Her mass of red hair tumbled about her shoulders. Robert took a handful of the locks and kissed them, then, as she turned her entranced face toward him, kissed her full on the mouth. “My Elizabeth, at last,” he said again.

Within moments she was in a dream of sensuality. He had always imagined that she would be responsive but under his skilled hands she stretched like a cat, reveling in pleasure. She was wanton: no hint of shame as she stripped to her skin and laid on his bed and reached out her arms for him. As his chest pressed against her face he smiled to find her feverish with desire, but then lost his own awareness in the rise of his feelings. He wanted to touch every inch of her skin, to kiss every fingertip, every dimple, every crevice of her body. He moved her one way and then another, touching, tasting, licking, probing, until she cried out loud that she must, she must have him, and then at last he allowed himself to enter her and watched her eyelids flicker closed and her rosy lips smile.


It was Sunday. The Hyde family, Lizzie Oddingsell, Lady Dudley, and all the Hyde servants were seated in a block in the parish church, the Hyde family and their guests in their high-walled pew, the servants arranged in strict order of precedence behind them, the women first, the men behind.

Amy was on her knees, her eyes fixed on Father Wilson as he held the Host toward them, preparing the communion in full sight of the congregation, in obedience to the new directive, though no bishop in the country had agreed, and most of them were either in the Tower or the Fleet prison. Oxford’s own Bishop Thomas had escaped to Rome before they could arrest him, and the see was vacant. No one would come forward to fill it. Not one man of God would serve in Elizabeth’s heretical church.

Amy’s gaze was entranced, her lips silently moved as she watched him bless the Host, and then bid them come to take communion.

Like a sleeper in a dream she walked forward with the others and bent her head. The wafer was cloying on her tongue as she closed her eyes and knew that she was sharing in the very body of the living Christ, a miracle that no one could deny or explain. She returned to her pew and bent her head again. She whispered her prayer: “Lord God, send him back to me. Save him from the sin of ambition and from the sin that is that woman, and send him back to me.”

After the service was over Father Wilson bade farewell to his parishioners at the lych-gate. Amy took his hand and spoke quietly to him, for his ears only.

“Father, I would confess, and celebrate Mass in the proper way.”

He recoiled and glanced around at the Hydes. No one but him had heard Amy’s whispered request.

“You know it is forbidden now,” he said quietly. “I can hear your confession but I have to pray in English.”

“I cannot feel free from my sin without attending Mass in the old way,” Amy said.

He patted her hand. “Daughter, is this true to your heart?”

“Father, truly, I am most in need of grace.”

“Come to the church on Wednesday evening, at five o’clock,” he told her. “But tell no one else. Just say you are coming to pray on your own. Take care not to betray us by accident. This is a life-and-death matter now, Lady Dudley; not even your husband must know.”

“It is his sin that I must atone for,” she said dully. “As well as my own in failing him.”

He checked at the pain in the young woman’s face. “Ah, Lady Dud ley, you cannot have failed him,” he exclaimed, speaking more as a man than a priest, prompted by pity.

“I must have done,” she said sadly. “And many times. For he has gone from me, Father, and I don’t know how to live without him. Only God can restore him, only God can restore me, only God can restore us to each other, if he can forgive me for my failures as a wife.”

The priest bowed and kissed her hand, wishing that he could do more. He looked around. Mrs. Oddingsell was nearby; she came up and took Amy’s arm.

“Let’s walk home now,” she said cheerfully. “It will be too hot to go out later.”


It was the fifteenth of July, the day of the tournament, and all Elizabeth’s court could think of was the clothes they would wear, the arrangements for the jousting, the roses they would carry, the songs they would sing, the dances they would dance, the hearts they would break. All Cecil could think of was his latest letter from Throckmorton in Paris.

July 9th

     He is failing fast, I expect to hear of his death any day. I will send to you the moment I hear. Francis II will be King of France, and it is certain that Mary will style herself Queen of France, Scotland, and England; my intelligencer has seen the announcement that the clerks are drawing up. With the wealth of France and the generalship of the Guise family, with Scotland as their Trojan horse, they will be unstoppable. God help England and God help you, old friend. I think you will be England’s last Secretary of State and all our hopes will lie in ruins.

Cecil translated the letter out of code, and sat with it for a few thoughtful minutes. Then he took the whole transcript to the queen in her privy chamber. She was laughing with her ladies as they prepared their costumes; Laetitia Knollys, in virginal white trimmed with the darkest rose red, was plaiting roses into a circlet for the queen to wear as a crown. Cecil thought that the news he had in the letter in his hand was like a summer storm which can blow up out of nowhere, and strip the petals from roses and destroy a garden in an afternoon.

Elizabeth was wearing a rose-pink gown with white silk slashings on the sleeves, trimmed with silver lace, and a white headdress trimmed with pink and white seed pearls in gorgeous contrast to her copper hair.

She beamed at Cecil’s surprised face and twirled before him. “How do I look?”

Like a bride, Cecil thought in horror. “Like a beauty,” he said quickly. “A summertime queen.”

She spread her skirts and bobbed him a curtsy. “And who do you favor for the champion?”

“I don’t know,” Cecil said distractedly. “Your Grace, I know this is a day for pleasure but I have to speak with you, forgive me, but I have to speak with you urgently.”

For a moment she pouted and when she saw his face remained grave, she said: “Oh, very well, but not for long, Spirit, for they cannot start without me; and Sir Ro… and the riders will not want to wait in their heavy armor.”

“Why, who is Sir Ro…?”Laetitia asked playfully, and the queen giggled and blushed.

Cecil ignored the young woman, and instead drew the queen into the window bay and gave her the letter. “It is from Throckmorton,” he said simply. “He warns of the French king’s death. Your Grace, the moment that he dies we are in mortal danger. We should be arming now. We should be ready now. We should have sent funds to the Scottish Protestants already. Give me leave to send money to them now and to start the muster for an English army.”

“You always say we have no funds,” she said willfully.

Carefully, Cecil did not look at the pearls in her ears and the thick rope of pearls at her throat. “Princess, we are in the gravest of danger,” he said.

Elizabeth twitched the letter from his hand and took it to the window to read. “When did you have this?” she asked, her interest sharpening.

“This very day. It came in code; I have just translated it.”

“She cannot call herself Queen of England; she agreed to give up her claim in the treaty of Cateau-Cambrésis.”

“No, you see, she did not. She agreed nothing. It was the king who made that agreement and the king that signed that treaty is dying. Nothing will stop her ambition now, the new king and his family will only egg her on.”

Elizabeth swore under her breath and turned from the merry court so that no one could see the darkening of her face. “Am I never to be safe?” she demanded in a savage undertone. “Having fought all my life for this throne, do I have to go on fighting for it? Do I have to fear the knife in the shadows and the invasion of my enemies forever? Do I have to fear my own cousin? My own kin?”

“I am sorry,” Cecil said steadily. “But you will lose your throne and perhaps your life if you do not fight for it. You are in as much danger now as you have ever been.”

She gave a harsh little cry. “Cecil, I have been all but charged with treason, I have faced the block, I have faced my own death from assassins. How can I be in more danger now?”

“Because now you face your death, and you face the loss of your inheritance, and you face the end of England,” he said. “Your sister lost us Calais through her folly. Will you lose us England?”

She drew a breath. “I see,” she said. “I see what must be done. Perhaps it will have to be war. I shall talk with you later, Spirit. As soon as the king dies and they show their hand we must be ready for them.”

“We must,” he said, delighted at her decision. “That is spoken like a prince.”

“But Sir Robert says that we should prevail upon the Scottish Protestant lords to settle with their regent, Queen Mary. He says that if there is peace in Scotland there can be no excuse for the French to send in men and no reason for them to invade England.”

Oh, does he? Cecil thought with scant gratitude for the unsolicited council. “He may be right, Your Grace; but if he is wrong then we are unprepared for a disaster. And older and wiser heads than Sir Robert’s think we should strike at them now, before they reinforce.”

“But he cannot go,” she said.

I wish I could send him to hell itself, flashed through Cecil’s irritated mind. “No, we should send a seasoned commander,” he said. “But first we must send the Scots lords money to maintain the fight against the regent, Mary of Guise. And we must do that at once.”