has been both stupid and cruel but at last now she sees reason.”
“I would think she has been patient beyond belief,” I mutter irritably into my own sewing.
The Queen of Scots arches her dark eyebrows at dissent. “Do you mean to say that you believe she has been patient with me?” she inquires.
“Her court has been divided, her own cousin tempted into disloyalty, her lords have plotted against her, she has faced the greatest rebellion of her reign, and her Parliament calls for her to execute all those involved in the plot, including you.” I glare balefully at my own ladies, whose loyalty has been suspect ever since this glamorous young queen first appeared among us with her romantic stories of France and her socalled tragic life. “The queen could have followed the advice of her councillors and called in the hangman for every one of your friends. But she has not.”
“There is a gibbet at every crossroads,” Queen Mary observes. “There are not many in the North who would agree with you that Elizabeth’s mercy falls like the gentle rain.”
“There is a rebel at the end of each rope,” I say stoutly. “And the queen could have hanged a dozen more for each one.”
“Yes, indeed, she has lost all her support,” Mary agrees sweetly. “There was not a town or village in the North that declared for her. They all wanted the true religion and to see me freed. Even you had to run before the army of the North, Bess. Tiens! How you labored with your wagons and how you fretted for your goods! Even you knew that there was not a town or village in the North that was loyal to Elizabeth. You had to whip up your horses and get through them as quick as you could while your silver cups fell off the back.”
There is a ripple of sycophantic laughter from my ladies at the thought of me struggling along with my Papist candlesticks. I bend my head over my sewing and grit my teeth.
“I watched you then,” she says more quietly, drawing her chair a little closer to me so that we can speak privately. “You were afraid in those days, on the road to Coventry.”
“No blame in that,” I say defensively. “Most people were afraid.”
“But you were not afraid for your own life.”
I shake my head. “I am no coward.”
“No, you are more than that. You are courageous. You were not afraid for your life, nor for the safety of your husband. You were not afraid of the battle either. But you were terrified of something. What was it?”
“The loss of my house,” I concede.
She cannot believe me. “What? Your house? With an army at your heels you were thinking of your house?”
I nod. “Always.”
“A house?” she repeats. “When we were in danger of our very lives?”
I give a halfe-mbarrassed laugh. “Your Grace, you would not understand. You have been queen of so many palaces. You would not understand what it is like for me to win a small fortune and try to keep it.”
“You fear for your house before the safety of your husband?”
“I was born the daughter of a newly widowed woman,” I say. I doubt she would understand me even if I could spell it out for her. “On my father’s death she was left with nothing. I mean that: nothing. I was sent to the Brandon family, as companion and upper servant in their household. I saw then that a woman must have a husband and a house for her own safety.”
“You were surely in no danger?”
“I was always in danger of becoming a poor woman,” I explain. “A poor woman is the lowest thing in the world. A woman alone owns nothing; she cannot house her children; she cannot earn money to put food on the table; she is dependent on the kindness of her family; without their generosity she could starve to death. She could see her children die for lack of money to pay a doctor; she could go hungry for she has no trade nor guild nor skill. Women are banned from learning and from trade. You cannot have a woman blacksmith or a woman clerk. All a woman can do, without education, without a skill, is to sell herself. I decided, whatever it cost me, I would somehow win property and cling to it.”
“It is your kingdom,” she says suddenly. “Your house is your own little kingdom.”
“Exactly,” I say. “And if I lose my