requested that I betake myself to hell. I will not trouble him again, I think,” I said levelly. “But why have you recalled me? Not to inquire into my friendships, nor yet, I think, to chide me for disobedience.” Her eyes narrowed and she studied me for a moment before replying, her restless fingers picking at the embroidery of her gown.
“I learned that you were leaving England for a time, perhaps a long time. I am dying, cousin, and I have called you to me to say good-bye,” she waited for my protest, and laughed again when it did not come. “Your flattery was always of an honest sort, my lord, and I honor you for it. Have you ever been in love?” The suddenness of the question startled me.
“Once or twice, your Majesty,” I answered smoothly.
“As have I, once or twice,” she retorted, then went on. “My sweet Robin was the first, though some might mention Thomas Seymour. I was infatuated with Seymour, perhaps, and flattered that the child I was could attract a man so worldly wise, though in truth, of course, he was neither worldly nor wise. Mayhap I was silly, but certainly not so silly as he. Did you seduce your loves?” Again the whipsaw question caught me by surprise.
“Yes,” I admitted baldly.
“Ah, that I have never had. I thought myself above it, sometimes, and other times I even admitted to myself that I was afraid. Afraid of giving that sort of power to any man, afraid of what men do to women who submit. But now, now I am dying and I cannot help but wonder—I wonder if I was wrong, I wonder what I have missed, and I know that I am too old to find out.” A tear traced its way over the painted cheek to fall soundlessly onto the embroidered gown she wore. I watched its progress, then took her cold hand in mine.
“Why do you tell me, your Majesty?” I asked softly.
“Because you kissed me once, old and ugly as I am, and as if you meant it.” She turned her thin face, with its plaster of paint away from me, as if unable to bear the weight of my gaze. I said nothing for a time, then leant over, bringing her hand to my lips and pressing a kiss upon her palm. She did not turn, and I untied the strings of her wrist ruff, letting it fall. Her tight fitting Italian sleeve was laced from elbow to wrist, and I worked the lacings loose, still in silence, baring the flesh of her arm. The skin was fine-grained as silk, and almost as white as the plastering of paint that covered her face, shoulders and breast. I traced the blue lines of her veins with my finger before raising her wrist to my lips. She turned then to face me, and a single tremor ran through her slight body as my teeth pierced the thin skin and her blood began to flow. Her eyelids drooped with the pleasure that welled in her, bringing a fulfillment that she had denied herself all her life.
I soon drew back, my fingers pressing the small wounds that would be closed before her sleeve was laced over them, and gone without a trace by morning. I took her chin in my hand, catching her gaze as her eyes fluttered open, and murmured my farewells to her. I kissed her once more, this remarkable old woman, then left her to her dreams. She would remember my visit, held fast in her most secret heart, but would never speak of it, and never look upon my face again.
As I stepped from the room, the order came. “Arrest that man,” Cecil said, and two men took my arms, while several others stood by. He ducked back through the doorway, and emerged a few moments later. “It is well for you that the Queen is unharmed,” he stated. “Will you give me your parole, to come along quietly, or must I have you fettered?”
“Fetters are not necessary, my lord,” I told him, and he nodded.
I was taken through several chambers to a windowless closet containing nothing but a bench and a chair. Word was sent to Geoffrey, to come and fetch me. While we awaited him in the study, Cecil took the chair and eyed me, sprawling with a nonchalance I did not feel on the bench, for several minutes before asking abruptly, “Can you think of any good