The other queen

1571, MARCH, SHEFFIELD CASTLE: GEORGE

The queen and I ride home in the bright midday spring sunshine, a wagon following behind us with two roe deer for Bess’s flesh kitchen. The queen is in a lighthearted mood; she loves hunting and rides better than any woman I have ever met; she could outride most men.

When we come through the great gate for the stable yard my heart sinks to see Bess waiting for us, hands on her hips, the very portrait of an offended wife. The queen gives a little ripple of suppressed laughter and turns her head so Bess cannot see her amusement.

I dismount and lift the queen down from the saddle, and then the two of us turn to Bess like children waiting for a reprimand.

She gives an unwilling curtsy. “We are to go to Tutbury,” she says, without preamble.

“Tutbury?” the queen repeats. “I thought we were to stay here and then go to Scotland.”

“A letter from the court,” Bess says. “I have started packing again.”

She hands over the sealed letter to the queen, nods distantly at me, and strides off to where the traveling wagons are being made ready for another journey.

All the joy is wiped from the queen’s face as she hands the letter to me. “Tell me,” she says. “I cannot bear to read it.”

I break the seal and open the letter. It is from Cecil. “I don’t quite understand,” I say. “He writes that you are to go back to Tutbury for greater safety. He says there have been some incidents in London.”

“Incidents? What does he mean?”

“He doesn’t say. He says nothing more than he is watching the situation and he would feel happier for your safety if you were at Tutbury.”

“I would be safer if I were in Scotland,” she snaps. “Does he say when we are to go?”

“No,” I say. I pass the letter to her. “We will have to go as he bids. But I wish I knew what is in his mind.”

She slides a sideways glance at me. “Do you think Bess will know? Might he have written to her separately? Might he have told her what he fears?”

“He might have done.”

She slips off her red leather glove and puts her hand on my wrist. I wonder if she can feel my pulse speed at the touch of her fingers. “Ask her,” she whispers. “Find out from Bess what Cecil is thinking, and tell me.”