queen, the one that they call the true heir, is actually in England, the choice between the Protestant princess and the Catholic rival is set before every man, and for every Protestant in the land today there are two secret Papists, probably more. How are we to live, when we are divided among ourselves, is a question I leave to Cecil, whose unending enmity to Catholics has done so much to bring this about, and to make a bad situation so much worse.
“Is Her Grace in good spirits today?” I ask in an undertone to her ladyship. “Happy?”
She understands me well enough to give me a quick sideways smile. “She is,” she says. She means that the famous Tudor temper is not unleashed. I have to admit I am relieved. The moment that she sent for me I was afraid I would be scolded for letting the inquiry reach no damning conclusion. But what could I do? The terrible murder of Darnley and her suspicious marriage to Bothwell, his probable killer, which appeared as such a vile crime, may not have been her fault at all. She may have been victim rather than criminal. But unless Bothwell confesses everything from his cell, or unless she testifies to his wickedness, no one can know what took place between the two of them. Her ambassador will not even discuss it. Sometimes I feel that I am too frightened even to speculate. I am not a man for great sins of the flesh, for great drama. I love Bess with a quiet affection; there is nothing dark and doomed about either of us. I don’t know what the queen and Bothwell were to each other, and I would rather not imagine.
Queen Elizabeth is seated in her chair by the fireside in her private chamber, under the golden cloth of estate, and I go towards her and sweep off my hat and bow low.
“Ah, George Talbot, my dear old man,” she says warmly, calling me by the nickname she has for me, and I know by this that she is in a sunny mood, and she gives me her hand to kiss.
She is still a beautiful woman. Whether in a temper, whether scowling in a mood or whitefaced in fear, she is still a beautiful woman, though thirtyfive years of age. When she first came to the throne she was a young woman in her twenties and then she was a beauty, paleskinned and redhaired with the color flushing in her cheeks and lips at the sight of Robert Dudley, at the sight of gifts, at the sight of the crowd outside her window. Now her color is steady, she has seen everything there is to see, nothing delights her very much anymore. She paints on her blushes in the morning and refreshes them at night. Her russet hair has faded with age. Her dark eyes, which have seen so much and learned to trust so little, have become hard. She is a woman who has known some passion but no kindness, and it shows in her face.
The queen waves her hand and her women rise obediently and scatter out of earshot. “I have a task for you and for Bess, if you will serve me,” she says.
“Anything, Your Grace.” My mind races. Can she want to come to stay with us this summer? Bess has been working on Chatsworth House ever since her former husband bought it, for this very purpose—to house the queen on her travels to the North. What an honor it will be, if she plans to come. What a triumph for me, and for Bess’s longlaid plan.
“They tell me that your inquiry against the Scots queen, my cousin, failed to find anything to her discredit. I followed Cecil’s advice in pursuing the evidence till half my court was turning over the midden for letters and hanging on the words of maids spying at bedroom doors. But there was nothing, I believe?” She pauses for my confirmation.
“Nothing but gossip, and some evidence that the Scots lords would not publicly show,” I say tactfully. “I refused to see any secret slanders as evidence.”
She nods. “You would not, eh? Why not? Do you think I want a dainty man in my service? Are you too nice to serve your queen? Do you think this is a pretty world we live in and you can tiptoe through dryshod?”
I swallow on a dry mouth. Pray God she is in a mood for justice and