know you would not plot against an ordained queen. You might seek your freedom but you would not threaten her.”
I lower my eyes. When I look up again he is smiling down on me. “I wish you could be my advisor as well as my guardian,” I say very quietly. “I would have done better in my life if I could always have been kept by a man such as you.”
There is a silence for a moment. I hear the log shift in the grate and a little flame makes the shadowy room brighter.
“I wish it too,” he says, very low. “I wish I could see you come to your own again, in safety and health.”
“Will you help me?” My voice is barely louder than the flicker of the fire.
“If I can,” he says. “If I can without dishonor.”
“And not tell Bess,” I add. “She is too good a friend of Cecil for my safety.” I think he will hesitate at this: I am asking him to ally with me against his wife. But he rushes forward.
“Bess is his spy,” he says, and I can hear the bitterness in his voice. “Her friendship with him may have saved my life, but I cannot thank her for it. She is his friend and his ally, his informant. It was her reporting to him that saved me. It is his authority that sanctions everything. Bess is always friends with the most powerful. Now her choice lights on Cecil, whereas it used to be me.”
“You don’t think that they…” I mean to hint at a love affair. But Shrewsbury shakes his head before I need say more.
“It is not infidelity; it is worse than that,” he says sadly. “It is disloyalty. She sees the world as he sees it: as a battle between the English and everyone else, as a battle between the Protestants and the Papists. The reward for the English Protestants is power and wealth; that is all they care for. They think that God so loves them that He gives them the riches of the world. They think that their wealth is evidence that they are doing the right thing, beloved by God.” He breaks off and looks at me. “My confessor would have called them pagans,” he says bluntly. “My mother would have called them heretics.”
“You are of the true faith?” I whisper incredulously.
“No, not now, but like every Protestant in England today, I was raised in the old church, I was baptized as a Papist, I was brought up to say Mass, I acknowledged the authority of the Holy Father. And I cannot forget the teachings of my childhood. My mother lived and died in the old faith. I cannot think another way for the convenience of the queen. I cannot believe, as Bess does, as Cecil does, that we have a private insight into the mind of God. That we don’t need priests or the Pope. That we know everything, all by ourselves, and that the proof of this is the blessing of our own greed.”
“If I am ever Queen of England I will let men worship as they wish,” I promise.
He nods. “I know you will. I know you would be a most…a most gracious queen.”
“You would be my dearest friend and counselor,” I say with a little smile. “You would be my advisor. You would be my secretary of state and head of my Privy Council.” I name the titles that Cecil has usurped. I know how deeply Shrewsbury wants them.
“Get well quickly then,” he says, and I can hear the tenderness in his voice. “You must be well and strong before you can hope for anything. Rest and get well, my…Your Grace.”
1570, JANUARY, TUTBURY CASTLE: GEORGE
News from London which changes everything. What a world we live in now! Everything is turned about again, without warning, almost without reason. My letter comes from Cecil, so there is every reason for me to mistrust it. But this is news that not even he could conceal or invent. It must be the case. The Scots queen’s luck has come good once more, and her star has shot into the ascendant. She is a queen whose fortune ebbs and flows like the tides, and suddenly she is in full flood. Her half brother, the usurper of her throne, her greatest enemy, Lord Moray, has been assassinated in Scotland and her country is once again without a leader. This leaves a gaping hole at the very head of the