“Well, you wash your hands and cream them, my love,” Robert said, hiding his shock. “And then put on a pretty gown and come and sit with me by the fire, and we shall have some music and you can rest and I will talk to you about my horses.”

She smiled, like a child being promised a treat. “Yes,” she said. “And if there is a message from Scotland…”

Robert raised his hand. “Not one word about Scotland. If there is news, they will bring it to us as quickly as they can. We have to learn the art of patiently waiting. Come on, Elizabeth, you know all about waiting. I have seen you wait like a master. You must wait for news as you waited for the crown. Of all the women in the world you are the most elegant waiter.”

She giggled at that, her whole face lighting up.

“Now that’s true,” Thomas Parry agreed. “Ever since she was a girl she could keep quiet and judge her moment.”

“Good,” Dudley said. “Now you go and get dressed, and be quick.”

Elizabeth obeyed him, as if he were her husband to command, and she had never been Queen of England. Her ladies went past him with their eyes down, all except for Laetitia Knollys, who swept him a curtsy as she went past, a deep curtsy, one appropriate from a young lady-in-waiting to a king in waiting. There was not much that Laetitia ever missed about Lord Robert.

Newcastle,

June 7th 1560

1. Assassination is a disagreeable tool of statecraft but there are occasions when it should be considered.

2. For instance when the death of one person is to the benefit of many lives.

3. The death of one enemy can be to the benefit of many friends.

4. In the case of a king or queen, a death which appears accidental is better than a defeat of that king or queen which might encourage others to think of rebellion in future.

5. She is, in any case, elderly and in poor health. Death will be a release for her.

6. I would advise you to discuss this with no one. There is no need to reply to this.


Cecil sent the letter unsigned and unsealed by special messenger to be delivered to the queen’s hand. There was no need to wait for any reply; he knew that Elizabeth would take any crime on her flexible conscience to get her army home.


The whole court, the whole world, waited for the news from Scotland, and still it only came in unrevealing snippets. Cecil’s letters, arriving always at least three days old, told Elizabeth that he and the French envoy were planning to travel together to Edinburgh, as soon as the details of the French train could be agreed. He wrote that he was hopeful of agreement once Monsieur Randan, the French emissary for peace, could get instructions from Mary of Guise. He wrote that he knew Elizabeth would be anxious about the soldiers, and about the stores, about their arrears of pay, and about their conditions, but that he would report on all of that when he had met with Lord Grey in Edinburgh. She would have to wait for news.

They would all have to wait.

“Robert, I cannot bear this alone,” Elizabeth whispered to him. “I am breaking down. I can feel myself breaking down.”

He was walking with her in the long gallery, past the portraits of her father and her grandfather, and the other great monarchs of Europe. Mary of Guise’s portrait glared down at them. Elizabeth had kept it in a place of honor in the hopes of confusing the French about her feelings toward the queen regent who had brought so much trouble to the kingdom and so much danger to Elizabeth.

“You need not bear it alone. You have me.”

She paused in her stride and snatched at his hand. “You swear it? You will never leave me?”

“You know how much I love you.”

She gave an abrupt laugh. “Love! I saw my father love my cousin to desperation and then he ordered her execution. Thomas Seymour swore he loved me and I let him go to his death and never lifted a finger to save him. They came and asked me what I thought of him, and I said nothing in his favor. Not one word. I was an absolute traitor to my love for him. I need more than a promise of love, Robert. I have no reason to trust sweet promises.”

He paused for a moment. “If I was free, I would marry you today.”

“But you are not!” she cried out. “Again and again we come to this. You say that you love me and that you would marry but you cannot, and so I am alone and have to stay alone, and I cannot bear being alone anymore.”

“Wait,” he said, thinking furiously. “There is a way. There is. I could prove my love to you. We could be betrothed. We could make a betrothal de futuro.”

“A binding promise to wed in public when you are free,” she breathed.

“An oath as binding as the marriage vow,” he reminded her. “One that swears us to each other as surely as marriage. So when I am free, all we do is declare publicly what we have done in private.”

“And you will be my husband, and be always at my side, and never leave me,” she whispered hungrily, stretching out her hand to his. Without hesitation he took it and clasped it in his own.

“Let’s do it now,” Robert whispered. “Right now. In your chapel. With witnesses.”

For a moment he thought he had gone too far and she would withdraw in fear. But she glanced around at the court that was languidly chattering, only half an eye on her strolling with her constant companion.

“Kat, I am going to pray for our troops in Scotland,” she called to Mrs. Ashley. “None of you need come with me but Catherine and Sir Francis. I want to be alone.”

The ladies curtsyed; the gentlemen bowed. Catherine and Francis Knollys followed Elizabeth and Robert as, arm in arm, they went quickly along the gallery together and down the broad flight of stone stairs to the Royal Chapel.

The place was in shadowy silence, empty but for an altar boy polishing the chancel rail.

“You. Out,” Elizabeth said briefly.

“Elizabeth?” Catherine queried.

Elizabeth turned to her cousin, her face alight with joy. “Will you witness our betrothal?” she asked her.

“Betrothal?” Sir Francis repeated, looking at Sir Robert.

“A de futuro betrothal, a pledge to publish our marriage later,” Sir Robert said. “It is the queen’s dearest wish and mine.”

“And what of your wife?” Sir Francis said in a half whisper to Sir Robert.

“She will have a generous settlement,” he replied. “But we want to do this now. Will you be our witnesses or not?”

Catherine and her husband looked at each other. “This is a binding vow,” Catherine said uncertainly. She looked at her husband for guidance.

“We will be your witnesses,” he said; and then he and Catherine silently stood on either side of the queen and her lover as the two of them turned to the altar.

Elizabeth’s Papist candlesticks and crucifix twinkled in the lights of a dozen candle flames. Elizabeth sank to her knees, her eyes on the crucifix, and Robert knelt down beside her.

She turned to face him. “With this ring, I thee wed,” she said. She took her signet ring, her Tudor rose signet ring, off her fourth finger, and held it out to him.

He took it and tried it on his little finger. To their delight it slid on as if it had been made for him. He took off his own ring, the one he used to seal his letters, his father’s ring with the ragged staff and the bear of the Dudley family.

“With this ring I thee wed,” he said. “From today and this day forth I am your betrothed husband.”

Elizabeth took his ring and slid it on her wedding finger. It fitted perfectly. “From today and this day forth I am your betrothed wife,” she whispered. “And I will be bonny and blithe at bed and board.”

“And I will love no one but you till death us do part,” he swore.

“Till death us do part,” she repeated.

Her dark eyes were luminous with tears; when she leaned forward and kissed him on the lips they brimmed over. His memory of that afternoon would always be of the warmth of her lips and the saltiness of her tears.


They feasted that night, and called for music, danced and were merry for the first time in many days. No one knew why Elizabeth and Robert should suddenly be so filled with joy, no one but Catherine and Francis Knollys; and they had withdrawn to their private rooms. Despite the good cheer Elizabeth said she wanted to go early to bed, and she giggled as she said it.

Obediently, the court withdrew, the ladies escorted the queen to her privy chamber and the little traditions of the queen’s bedding began: the ritual thrusting of the sword into her bed, the warming of her nightgown, the mulling of her ale.

There was a quiet tap at the door. Elizabeth nodded that Laetitia should open it.

Cecil’s servant stood there. Mutely he showed a letter. When Laetitia reached for it he twitched it away from her hand. She raised her eyebrows in a fair mimicry of Elizabeth’s impatience and stepped back.

Elizabeth came forward to take it. He bowed.

“How long did it take you to get here?” Elizabeth asked. “How old is this news?”

“Three days, Your Grace,” the man said with another bow. “We have horses waiting down the Great North Road, and my lord has us riding in relays for speed. We’ve got it down to three days. You won’t find anyone gets any news faster than you.”

“Thank you,” Elizabeth said and waved him away. Laetitia shut the door on him and went to stand at Elizabeth’s shoulder.

“You, step back,” Elizabeth said.

Laetitia retreated as Elizabeth broke the seal and spread the letter on her writing table. She had the code locked in a drawer. She started to decode Cecil’s analysis of the use of assassination, then she sat back and smiled as she understood that he was telling her, in his oblique way, that the French were about to lose their outstanding political leader in Scotland.