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Chapter 36

Aurilia's shriek had penetrated through the door of the queen's bedchamber into the private retiring room where her ladies waited on her pleasure. Few were there now. The duchess of Norfolk remained, grimly waiting for her friends and rivals for Mary's attention, the countess of Arundel and Lady Rochester, to return. She was furious that they had been summoned and she had not.

Mistress Rosamund had come into the chamber a few moments earlier, seemingly to retrieve the book she had left, but she was pale and breathing hard. Ordinarily the duchess of Norfolk did not concern herself with Mistress Rosamund. The queen was very fond of Rosamund because she had been one of her ladies from before her father died and all through the years Mary had been in disgrace. True, but Mistress Rosamund was nobody, a mere esquire's daughter.

Still, the duchess of Norfolk noticed that Mistress Rosamund was looking at the queen's door with wide eyes that looked very frightened. Could it be that she knew what was going on behind that door? The duchess of Norfolk got slowly to her feet, intending to ask Mistress Rosamund what she knew with all the power of her exalted position.

She was just about to call out to Rosamund to wait for her, when a shriek rang out so dreadful that for a moment she was paralyzed. That moment was enough for Rosamund to leap across the room and fling open the door to the queen's bedchamber just as a second scream tore the air.

Outraged that Mistress Nobody had dared to run ahead of a duchess and also dared to open the door to the queen's bedchamber without invitation, the duchess of Norfolk pushed Rosamund aside. She heard Rosamund cry out but her eyes were fixed on an enormously tall, exquisitely beautiful woman with so vicious an expression on her face the duchess cringed away. But then the woman vanished! Vanished! And behind her Rosamund was softly keening gibberish.

"Who is that?" the duchess cried.

"Albertus," Rosamund answered. "He is one of the queen's physicians. Oh, God have mercy, I think he is dead!"

Caught by the word "dead," the duchess of Norfolk finally noticed the body on the floor. Her lips parted to ask again about the giant woman who had disappeared, but the words stuck in her throat. There was no woman standing above the body. Surely that vision had been some kind of reflection or false image. All else—except the dead man—looked perfectly ordinary.

The queen, kneeling at her prie-dieu, was just turning her head. She looked faintly annoyed at being interrupted at her prayers, but not at all startled. As if neither of those dreadful shrieks had sounded. Then Queen Mary saw Albertus on the floor, his case open, his instruments strewn about, and blood streaking his face.

"What is this?" Mary asked, eyes wide with shock.

The question was addressed to the duchess of Norfolk, who was standing in the doorway. The duchess turned to push Rosamund forward to answer. But Rosamund was not there. Everyone except Rosamund was staring at her, mouths and eyes open with shock. Rosamund's book was lying on the chair where she had left it. Had she imagined that beautiful, vicious woman, the duchess wondered? Had she imagined Rosamund? Had she imagined the screams?

"Did you not hear the terrible cries?" the duchess of Norfolk asked in a failing voice.

 

Rhoslyn had released the spell holding Mary and her women in stasis as soon as she saw Aurilia disappear. She had no time to try to wipe what the duchess of Norfolk had seen out of her mind nor to do anything about Albertus dead on the floor. She had to get to the room where Albertus had told her the courtiers would be kept until Aurilia had fixed the knowledge of Mary's delivery into their minds. If a servant entered or anyone else saw them with blank faces and empty minds a terrible outcry, likely an outcry of witchcraft, would be raised. The last thing needed in Hampton Court when the queen was about to bear a child was a witch hunt.

She found the room, closed the door behind her, opened her mouth to release the half dozen men and two women—and clapped her hand firmly over her lips. She dared not simply release them. If Aurilia had already fixed in their minds the conviction that Queen Mary had borne a child, they would rush out and spread the news to the world. Even if no one conceived the notion of making that the truth by bringing in a babe as Albertus had intended, much trouble for Queen Mary could ensue.

Near her stood Lady Rochester. Rhoslyn placed her hands on each temple and sought within. Yes, the thought was there. Lady Rochester was sure that the queen had been brought to bed of a fair boy, large and healthy. Rhoslyn first tried simply to remove that memory, but it was not a surface overlay on the woman's thoughts. It was a conviction, deeply implanted.

Aware of the passing of time, aware of the duchess of Norfolk having seen Aurilia, aware there was an unexplained dead body on the floor of the queen's bedchamber, Rhoslyn was tempted to carve out the memory of the queen's delivery and leave the hole in Lady Rochester's mind. She would fill it with something, Rhoslyn told herself, and then shuddered as she thought she might fill it with the duchess of Norfolk's tale. It would be easy to convince herself that the terrible events that caused Albertus's death and loud screams had been lost to her memory by shock.

But the queen and the five women with her in her bedchamber would not have heard any cries. What would they say to each other? How would they explain Albertus's dead body on the floor? Would they believe the duchess of Norfolk's claim that she had seen Aurilia and that the woman had disappeared?

Rhoslyn sought the root of the thought Aurilia had planted and slowly, carefully, dug it out. Tears of impatience blurred her sight. Usually when she implanted or removed a thought, the result was almost as swift as the thought itself had been. This was far different, and no matter her care, she scored the memories around the idea that the queen had given birth. Something would remain, a shadow of a doubt, a feeling of uneasiness.

She heard a sound in the corridor and knew she had no more time to spend. Rhoslyn released Lady Rochester to stand like an automaton and whirled toward the door, but the steps went by and she rushed to the countess of Arundel and seized her temples. She was less careful, pulling roughly at the memory of a quick, easy birth, pushing in the thought that whoever gave the news was too glib, not trustworthy.

There was more noise in the corridor. Rhoslyn could not make out any words, but the voices were high and excited. Desperately, she rushed from one man to another, muddling the memory of news of a successful delivery, overlaying that thought with the memory of a second announcement that no child had been born, the first news was from an overexcited maid who had misunderstood something she had overheard.

Then the latch of the door clicked. Rhoslyn whirled about, bespelled the latch to stick for a moment, spoke the words of release of the stasis that had held the ladies and gentlemen in the chamber, and cast the Don't-see-me spell on herself. She was so drained, so empty, that she was barely able to stagger out of the way of the people in the chamber and sink down on the floor. Ladies and gentlemen were now looking about in astonishment and asking each other how they came there.

The short spell on the door ended and the door burst open. Lord Paget stood in the doorway, his clothing showing the haste with which he had donned it. "What are you all doing here?" he asked.

A burst of answers made all of them unintelligible. Both ladies cried almost together that they must go back at once to the queen. Something was wrong; they knew something was wrong. They had been summoned to hear news but . . .

One of the men said, "The queen is brought to bed. Surely she is already delivered. It was barely dark when I was called here. Why have we had no further news?"

"Brought to bed?" Paget repeated like a man stunned. "I have had no message that Her Majesty had begun her labor."

He turned and went out of the room; those who had been there hurried after him. On the floor, Rhoslyn sobbed softly with weakness and released the Don't-see-me spell. Her keen hearing told her that not all the men had turned in the direction of the queen's chambers. At least two, and she feared the two she had least time to work on, had set off in the direction opposite that Paget took.

The news that Queen Mary had given birth to a beautiful and healthy male child was all over the palace in less than an hour; from the palace the news ran out into the streets of London. Church bells rang, happy citizens brought firewood for bonfires. People hugged each other and wept with relief. Even though many of them did not like the Spanish connection and liked the renewal of Catholicism less, an undisputed legitimate heir secured the future.

No immediate contradiction of the rumor came from the queen's apartment. There utter confusion reigned. The servants and the few ladies who had been in the outer reception room had all heard the terrible screams from the queen's bedchamber. They crowded the doorway behind the duchess of Norfolk and supported her contention that she had opened the queen's door uninvited because the cries made her fear ill had come to the queen.

Moreover, there was the dead body of the physician lying on the floor, blood staining his scalp and cheeks, his medical instruments flung hither and yon. That could not have happened in silence. Yet the queen and her five ladies had heard nothing. Mary looked from one to the other and saw no answer in their frightened faces. She strained for an answer, any answer, to screams that had been heard through a closed door that she and her women, in the same chamber as the screamer, had not heard.

At which point Lord Paget pushed his way through the crowd at the door and said, "Madam, I was told that you had been brought to bed. What has been going forward here?" And he saw Albertus's body. His hand fell to his sword hilt. "What is that? Who is that?"

Everyone began to explain at once, voices mingling and overriding each other, producing a cacophony that was no more than noise. Twice the queen tried to speak but could not be heard. Anger with others who would not listen caused raised voices which only led to more noise. Eventually Lord Paget bellowed, "Quiet!" and the room fell still.

Paget pushed his way into the room and bowed deeply to the queen. "Madam, I beg your pardon for intruding, and for raising my voice in your chamber . . . but how did this dead man come here?"

Queen Mary and Lord Paget did not always get along. From time to time Paget had been accused of corruption and Mary suspected him of gathering around him supporters of less than pure Catholic conviction apurpose to interfere with her policies. She dared not say to him that she did not know how a man died in her bedchamber, that she did not even know how he had come into her bedchamber.

"My lord—"

The voice, high and thin and trembling, was nonetheless pitched so that Paget looked down, every eye in Queen Mary's bedchamber, and all those still in the reception room strained to see the speaker. Mistress Rosamund stood, white faced, clinging to the door frame, seeming barely able to stand.

"I saw," she said. "I saw what I can hardly believe, but I did see it. The duchess of Norfolk saw too. There were two terrible shrieks. We ran together to the queen's door and pulled it open. The queen was kneeling at her prie-dieu with her ladies behind her. She was rapt in prayer, entranced in prayer. It was plain that she had not heard the cries that drew me and Her Grace of Norfolk to the door."

"So it was," the duchess of Norfolk agreed faintly.

She waited uneasily for Rosamund to describe the fearsome woman who had vanished; she could not decide whether to admit she had seen the woman and also had seen her vanish. But Rosamund said nothing of that terrible female figure. The duchess let out a relieved breath. Perhaps she had seen some twisted reflection in a window. There had never been a vanishing woman.

Rosamund was speaking again, her voice a little stronger. "The man was already lying on the floor with blood spurting from his head, as if something with claws had held him and then discarded him. I can only believe that some great evil threatened our queen and God protected her and all those with her because of the sanctity of her life and the sincerity of her prayers."

"It is true that I did not hear the cries," the queen said. "Nor did the ladies who were with me."

Mary looked around at the women who had been in the room with her. All murmured agreement that they had not heard the screams, that none of them had seen the man enter the room. All were wide-eyed and breathless with wonder. All gazed at her with awe. Even Paget who was not a credulous man, was convinced that the ladies with Mary were telling the truth as they knew it. Whether or not God had actually shielded them all from evil . . . that was not so easy for a rational man to believe as it was for a superstitious woman.

It was not, however, a subject on which Paget was about to argue. There had been so many "miracles" on Mary's behalf since Edward had died: that she had been crowned and Northumberland's plot defeated; that she had triumphed over Wyatt's revolt when the rebel was entering the city; that she was with child at her age . . . if she was with child . . .

"Let us all thank God for his mercies," Paget said, just as Mistress Rosamund slumped to the floor.

The queen ran to her and knelt beside her. The other ladies ran, too. As he was forced away from the woman, Paget briefly wondered if Mistress Rosamund was somehow involved with the death of the queen's physician. Had she told the tale of the depth of the queen's prayers to cover her crime? But he could not see how that was possible. The duchess of Norfolk had heard what Mistress Rosamund heard and had seen what she saw. A quick question to the duchess of Norfolk confirmed that Rosamund had never entered the queen's bedchamber.

Paget then turned his attention to having the dead man removed from the queen's bedchamber. The ladies were all occupied with Mistress Rosamund, who was revived from her faint. Her maid was summoned and she and Susan Clarencieux supported Rosamund to her bed.

Meanwhile various alarms had been transmitted to the chancellor and to King Philip. Both had heard that the queen had been brought to bed and that the queen had been attacked. Both tales were obviously untrue; Mary was unharmed, calm, even exalted, and quite clearly had not borne a child. However, long and elaborate explanations were necessary before the two most powerful men in the country could understand everything that had happened.

It was well into morning before anyone got to bed and most of the men involved were in foul moods. Their servants  hesitated to wake them again to inform them that the entire city was celebrating the birth of an heir. When each learned, he felt a flicker of hope that a babe could be procured to confirm the false rumor. It was no more than a flicker. Each man knew in an instant that Queen Mary could never be convinced to agree to such a deception.

For one thing, Mary still expected to bear her own child. For another, she was a person of such transparent honesty that she could never sustain the pretense.

Some effort was made to discover how the false rumor of the birth of an heir came about, but no one who confessed to passing word of the queen's delivery could remember how they knew of it. They were sure. Someone of great authority and close to the queen had told them, but who, which of the queen's ladies, could not be identified. Late on the first of May proclamations went forth denying a prince had been born. Such a joy was still a matter of expectation.

Elizabeth had missed all the excitement. Stricken by a violent headache, she had taken a dose of opiate and slept heavily all night on the thirtieth of April and well into the morning on May first. By the time she woke, Blanche had the true story and told it aloud with embellishments to her mistress and the other ladies. All exclaimed equally in wonder and horror. By no flicker of an eyelid or tone of voice did Elizabeth betray any emotion not completely shared by the ladies who served her on Mary's orders.

After such thrilling events, the week that followed was exceedingly dull. No one came to visit Elizabeth; her ladies did go out—to report to the queen, Elizabeth thought—but she made no comment and no complaint. She merely listened more keenly while her eyes were bent on the pages of a book; she learned that uneasiness was growing among Mary's attendants about the possibility of her bearing any child.

A kind of affirmation of that doubt came in the middle of the next week in the arrival of Chancellor Gardiner and several members of the Council. They came to ask if Elizabeth was yet ready to submit herself to the queen's mercy, to which she answered sharply that she had no reason to do so having never by word or deed ever willingly offended Her Majesty. Rather than mercy, Elizabeth said, she wished for the law. Let her be tried in public where these sly accusations could be exposed and shown to have no substance.

Gardiner and the Council members left without the smallest satisfaction, and some of the Council members looked very thoughtful. If Queen Mary did not soon deliver a child, the lady with whom they were crossing swords might be the next queen.

The next day Gardiner returned carrying a message from Queen Mary herself. She marveled, Gardiner reported the queen as saying, that Elizabeth should so stoutly refuse to confess that she had offended. It seemed, Mary added, that Elizabeth thought she had been wrongfully imprisoned.

Elizabeth smiled thinly. "No, not at all. It is the queen's right to deal with me, her subject, as she pleases."

"Well," Gardiner returned angrily because she had said nothing rebellious, "Her Majesty wants me to tell you that you must tell another tale before you can be set at liberty."

Liberty from my life and my chance at the throne, Elizabeth thought, and said, "Then I would rather remain in prison with honesty and truth, than to go free under a cloud. This I have said and I will stand thereto, for I will never belittle myself."

Suddenly Gardiner dropped to his knees, "If this be true, then Your Grace hath the advantage of me and the other lords, for your wrong and long imprisonment."

But Elizabeth did not fall into that trap and assure him that she did not blame him. She smiled very slightly and said, "What vantage I have, you know. Taking God to record, I seek no vantage for your so dealing with me. But God forgive you . . . and me also."

Elizabeth's voice was even, her smile unchanged, but two of the Council members who had come with Gardiner began to edge their way toward the door hoping she had not noticed them. What would God have to forgive her for if not for what she would do to them when she came to power.

The others made deeper bows as they said quiet fare wells than they had on arriving. They doubted Elizabeth had failed to notice every person who came in Gardiner's train. Gardiner met Elizabeth's eyes; they were dark, not blue, but the look reminded him painfully of Henry VIII, who had not dealt with him gently when crossed.

Gardiner reported to the queen and to Philip, making it clear that he was certain Elizabeth would never confess any connection with the rebellion or even ask a general forgiveness. Philip had to suppress a smile when he remembered how roundly Elizabeth had defended herself from his accusation. He did not admit how much Elizabeth interested him, nor did he protest when Gardiner again said that Elizabeth was the worst threat to Mary's reign and to ensure its safety must be removed.

When Gardiner was gone, however, Philip asked, as if mildly curious, how Elizabeth was to be removed.

"Declared bastard, which she is," Mary hissed, "and debarred from the throne."

"And how likely is this to happen?" Philip asked gravely.

Mary bit her lip. Gardiner had tried many times to push through a bill with those provisions. He had never even succeeded in bringing it to a first reading, let alone a vote. Parliament was not in the least interested in having the heir presumptive declared ineligible and having civil war or total anarchy in the country.

"When the child is born," Mary said, placing her hand on her still-swollen but rather flabby belly. "Then they will vote to set her aside."

Philip made no direct answer to that assertion. He remembered the taut distension of his first wife's belly when she was carrying Don Carlos, and he thought it less and less likely that Mary was going to bear a child. To remove Elizabeth would make Mary of Scots, the French dauphin's wife, heir presumptive; whatever Mary felt about Elizabeth, Mary of Scots on the throne of England could not be tolerated by the Empire.

"Perhaps you have gone about this in a fashion ill-suited to such a headstrong chit," Philip said slowly, as if thinking of something new. "As she believes she has been harshly treated for no real cause, Lady Elizabeth must have little faith in your mercy. Perhaps if you see her and bespeak her kindly and release her from confinement—she can be watched from afar—she would be more willing to confess her fault."

"You do not know Elizabeth," Mary snapped.

Philip shrugged, the indifferent gesture a lie like the words. "No, nor do I wish to know her, but I know when certain measures must be acknowledged a failure and new measures tried."

A week later, when her belly was even softer, Mary sent for Elizabeth. She did not invite her to dinner, nor to attend any Court function; she would not give her the satisfaction of being publicly acknowledged. Mary even waited until after dark, when no one would see Elizabeth brought to her rooms. Philip, curious, concealed himself behind a curtain in the bedchamber, not far from the garden stair which Albertus had climbed.

Now when the door opened, Elizabeth entered, straight and slender and lithe. She did not wait for Mary to speak; as soon as she was well into the room, Elizabeth fell to her knees and declared in a clear but not aggressive voice that she was a true subject in word and deed and begged the queen to so judge her.

Frustrated and infuriated, Mary forgot all about appearing to be kind and forgiving and said, "You will not confess your offense but stand stoutly to your truth. I pray God it may so fall out."

"If it does not," Elizabeth returned steadily, "I request neither favor nor pardon at Your Majesty's hands."

"Well, so you stiffly persevere in your truth. Likely you also believe you have been wrongfully punished."

There was a tiny pause. Peering out of a crack in the curtain Philip saw that Elizabeth was fighting to control a quivering lip. "I must not say so, if it please Your Majesty, to you," she got out in a slightly unsteady voice.

"No, but doubtless you will quickly enough say so to others."

Elizabeth raised a perfectly solemn face and said, most soberly, even sadly, "No I would not, if it please Your Majesty, I have borne the burden and must bear it. I may only humbly beseech Your Majesty to have a good opinion of me and to think me to be your true subject, not only from the beginning but for ever, as long as life lasts."

There was a slight sound behind the curtain. Elizabeth's eyes flicked in that direction. She lowered her head and bit her lip as Mary looked over her shoulder and murmured an apologetic-sounding sentence in Spanish. So Philip was there. How very interesting. Her mind flashed back over what she had said and how she had looked, and she was satisfied enough to need to suppress a smile.

"I can hope if I take your word it will be so," Mary said, ungraciously, obviously suppressing emotions other than laughter.

She gestured for Elizabeth to rise and gave her leave to go. Elizabeth backed cautiously away, until the hand held behind her touched the door. She curtsied, went out, and wondered, as she went down the stair into the garden to join Bedingfield and the escort he had brought, what Mary had thought the meeting would produce.

She did not need to wonder for long. Five days later, soon after breakfast, Bedingfield asked for audience, and when Elizabeth agreed, he came in bringing Sir Edward Paulet with him. Behind Bedingfield's back, Sir Edward was grinning to split his face. Elizabeth did not acknowledge his expression with so much as a blink, merely asking, "What would you have of me so early, Sir Henry? I hope you have no order to travel. I am not ready."

"May Christ, his Merciful Mother and all the saints be praised, I desire nothing of you, Your Grace, except to bid you farewell. The queen has lifted the burden of your care from me. I return it, with joy and gratitude to Her Majesty, to Sir Edward."

For a long moment Elizabeth was silent, then she held out her hand to be kissed. "Most faithfully, if often not to my liking, have you fulfilled your charge, Sir Henry. I cannot say I am sorry to bid you God speed, but you are an honest and faithful man and free of you, I wish you well."

Taking that as a dismissal, Bedingfield almost ran out of the room. Sir Edward stood looking after him, his grin even wider. "I think, my lady, that Sir Henry did not fully appreciate the honor of your care."

Again Elizabeth was silent for a moment, although her lips twitched. She was aware of the expressions of surprise and dismay on the faces of Elizabeth Marberry, Mary Dacre, and Susanna Norton. They expected as immediate a dismissal as she had given Bedingfield but Elizabeth was far too clever to do that.

"You will replace Bedingfield's guards with my four," she said.

"Done, Your Grace. Gerrit is at the door of the apartment and Nyle at the back entry. But, Your Grace, if you have any suspicion of trouble, I beg you give me warning so that I can add a younger man to watch with each of them. They are devoted, but . . ."

"Are there younger men you think could be trained by my four? They know without needing long lists—" which Elizabeth had no intention of supplying so Mary would have written evidence of whom she regarded as friends "—who I would wish to see, whom to announce, and who to turn away with an excuse. But I know they are not getting any younger. Only make clear that they will be welcome to me as long as they wish to serve."

Sir Edward nodded, his grin changing to an ordinary smile. "They know." He bowed. "Your orders, Your Grace?"

Elizabeth thought he was looking at her with purpose, as if he wanted her to draw him aside as if to give orders so that he could tell her something privately. She would not give Mary's spies such a piece of evidence against her. What she did was shake her head and hold out her hand.

"No orders other than what you know to do better than I can tell you, to find whatever men will be needed to replace Bedingfield's guard. Oh, and in the hour before dinner—" she smiled at him "—you can take Sir Henry's place and walk in the garden with me. It is the only exercise I am allowed." She noticed Sir Edward's lips part slightly when she said that and shook her head at him infinitesimally to stop him from saying he had no orders to confine her and would not in any case. She went on smoothly, "I do hope, however, you will have more conversation than Sir Henry."

Sir Edward caught the tiny head shake and the following glance toward the attendant ladies. He sighed gustily. "Oh, yes, my lady, but I fear my conversation will be no more entertaining than Sir Henry's. His departure was very sudden. I had no warning. I am now burdened with a dozen household decisions upon which I need to hear your preference."

"We can talk of that as we walk," Elizabeth said.

He took that as dismissal, which it was, bowed over her hand and went away. Before her ladies could ask about their status with her, she engaged them in their ordinary morning activities, acting as if she had not been given a clear signal that she was no longer to be considered a prisoner.

Eventually Susanna Norton said, "Will you be leaving Hampton Court, Your Grace?"

Elizabeth turned on her a wide-eyed shocked gaze. "Leave Hampton Court?" she repeated. "When my sister has not yet been brought to bed? No, indeed. Nor would I consider departing until the queen gives me leave to go and tells me where she prefers that I take up residence."

"How very obedient you are," Susanna said.

Elizabeth smiled. "I have always been and always will be Queen Mary's most loyal and obedient servant."

That was the end of that kind of question. Elizabeth had made it clear, both by words and by not dismissing them that the seeming opening of the gates of her prison would not induce in her any wild or careless behavior. There would be nothing, her ladies realized, to report to the queen, not for some time . . . if ever.

Perhaps that conviction allowed the ladies to listen a little less closely, particularly as Elizabeth and Sir Edward did talk of who would stand guard and who would run messages. Only later did Sir Edward talk of replacing the men-at-arms who had left with Bedingfield.

While asking whether to bring men from Elizabeth's estates or hire men from the city, Sir Edward managed to impart to Elizabeth that Bedingfield had seeded the small troop Sir Edward had been allowed with his own men. "He recommended them most highly, and they are good enough men," Sir Edward said, his eyes filled with amusement and his voice not completely steady.

"Sir Henry is a very honest man," Elizabeth replied, shaking her head and swallowing down a choke of laughter—imagine the idiocy of recommending men to Sir Edward and expecting they would not be known as spies—and then added, in a soft murmur, "if not the most clever. By all means," she went on in a more normal voice, "you should keep and carefully consider the advice of all the men Sir Henry recommended to you. I am glad to give them employment."

For a week the hour's walk before dinner was as constant as the walk with Bedingfield had been. On the eighth day, however, when the door opened at the usual time, Sir William Cecil came in in Sir Edward's stead. He bowed generally and with indifference to the ladies, then came forward and bowed more deeply to Elizabeth. Now that her business had been replaced in her own hands, he said, he was come to inform her as his employer—he was surveyor of Elizabeth's properties—that he would be out of England for some weeks. He had been assigned to go with Cardinal Pole to try to reconcile France and the Empire.

"Journeys abroad are always perilous," Elizabeth said. "I would be grieved to lose your services. Do take care."

Cecil bowed, knowing Elizabeth was not concerned about the physical journey but about his close involvement with Cardinal Pole who was fiercely Catholic. Cecil was of the reformist persuasion, but, like Elizabeth, not at all inclined to martyrdom. He promised to be careful and vigilant.

Sir Edward arrived before Master Cecil had time to say more and Elizabeth suggested that they continue their visit in the gardens. She needed her exercise she said; without it she could not eat. Whereupon Sir Edward smiled and said she would soon have occasion for more vigorous exercise. He had sent for her horses, and Ladbroke and Tolliver were already on their way.

Under the talk of horses, Master Cecil named a code they had used in the past and the name of the tenant who would, as soon as Cecil returned to England, begin a correspondence about a piece of property he rented from her. The rest of his conversation mentioned that his wife had come back to the house on Cannon Row in London and would like permission to call on Lady Elizabeth while Cecil was abroad. Elizabeth assured him she would be delighted to see Mildred, turning to tell the ladies who followed that Mildred Cecil was a very old friend, indeed; that they had been schoolmates at this very Hampton Court years ago.

A few days later Elizabeth's great uncle Lord William Howard came to call on her, greatly enlivening the quiet of her rooms with his jokes and his booming voice. Elizabeth encouraged him. That very afternoon the marquess of Winchester paid a call and asked about her future plans. She had none, Elizabeth replied, until she heard what Her Majesty the queen intended her to do.

This time she said nothing about remaining until Mary's child was born, and Paulet did not speak of it either. He did mention that he hoped Cardinal Pole could ease the tension between France and the Empire. The king's feeling against France was very strong, Paulet remarked—Elizabeth knew he was warning her against any contact or communication with the French ambassador—and if the war came to actual fighting, Philip might need to go abroad and supervise the Imperial forces.

May ended and the days of June rolled by. That month was notable, as was July, for several times encountering in the garden a slender, upright figure in somber black. Sir Edward stopped as soon as it became clear their paths would intersect and Elizabeth went forward alone to drop a deep curtsey. King Philip lifted her at once and said always that he hoped his company would not be distasteful. Invariably Elizabeth laughed and begged him, in fluent, fluid Latin to walk with her. During those meetings, Philip learned personally what Renard had reported, that Lady Elizabeth had a spirit full of enchantment.

Their pleasure in each other's company was not reflected in the country at large. Sentiment against the Spanish grew more and more bitter. England never recovered any of the good spirits founded on the hope of an heir. The crowning disappointment was the false rumor of Queen Mary's delivery. The weather was terrible, cold and wet; crops drowned and rotted in the fields and the temper of the country grew worse and worse. Constant broadsides blaming the queen and her Spanish husband for all the troubles of England were published daily.

Agitators carrying the bones of those burned for heresy as if they were holy relics encouraged more heresy and so there were more burnings. The mood of the people grew uglier and uglier. There were riots not only in London but all over the country that the earl of Pembroke needed an army to suppress. And still the queen did not give birth. No one except herself alone and one or two sycophantic physicians now spoke of the possibility that a child would be born.

By the end of July even Queen Mary had to admit she had never been pregnant. Quietly, without fanfare and using the excuse that the Hampton Court needed cleansing, which it certainly did, being dirty and stinking from overuse, Mary left the palace in London for her country house of Oatlands. Oatlands was a small, unpretentious estate; it would not accommodate any except the queen, her husband, a few of her dearest ladies and Philip's most essential servants. The Court, most of them with sighs of relief, dispersed.

Possibly room could have been made for Elizabeth, but Mary was tired of hearing who and how often those of her Court were now making their peace with Elizabeth. Mary gave her sister leave to move to a house of her own, only three miles from Oatlands. She knew quite well that many would pay calls at the new house, but she would not need to hear about it.

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Framed