duke and order him back to court to face the queen. Her Majesty is furious—as we all knew she would be— but without Norfolk here there is no one to explain that this marriage is a good solution. He says that Norfolk must put a brave face on it to our queen, survive her anger, marry the Queen of Scots, and take her home to Scotland.
Mama, I have to say that everyone here is very afraid that this is the start of a general uprising in support of your guest. I pray you to have a care of your own safety. It sounds very likely that an army could come against you to rescue her. Gilbert and I request that we may come home to you and my lord Papa, and help in the defense.
I remain your obedient son,
Henry
In a hastily scrawled postscript Robert Dudley has added:
The queen is beside herself at what looks like a conspiracy of her own two cousins against her. Bess, you must persuade your queen to reassure Elizabeth before she is seriously distressed and we are all suspected of treason.
Yours aye
Dudley
And burn this, Bess. There are spies everywhere. Sometimes I am even fearful for my own safety.
I go to the queen’s apartments on the west side of the palace and find her listening to music. She has hired a new lute player who has recently joined the household at extra cost to me, and he is playing and singing for her. The music is very fine, which should give me some comfort for the bed, board, and wages that I have to provide for him, his two servants and two horses.
When she sees my face she nods to him to be silent.
“Lady Shrewsbury?”
“Bad news from court,” I say baldly. And there! I see it! A flash across her face, instantly hidden, like a flare of torchlight in a shadowy room. She expects something; she is waiting for something to happen. There is a conspiracy indeed, and Dudley is wrong to think her innocent, and Cecil is right to alert the queen. Dear God, what if she is plotting war against us?
The smile she turns on me is utterly serene. “Indeed, I am sorry to hear it. Tell me, is Her Grace the queen well?”
“She has learned of your proposed betrothal to the Duke of Norfolk,” I say flatly. “And she is much distressed that he should have engaged himself without consulting her.”
She raises her eyebrows. “Has he not done so yet?” she wonders.
“No,” I say shortly. “And when she asked him for an explanation, he left court without permission.”
She turns her eyes down as if in regret and then looks up again. “He has gone away? Far?”
I nip my lip in irritation at this mummery, which may amuse her but does not entertain me. “Robert Dudley suggests that you write to the queen and explain the betrothal, and that you write to the duke and persuade him to go back to court and reassure his queen and kinswoman.”
She lifts her face and smiles at me. “I will certainly take Robert Dudley’s advice,” she says sweetly. “But my lord duke, Thomas Howard, will do as he thinks best. I cannot command him. I am his betrothed, his wifetobe, not his master. I am not a wife who believes in ruling the roost. His own queen must command him; I cannot. Does she not order him back to court?”
“She orders him but he doesn’t go,” I say curtly. “And his staying away from court looks like a confession of guilt. Next thing they will be saying that he has run off to raise an army.”
Again, I see it, though her eyelashes flicker down to hide that flash of hope. So that is what she wants. She wants war, in the very heart of our court, in the very heart of our country. Dudley is mistaken, and Cecil is very right to fear her. Dear God, I am housing and humoring an enemy who will destroy us all. She hopes that Norfolk will lead an uprising. God damn her, she would see the peace of England broken to get her a husband and a throne.
“Don’t even think it,” I warn her flatly. “Thomas Howard would never raise an army against Elizabeth. Whatever he has written to you, whatever anyone has said to you, whatever you dream: don’t think it. He would never lead out an army against the queen, and no one would follow him against her.”