such a sharp slap at the spinster Elizabeth!—since it is a quotation from the Bible. What could be more tasteful and innocent? “Virtue flourishes by wounding” is the quotation that I have embroidered around the picture. Norfolk will see the slyest hint of treason in it, and if he has anything of a man about him he will be stirred by that provocative word “wounding.”
Bess understood it at once and was deliciously scandalized and swore when she first saw the design that I would not dare to stitch it.
I dare! I dare anything! Let the barren vine be cut down. Let Elizabeth, the bastard, be struck down. I am a fertile woman of twentysix; I have conceived nothing but boys. Howard is a man who has already fathered sons. Who can doubt that either my young son James or our future sons—StuartHowards—will take Elizabeth’s empty throne?
1569, AUGUST, WINGFIELD MANOR: BESS
A note from Cecil delivered in secret reads:
No, you are not mistaken in my intentions, dear Bess. I am as like to install her on the throne of Scotland as I am to point a pistol at the heart of England and destroy everything I love.
Every secret letter between her and our terrible enemies that comes to my hand convinces me of the greatness of the danger that she poses. How many letters elude me, only she will know, only the devil himself who directs her will know. Wait for news of her arrest for treason.
1569, AUGUST, WINGFIELD MANOR: MARY
Oh God, I am a fool, a fool, and now a heartbroken fool. I am damned by my stars, and betrayed by my friends, and abandoned by my God.
This new blow is almost too much for me to bear. The pain in my side is so great that I can hardly bear to put my foot to the ground; it is like a knife in my side. It is Rizzio’s wound bleeding from my own side. It is my stigmata.
Hamilton, my friend and spy in Scotland, writes to tell me that my half brother Lord Moray has suddenly reneged on his agreement and is now unwilling to let me return. He gives no reason, and indeed, there can be none except cowardice, greed, and faithlessness. The English are on the brink of signing our treaty with him; I have already given my word. But he has suddenly broken off, at the very last minute. He has taken fright and says he will not have me back in the country. Saints forgive him! He is a falsehearted, wicked man, but this last cruelty surprises me.
I should have known. I should have been prepared for his dishonesty. He is a usurper who drove me from my own throne, a bastard of my father’s mistaken begetting; I should have guessed he would not want his true queen returned. What can I do but supplant and replace him and, as soon as I can, behead him?
The shock throws me into illness. I cannot stop myself from crying. I take to my bed, and in rage and distress I write to Elizabeth that my brother is false through and through, a child conceived by mistake in lust, bad breeding coming out as dishonor. Then I remember that she too is a bastard of mistaken begetting, also occupying my throne, and I tear up the letter and painfully, slowly, forge something more dutiful and loving, and ask her, please, please, of her kindness, of her honor, to defend my rights as a fellow queen and as a sister, as the only woman in the world who can understand and sympathize with my plight.
Dear God, let her hear me and understand that she must, by the light of heaven, in all honor, help me. She cannot let me be thrown from my throne, thrown down to nothing. I am a queen three times over! I am her own cousin! Am I to end my life under house arrest, crippled with pain and weak with crying?
I take a sip of small ale from the cup by my bedside. I steady myself: it cannot be—it cannot be. God has chosen me and called me to be a queen; I cannot be defeated. I ring the bell for Mary Seton.
“Sit with me,” I say when she comes. “This is a long night for me. My enemies are working against me and my friends do nothing. I have to write a letter.”
She takes a stool at the fireside and tucks a shawl around