiding, as a fawn in the bracken.

The old palace at Hatfield had been the royal nursery for generations, chosen for its clean air and proximity to London. It was an old building, small-windowed and dark-beamed, and the men led the way to the front door so that Danny and I might dismount and go inside while they took the horses away to the ramshackle stable block at a little distance from the house.

There was no one in the hall to greet us but a boy bringing in logs for the fire which was kept going, even in midsummer. “They’re all in the garden,” he said. “Acting a play.”

His gesture directed me to a door at the rear of the hall and with Danny in my arms I opened it, followed the stone corridor to another door and then stepped out into the sunshine.

What playacting there had been was clearly over, and what was left was a romp. Veils of cloth of gold and silver and overturned chairs were scattered around the orchard, and Elizabeth’s ladies were running in all directions from a man in the center of the circle with a dark scarf over his face to blindfold him. As I watched he caught a flying skirt and drew a girl to him but she wriggled free and ran away laughing. They gathered around him and with much giggling and cooing they turned him round and round until he was dizzy and then they retreated. Again he dashed and lunged, while they ran this way and that, giggling with that heady mixture of girlish playfulness and female arousal. Among them, her red hair flying loose, her hood cast away, her face flushed and laughing, was the princess. She was not the Elizabeth I had seen white-faced with terror. She was not the princess I had seen bloated on her bed, sick to her very bones with fear. She was a princess coming into the midsummer of her life, coming into her womanhood, coming to the throne. She was a fairytale princess, beautiful, powerful, willful, infallible.

“Well, glory be,” I whispered to myself, as skeptical as any fool.

As I watched she tapped the blindfolded man on the shoulder and made to run back again. This time he was too quick for her. His hand flashed out, she sprang back just too slowly, he snatched her at the waist and though she struggled he held her close. He must have felt her panting against him. He must have smelled the perfume in her hair. He must have known her at once.

“I have caught you!” he called out. “Who is it?”

“You have to guess! You have to guess!” the ladies cried.

He ran his hand over her forehead, her hair, her nose, her lips. “A beauty,” he said certainly. He was rewarded by a gale of shocked laughter.

Impertinently, he let his hand stray down over her chin, down her neck, he took her throat in his hand. I saw the color flame into Elizabeth’s cheeks and I realized she was on fire with desire at his touch. She did not step back from him, she did not move to check him. She was ready to stand before him and let him finger her all over, watched by all her court.

I moved a little forward to see this man better, but the blindfold covered all of his face, I could see only his thick dark hair and the strong square shoulders. I thought I knew who this man was.

He held her firmly, and there was a little whisper almost of dismay from her ladies as he gripped her with one hand at the waist, and with the other traced the border of the neck of her gown, his fingertips brushing the tops of her breasts. Slowly, tantalizingly, he slid his hand down the front of her gown over the embroidered stomacher, past the girdle at her waist, over the thick skirt of her gown at the front as if he would pat her sex, shielded by petticoats, as if he would touch her like a whore. Still the princess did not stop him, still she did not step back from him. She stood stock-still pressed against this man with his one hand around her waist, pulling her close to him as if she were a loose-lived maid who would offer a squeeze and a kiss. She did not resist even when his hand went down the front of her gown, to her very crotch beneath her petticoats, and then round her back to take hold of her buttocks in his hand, then he slid his other hand down from her waist, so that he was embracing her, so that he had her arse in both hands, as if she were his own woman.

Elizabeth gave a little soft moan and twisted from his grip, almost falling back amongst her ladies. “Who was it? Who was it?” they chanted, relieved that she had freed herself from his embrace.

“I give up,” he said. “I cannot play some foolish game. I have touched the very curves of heaven.”

He pulled the blindfold from his eyes and I saw his face. His eyes met Elizabeth’s. He knew exactly who it had been in his arms, he had known from the moment he had caught her, as he had intended to do; as she had intended him to do. He had caressed her in front of all the court, caressed her as an accepted lover, and she had let him stroke her as if she were a whore. She smiled at him, her knowing desirous smile, and he smiled back.

Of course, the man was my lord Robert Dudley.


“And what are you doing here, child?” he asked me before dinner, walking on the terrace, the ladies of Elizabeth’s little court observing our progress while pretending not to watch.

“Queen Mary sent me to pay her compliments to Elizabeth.”

“Oho, my little spy, are you at work again?”

“Yes, and most unwillingly.”

“And what does the queen want to know?” He paused for a moment. “Anything about William Pickering? About me?”

I shook my head. “Nothing that I know of.”

He drew me to a stone seat. There was honeysuckle growing on the wall behind me and the smell was very sweet. He reached over and plucked a flower. The petals, scarlet and honey, lolled like the tongue of a snake. He brushed my neck with it. “So what does the queen want?”

“She wants to know what Count Feria was doing here,” I said simply. “Is he here?”

“Left yesterday.”

“What did he want?”

“He brought a message from the king. Queen Mary’s own beloved husband. A faithless dog, isn’t he, the randy old Spaniard?”

“Why d’you say that?”

“Mistress Boy, I have a wife who does me no service, and shows me no kindness, but not even I would court her own sister under her nose and shame her while she was still living.”

I swayed in my seat and took hold of his hand which was still playing with the flower. “He is courting Elizabeth?”

“The Pope has been approached to give permission for their marriage,” he said flatly. “How is that for Spanish punctilio for you? If the queen lives then it’s my guess that Philip will apply for an annulment of their marriage and marry Elizabeth. If the queen dies, then Elizabeth is heir to the throne and an even richer plum for the picking. He will snap her up within the year.”

I looked at him, my face quite blank with horror. “This cannot be,” I said, appalled. “It’s a betrayal. It’s the worst thing he could do to her. The worst thing he could do to her in all the world.”

“It’s an unexpected move,” he said. “Disagreeable for a loving wife.”

“The queen would die of grief and shame. To be put aside, as her mother was put aside? And for Anne Boleyn’s daughter?”

He nodded. “As I said, a faithless Spanish dog.”

“And Elizabeth?”

He glanced over my shoulder and he rose to his feet. “You can ask her yourself.”

I slid into a curtsey, and then came up. Elizabeth’s black eyes snapped at me. She did not like to see me seated beside Robert Dudley with him stroking my neck with honeysuckle flowers.

“Princess.”

“I heard you were back. My lord said that you had become a woman. I did not expect to see you quite so…”

I waited.

“Fat,” she said.

Instead of being insulted, as she intended, I giggled out loud at the childish jealous rudeness of her.

At once her eyes danced too. Elizabeth never sulked.

“Whereas you, Princess, are more beautiful than ever,” I said smoothly.

“I hope so. And what were you talking about with your heads so close together?”

“About you,” I said simply. “The queen sent me to find out how you did. And I was glad to come and see you.”

“I warned you not to leave it too late,” she said, her gesture taking in the waiting women, the lounging handsome men, the courtiers from London who saw me recognize them and looked a little abashed. A couple of members of the queen’s council stepped back from my scrutiny; with them was an envoy of France, and a minor prince or two.

“I see your ladyship keeps a merry court,” I said evenly. “As you should. And I cannot join you, even if you would condescend to have me. I have to serve your sister. She does not have a merry court, she has few friends. I would not leave her now.”

“Then you must be the only person in England who has not deserted her,” she said cheerfully. “I took on her cook last week. Does she get anything to eat at all?”

“She manages,” I said dryly. “And even the Spanish ambassador, Count Feria, her greatest friend and trusted councillor, was missing from court when I left.”

She shot a quick look at Robert Dudley and I saw him nod permission for her to speak.

“I refused his request,” she said gently. “I have no plans to marry anyone. You can assure the queen of that, for it is true.”

I gave her a little curtsey. “I am glad not to have to take her any news which would make her yet more unhappy.”

“I wish she would feel some distress for the people of the country,” Elizabeth said sharply. “The burning of heretics goes on, Hannah, the agony of innocent people. You should tell the queen that her sadness at the loss of a child who never was is nothing compared with the grief of a woman who sees her son go to the stake. And there are hundreds of women who have been forced to watch that.”

Robert Dudley came to my rescue. “Shall we dine?” he asked lightly. “And there will be music after dinner. I demand a dance.”

“Only one?” she queried, her mood lifting at once.

“Only one,” he said.

She made a little flirtatious pouting face.

“The one that starts when the music starts after dinner and ends when the sun comes up and no one can dance another step,” he said. “That one.”

“And what shall we do then, when we have danced ourselves to a standstill?” she asked provocatively.

I looked from her to him, I could hardly believe the intimacy of their tone. Anyone who heard them would have thought them to be lovers in the very first days of their desire.

“We will do whatever you wish, of course,” he said, his voice like silk. “But I know what I would wish.”

“What?” she breathed.

“To lie with…”

“With?”

“The morning sun on my face,” he finished.

Elizabeth stepped a little closer to him and whispered a phrase in Latin. I kept my expression deliberately blank. I had understood the Latin as readily as Lord Robert, she had whispered that she wanted kisses in the morning… From the sun, of course.

She turned to her court. “We will dine,” she announced out loud. She walked alone, head up, toward the doors to the great hall. As she went into the dark interior she paused and threw a glance at Lord Robert over her shoulder. I saw the invitation in her look, and almost like a moment of dizziness, I recognized that look. I had seen that very same look before, to the queen’s husband King Philip. And I had seen that look before then, when she had been a girl and I had been a child: to Lord Thomas Seymour, her stepmother’s husband. It was the same look, it was the invitation of the same desire. Elizabeth liked to choose her lovers from the husbands of other women, she liked to arouse desire from a man whose hands were tied, she liked to triumph over a woman who could not keep her husband, and more than anything in the world, she liked to throw that look over her shoulder and see a man start forward to go to her side – as Lord Robert started now.


Elizabeth’s court was a young merry optimistic court. It was the court of a young woman waiting for her fortune, waiting for her throne, certain, now, that it would come to her. It hardly mattered that the queen had not named her as heir; all the time-serving, self-serving men of the queen’s court and council had already pledged their allegiance to this rising star. Half of them had sons and daughters in her service already. The visit from Count Feria was nothing more than another straw in the wind which was blowing smoothly and sweetly toward Hatfield. It told everyone that the queen’s power, like her happiness, like her health, had waned. Even the queen’s husband had transferred to her rival.