were not here in London, on this bad business, but home at Chatsworth House with my darling innocent wife Bess, in the simple country and far away from the conspiracies and perils of court. I can’t say that I am happy. I can’t say that I like this. But I will do my duty—God knows that I always do my duty.
“You have been summoned for nothing but to order the death of Mary Queen of Scots,” Thomas Howard hisses in my ear as he catches up with me in a gallery at Hampton Court. They have closed the shutters for cleaning and the place is shadowy in the earlyevening dusk. The portraits on the walls seem to show palefaced listeners leaning forward to hear as Howard takes my arm to warn me of dangers that I already fear.
“We are to throw suspicion on her. Nothing else. Don’t deceive yourself. Cecil decided that this queen was a threat to the kingdom, from the moment of her birth. She may think that she has escaped her enemies in Scotland to sanctuary in England, but she has just exchanged one danger for another. Cecil has decided that she must die. This is his third attempt to convict her. We are to be his hangmen, without opinions of our own.”
I look down at Howard; he is a small man, well dressed and neat with a welltrimmed black beard and bright dark eyes. Today he is almost dancing with fury at the queen’s minister. We all resent Cecil, all us old lords, but it rubs Howard worse than any other. He is the queen’s cousin, the head of the Howard family, he is the Duke of Norfolk, he would expect to be her chief advisor—but she depends on Cecil and always has done.
“I have been appointed by the queen herself to inquire into the conduct of her cousin the Queen of Scots. I am no hangman,” I say with quiet dignity. A man goes past, and hesitates as if to listen to our conversation.
Howard shakes his dark head at my naivety. “Elizabeth may want the Queen of Scots’ name cleared. But William Cecil is not notorious for his soft heart. He wants the Protestant faith to rule Scotland as England, and the Catholic queen to lie in jail, or in her coffin. Either suits him equally well. He will never agree that she is guilty of nothing and must be restored to her throne.”
I cannot argue against Howard’s irritable righteousness. I know that he is speaking only the truth. But he is speaking it too loud and too clear for my liking. Anyone could be behind the tapestry screens, and though the stranger has strolled on, he must have heard some of this.
“Hush,” I say and draw him to a seat so that we can whisper. At once we look like conspirators, but the whole court looks like conspirators or spies these days. “What can we do?” I ask him quietly. “Cecil has called this inquiry to hear the evidence against the Scots queen, to judge whether she should be restored to her throne, whether she is fit to rule. What can we do to make sure that she is treated justly?”
“We have to save her,” Howard says firmly. “We have to declare her innocent of murdering her husband, and we have to restore her to her throne in Scotland. We have to accept her claim to be Elizabeth’s heir. She must be confirmed as heir to the throne of England when…” He breaks off. Not even Howard dares mention the death of his cousin the queen. “When the time comes. Only the confirmed inheritance of Mary Stuart will give us the safety of knowing our next monarch. We have a right to know the heir. We have to fight her cause as if it were our own.”
He sees my hesitation. A couple of men go by and look curiously at the two of us. I feel conspicuous and get to my feet.
“Walk with me,” Howard says. “And listen. We have to fight her cause as if it were our own because it is our own. Say that we let Cecil imprison her or trump up a charge of murder and accuse her. What do you think happens then?”
I wait.
“What if next he decides that I am a danger to the kingdom? What then? What if after me, he names you?”
I try to laugh. “He is hardly likely to accuse you, or me. We are