Elizabeth gasped. Her impulse was to order Cecil to the Tower; but she quickly saw the folly of that. What would she do without Cecil? She honored him; and such was her nature that, even in that moment of anger, she knew that he was speaking the truth and that he was the one man—even more than Robert, whom she loved passionately—to whom she wished to entrust her affairs.

“You overreach yourself, Master Cecil,” she said, with a coldness that matched his. “None could prevent my marrying where I wished.”

“You are wrong, Madam,” said Cecil wryly. “Lord Robert’s wife prevents you.”

“Nothing else?” she said, and her words were a question. “Nothing but that?”

“Madam,” said Cecil, “if Lord Robert were in a position to be Your Majesty’s husband, your ministers would doubtless have no objection since your heart is set on this, and the country needs an heir.”

A slow smile spread across her face. “Your insolence is overlooked on this occasion. I think that soon we shall reach a settlement of these matters. Lady Dudley will not live long.”

“Madam,” said Cecil aghast, “I see trouble ahead.”

“Go now,” she said, “and rest. You have had a long journey.”

He bowed and retired.

His thoughts were in a turmoil. Did he understand aright? Were they planning to rid themselves of Lady Dudley? But what a scandal that would be! Did they not see that? Even Queens—young and popular Queens—cannot with impunity connive at murder.

As he was leaving the Queen’s apartment, he met Alvaro de Quadra, the Spanish ambassador who had replaced Feria. De Quadra, spy for his master, ever on the alert, noticed the strained look on the face of the Secretary of State.

Falling into step beside Cecil, de Quadra asked: “And when may I have audience of Her Majesty? There is much to discuss concerning the marriage.”

Cecil was silent for a few moments, then he burst out: “Do not ask these questions of me. I am thinking of leaving my office. I see great troubles ahead. Your Excellency, if you are a friend of England’s, advise Her Majesty not to neglect her duty as she does. Would to God Lord Robert Dudley had lost his head with his brother. That would have been a good thing for England.”

“Lord Dudley?” said de Quadra. “So the Queen still frets for him then?”

“Frets for him? She thinks of nothing else. I know this, and it fills me with dread: They are scheming to murder his wife, that marriage between them will be possible. They say she is suffering from a malady which will shortly rob her of life, but I have discovered this to be untrue. Poor woman! Doubtless she is taking good care not to be poisoned, since she has lived so long.”

The Spanish ambassador could scarcely believe that he had heard correctly. Was this calm Cecil, the wily statesman, the man whose custom it was to consider his lightest remark before uttering it! And to speak thus before the Spanish ambassador, well known to be a spy for his own country!

Cecil recovered his poise; he grasped de Quadra’s arm and said earnestly: “I beg of Your Excellency to say nothing of this. This is the Queen’s secret matter.”

The ambassador gave his word, but immediately retired to his own apartments that he might write dispatches which on this occasion, he was sure, would prove of the utmost interest to his royal master.

A September haze hung in the air. Pinto was in one of the attics looking out over the countryside. How quiet it seemed! Yesterday she had watched the Fair people riding by on their way to Abingdon for the Fair. The servants were talking of it now. She was glad of that. When they were discussing the Fair they ceased to talk of Lord Robert and the Queen.

Poor Amy! She was desperately afraid—afraid of every footfall, afraid even of her fear, for she did not speak of it even to Pinto. She had reason to be afraid. She stood between Lord Robert and his marriage with the Queen.

A woman of Brentford, so they had heard, had been arrested for saying that the Queen was to have Lord Robert’s child. Had she spoken the truth?

Pinto was afraid in this house.

The grounds were beautiful and extensive, but the house itself was shut in by many trees; and it was only by climbing to the top that it was possible to see the open country.

Some of the rooms were large, but those which had been cells, were very small. There were two staircases. One of these, which led from the kitchen quarters, was a narrow spiral one; that which swept up and round the old hall, which had been the monks’ common room, was wide with elaborately carved banisters. This staircase was not enclosed, so that it was possible to look down into the “well” from any point.

It was a house full of shadows, full of echoes from the past. Pinto did not like the thoughts which had come to her while she had been living in this house.

Only last week a very disturbing incident had occurred.

Amy had fallen ill and Pinto, fearing that already she was being poisoned, had been frantic with anxiety.

Her fears had been so great that she had persuaded Amy to call a physician—not one of Lord Robert’s but a friend of the Hydes.

And the man had refused to come.

Lord Robert had his own physicians, he had said. It was their place to look after the health of Lord Robert’s wife.

There was something so alarming about such behavior that even Amy could not shut her eyes to it. The man would not come because he suspected Amy was being poisoned and wished to have no part in it. If Amy died suddenly and there was an autopsy, and her death were proved to be due to poison, it would be necessary for persons in high places to find a scapegoat; this man was clearly intimating that he had no intention of being that scapegoat. If Amy wanted a physician she must have one of her husband’s.

“Nay,” said Amy, “I do not think I need a doctor after all. I was just feeling a little melancholy. It is nothing more.”

But how frightening was this life!

There was one thing of which Pinto felt sure: Amy’s life was threatened. It was clear from the doctor’s attitude that the whole country was expecting her to die by poison, for that would mean that her death could be said to be due to a fatal disease. Rumors had already gone forth that she suffered from a cancer of the breast.

Since everyone was talking of poison, it was obvious that Lord Robert would be aware of this; therefore it seemed almost certain that Amy would not die by poison. Die she must if she were to be removed from Robert’s path toward ambition, but her death would have to seem accidental or the whole country would cry: Murder. What could Pinto do? Where could she turn? She could only keep near her mistress, hoping to guard her. But they were two defenseless women against a relentless enemy.

She went downstairs, and in the hall she found Forster talking with Mistress Owen who, living apart from her husband, had asked leave to stay on in the house. Amy, being fond of company, had been glad to have her.

Forster said pleasantly as Pinto came down the stairs: “I doubt not you’ll be asking your mistress’s leave to go to the Fair.”

“That may be,” said Pinto.

“A messenger has just come from Windsor. He brings letters for my lady. He tells us that tomorrow or the next day Master Thomas Blount will be riding here from Windsor with special gifts and letters from my lord for her ladyship.”

“My lady will be pleased to hear from Lord Robert,” said Pinto.

She passed on.

Master Thomas Blount! He was a kinsman of Lord Robert’s, a man whose fortune was bound up in that of his master; a man who would be ready to follow Lord Robert’s instructions … even if they were to murder his wife.

He sends letters, he sends gifts, thought Pinto; and he longs to put her out of the way.

It seemed to Pinto that danger was moving nearer.

It was night. Amy lay still, the curtains pulled about her bed. She had awakened with a start, aware that someone was in her room.

She sat up, pressing her hands to her heart. What fear was this which possessed her, which made her start at every sound? There was terror all about her.

She knelt on her bed and opened the curtains. Pinto was standing there, a lighted candle in her hands.

“Pinto!” cried Amy in great relief.

“Oh, Mistress … are you awake then?”

“You frightened me so.”

“Mistress, I had to come to talk to you.”

“At this hour?”

“It would not wait … or so it seemed. I have to say it now. Perhaps I could not say it by day. Mistress, before your marriage, I used to come to your bed and sleep with you at night when you had dreams. Do you remember?”

“Yes, Pinto. I have indeed bad dreams now. Come you in beside me.”

Pinto blew out the candle and climbed into the bed.

“You’re trembling, Pinto.”

“You tremble, Mistress.”

“What is it, Pinto? What is it?”

“We are afraid, Mistress. Both of us are afraid of something, and we are afraid to speak of it by daylight. That is why I come to you at night. Mistress, we must speak of this thing.”

“Yes, Pinto, we must.”

“They seek to put you away, Mistress.”

“It’s true, Pinto. It’s true.” Amy’s teeth were chattering.

“You see,” said Pinto, “he is an ambitious man, and all he desires would be ready for him to take but for you. I am frightened. Never eat anything unless I prepare it for you.”

“They are trying to poison me, Pinto?”

“I do not think they will.”

“Why not?”

“Too many have talked of poison.”

“Pinto, what can I do? What can I do?”

Pinto’s eyes were wet. It was as though Amy were a child again, coming to Pinto for help. No! It was quite different. This was no childish problem. This was a matter of death.