would be no festival of celebration though there could well be a reaping of souls if not of corn. Instead of mummers and music, shadow men walked amongst the trees of the orchard. Smoke rose white against the bleached night sky and the air was rich with the smell of cooking and dung, a curious combination that caught at my throat.
There was sudden movement below my window. A man swung down from his horse, tethered it to a tree. I saw him in flashes of silver and black; the moonlight on his armour, his long shadow. He took off his helmet and took a deep breath of air, head back, shaking himself like a dog coming out of water. He was dark; the moon lit shades of blue in his hair like a raven’s wing. Then he looked up and the light fell full on his face.
I must have made some involuntary movement that caught his eye for he turned his head sharply to look at me. The gesture was so familiar even though I had not seen him for so many years. Recognition tugged deep within me. He raised a hand in greeting. I saw the flash of his smile. He knew me too.
I pushed the window frame wider. ‘Robert Dudley,’ I said. ‘You missed dinner.’
He laughed. ‘I am here now.’ He set his foot to the climbing rose that grew beneath my window. The whole delicate structure shivered as he put his weight on it, the last petals of summer drifting down, and I leaned out further to stop him.
‘You’ll fall!’ I had no care for propriety, only for his safety. I did not see the ranks of grinning soldiers pausing in their drinking and their gaming to watch us. I saw only him. Already I was swept away.
‘Never,’ he said. ‘You won’t lose me, Amy Robsart. I’ll not fall.’
A cloud passed over the moon, red like blood from the fire on the heath.
Despite the cumbersome weight of the armour he climbed fast, sure-footed, like a cat. He reached the window ledge and swung himself over and then he was in my room. A ragged cheer went up from the men below and he reached across me to close the window and banish them so that there was only the two of us there in the candlelight. He smelled of sweat and horses and smoke and the night air; it was exciting and my head swam.
We stood and stared at one another. His armour was dented and blackened by smoke. His face likewise was filthy with dirt and sweat. I put a hand up to touch his chest but could feel nothing but the coldness of hard steel beneath my palm so I raised it to his cheek and touched warm flesh. He was vital and vivid and all the things that my life lacked. His eyes blazed as he bent his head to kiss me.
That was how I met Robert Dudley again. By the morning we had pledged our troth and the seeds of our mutual destruction were already sown.
Chapter 3
Lizzie: Present Day
The call came through five minutes before Lizzie was due on stage. She was nervous which meant that she was also in a bad mood. She didn’t do literary events; they really weren’t her thing. Everyone knew that she hadn’t written the book herself – she’d been quite open about that from the start – and she couldn’t even remember much of what the story was about. What the hell was she going to talk about? What the hell were they going to ask her? She’d insisted on approval of all the interview questions and now she couldn’t remember a single one of them or the answers she’d prepared.
She stood up and paced across the tiny space that the festival organisers had imaginatively called the green room. It was green because it was a corner of a marquee that had been cordoned off for her use. The carpet was actual grass. Lizzie could even see a ladybird crawling towards her. There was one lopsided mirror, an extension lead was the only source of power, and there was no proper lighting, which had made doing her hair and make-up a nightmare. It was so hot under the canvas that once her make-up was done it had all slid off her face anyway. The fruit juice was warm and the sandwiches had curled. Kat had reminded her that she couldn’t expect the same VIP treatment at a