Amy raised herself up on her elbow. “Good God, you know as well as I that people say far worse things than that I do not keep a good table.”

“They speak of nothing but the war against the French in Scotland,” Lizzie lied.

Amy shook her head and leaned back and closed her eyes. “I am not deaf,” she observed. “They say that my husband and the queen will be married within a year.”

“And what will you do?” Lizzie prompted gently. “If he insists? If he puts you aside? I am sorry, Amy, but you should consider what you would need. You are a young woman, and—”

“He cannot put me aside,” Amy said quietly. “I am his wife. I will be his wife till the day of my death. I cannot help it. God bound us together; only God can part us. He can send me away, he can even marry her, but then he is a bigamist and she is a whore in the eyes of everyone. I cannot do anything but be his wife until my death.”

“Amy,” Lizzie breathed. “Surely…”

“Please God my death comes soon and releases us all from this agony,” Amy said in her thin thread of a voice. “Because this is worse than death for me. To know that he has loved me and turned from me, to know that he wants me far away, never to see him again. To know, every morning that I wake, every night that I sleep, that he is with her, that he chooses to be with her rather than to be with me. It eats into me like a canker, Lizzie. I could think myself dying of it. This is grief like death. I would rather have death.”

“You have to reconcile yourself,” Lizzie Oddingsell said, without much faith in the panacea.

“I have reconciled myself to heartbreak,” Amy said. “I have reconciled myself to a life of desolation. No one can ask more of me.”

Lizzie stood up and turned a log on the fire. The chimney smoked and the room was always filled with a light haze that stung the eyes. Lizzie sighed at the discomfort of the farmhouse and of the late Sir John’s determination that what he had established was good enough for anyone else.

“I shall write to my brother-in-law,” she said firmly. “They are always glad to see you. At least we can go to Denchworth.”


Westminster Palace

March 14th 1560

William Cecil to the Commander of the Queen’s Pensioners.

Sir, 1. It has come to my attention that the French have hatched a conspiracy against the life of the queen and of the noble gen tleman Sir Robert Dudley. I am informed that they are determined that one or the other shall be killed, believing that this will give them an advantage in the war in Scotland.2. I hereby advise you of this new threat and commend you to redouble your guard on the queen and to command them to remain alert at all times.

     Be alert also for anyone approaching or following the noble gentleman, and for anyone hanging round his apartments or the stables.

     God Save the Queen.


Sir Francis Knollys with Sir Nicholas Bacon sought out William Cecil.

“For God’s sake, is there no end to these threats?”

“Apparently not,” Cecil said quietly.

Sir Robert Dudley joined them. “What’s this?”

“More death threats against the queen,” Sir Francis told him. “And against you.”

“Me?”

“From the French, now.”

“Why would the French want to kill me?” Dudley asked, shocked.

“They think the queen would be distressed by your death,” Nicholas Bacon said tactfully, when no one else answered.

Sir Robert took a swift, irritated turn on his heel. “Are we to do nothing while Her Majesty is threatened on all sides? When Frenchmen threaten her, when the Pope himself threatens her? When Englishmen plot against her? Can’t we confront this terror and destroy it?”

“The nature of terror is that you don’t know quite what it is or what it can do,” Cecil observed. “We can protect her, but only up to a point. Short of locking her up in a gated room we cannot preserve her from danger. I have a man tasting everything she eats. I have sentries at every door, under every window. No one comes into court without being vouched for and yet still, every other day, I hear of a new plot, a new murder plan against her.”

“How would the French like it if we murdered the young Queen Mary?” Sir Robert demanded.

William Cecil exchanged a glance with the other more experienced man, Sir Francis. “We can’t reach her,” he admitted. “I had Throckmorton look at the French court when he was in Paris. It can’t be done without them knowing it was us.”

“And is that your only objection?” Robert bristled.

“Yes,” Cecil said silkily. “I have no objection in theory to assassination as an act of state. It could be a great saver of life and a guarantee of safety for others.”

“I am utterly and completely opposed to it,” Dudley said indignantly. “It is forbidden by God, and it is against the justice of man.”

“Yes, but it’s you they want to kill, so you would think that,” Sir Nicholas said with scant sympathy. “The bullock seldom shares the beliefs of the butcher, and you, you are dead meat, my friend.”


Amy and Lizzie Oddingsell, escorted by Thomas Blount, with men in the Dudley livery riding before and behind them, came in silence to the Hyde house. The children, watching for them as usual, came running down the drive toward them and then hesitated when their aunt had nothing more for them than a wistful smile, and their favorite guest, the pretty Lady Dudley, did not seem to see them at all.

Alice Hyde, hurrying out to greet her sister-in-law and her noble friend, felt for a moment as if a shadow had fallen on their house and gave a little involuntary shiver as if the April sunshine had suddenly turned icy. “Sister! Lady Dudley, you are most welcome.”

Both women turned to her faces that were pale with strain. “Oh, Lizzie!” Alice said, in shock at the weariness on her face, and then went to help her sister-in-law down from the saddle as her husband came out and helped Lady Dudley to dismount.

“May I go to my room?” Amy whispered to William Hyde.

“Of course,” he said kindly. “I will take you myself, and have a fire lit for you. Will you take a glass of brandy to keep out the cold and put some roses in those pretty cheeks again?”

He thought she looked at him as if he addressed her in a foreign language.

“I am not ill,” she said flatly. “Whoever told you that I was ill, is lying.”

“No? I’m glad to hear of it. You look a little wearied by your journey, that’s all,” he said soothingly, leading her into the hall and then up the stairs to the best guest bedroom. “And are we to expect Sir Robert here, this spring?”

Amy paused at the door of her room. “No,” she said very quietly. “I do not expect to see my husband this season. I have no expectations of him at all.”

“Oh,” William Hyde said, quite at sea.

Then she turned and put both her hands out to him. “But he is my husband,” she said, almost pleading. “That will never change.”

At a loss, he chafed her cold hands. “Of course he is,” he soothed her, thinking that she was talking at random, like a madwoman. “And a very good husband too, I am sure.”

Somehow, he had said the right thing. The sweet smile of Amy the beloved girl suddenly illuminated the bleak face of Amy the deserted wife.

“Yes, he is,” she said. “I am so glad that you see that too, dear William. He is a good husband to me and so he must come home to me soon.”


“Good God, what have they done to her?” William Hyde demanded of his sister, Lizzie Oddingsell, when the three of them were seated around the dinner table, the covers cleared and the door safely closed against prying servants. “She looks near to death.”

“It is as you predicted,” Lizzie said shortly. “Just as you said when you were so merry about what would happen if your master were to marry the queen. He has done what you thought he might do. He has thrown her off and is going to marry the queen. He told her to her face.”

A long, low whistle from William Hyde greeted this news. Alice was quite dumbstruck.

“And the queen has proposed this? She thinks she can get such a thing past the Lords and Commons of England?”

Lizzie shrugged. “He speaks as if all that stands in their way is Amy’s consent. He speaks as if he and the queen are quite agreed and are picking out names for their firstborn.”

“He will be consort. She might even call him king,” William Hyde speculated. “And he will not forget the services we have done him and the kindness we have shown him.”

“And what of her?” Lizzie asked fiercely, nodding her head to the chamber above them. “When he is crowned and we are in Westminster Abbey shouting hurrah? Where do you think she is then?”

William Hyde shook his head. “Living quietly in the country? At her father’s old house? At the house she fancied here—old Simpson’s place?”

“It will kill her,” Alice predicted. “She will never survive the loss of him.”

“I think so,” Lizzie said. “And the worst of it is, that I think in his heart, he knows that. And I am sure that the she-devil queen knows that too.”

“Hush!” William said urgently. “Even behind closed doors, Lizzie!”

“All her life Amy has been on a rack of his ambition,” Lizzie hissed. “All her life she has loved and waited for him and prayed long, sleepless nights for his safety. And now, at the moment of his prosperity, he tells her that he will cast her aside, that he loves another woman, and that this other woman has such power that she can throw a true-wedded wife to the dogs.

“What do you think this will do to her? You saw her. Doesn’t she look like a woman walking toward her grave?”