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expect—he and Savage had monitored the scene for weeks, planned their course of action. But Reston, without explanation, had sent him alone today, forced him to leave Savage behind.
    He watched the guards pass, followed by courtiers and ladies-in-waiting—the queen’s protectors masking her almost entirely. His breath quickened as he started to reach inside the bag, feeling for the gun. He moved forward, easing his way to the front of the crowd, halting suddenly as a scuffle started. He strained to see through the throngs of people, half-expecting to find someone on a mission as grim as his. Would Savage have disobeyed Reston and come on his own?
    It was not Savage.
    Instead, he saw a gentleman, dressed with not quite the same level of finery as the others near the queen. His fingers were covered with rings, but he wore no hat, and his curly hair was disheveled by the breeze. His doublet, though not cut from common cloth, looked dingy compared to those around him, and his appearance altogether lacked the polish of a courtier. But as Elizabeth approached him, he’d jumped forward and, with a swish, snapped the cloak from his shoulders and lowered it to the ground in front of her.
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    “A puddle in the way, Majesty,” Walter Raleigh said, a smile full of charm lighting his face as he smoothed his cloak on the ground. He seemed to take no notice of the guards coming toward him. And there was no need to. At the slightest sign from the queen, they’d stopped.
    Elizabeth’s eyes swept the man in front of her, and she nodded appreciatively at his handsome face and fine legs, smiling as she checked the ground. There was no sign of any puddle. “A puddle?” She met his gaze, her stare cool, and stepped on the cloak, shaking her head.
    The guards fell back into their positions, and as the royal party continued on its way, one lady of the Privy Chamber looked back at the sea captain, throwing him a smile that, along with her shining eyes, sliced through him. Raleigh shrugged at her, picked up his cloak, and stood gazing after the queen until the doors of the chapel closed behind her.
    He turned, found Calley—who’d hung back from the excitement—and put his arm around him. “She spoke to me. You have to give me that.”
    “Oh, I do,” the first mate answered. “The queen spoke to you. One word—but she spoke,” the first mate replied. “Two words.”
    “You’re made. A dukedom at the very least.”
    “Did you see the girl behind her?” His breath caught in his throat as he thought of her smiling at him. “I’ve been at sea too long.”
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    Inside the chapel, dancing candlelight filled the dark space, illuminating its high stone arches as Elizabeth made her way to the large altar. The most powerful woman in the world knelt, supposedly at prayer, but her mind was elsewhere. She bit her lip and smiled, murmuring with amusement. “A puddle...”
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    Access to many of the rooms at Whitehall depended on either a person’s rank or favoritism of the queen, but every courtier could come into the Presence Chamber, a room splendid in magnificent grandeur and crowded every day with competing factions, each waiting—most in vain—for the queen’s attention. Carved and gilded mahogany paneling covered the walls, the marble floor gleamed brighter than silver. Forming a canopy above and hanging down behind the brown velvet throne in-laid with diamonds was an elaborate tapestry showing Elizabeth’s coat of arms, with three lions passant guardant, fleurs-de-lis, and her motto, Semper Eadem —Always the Same.
    Those gathered to see her were no less spectacular than the room: the courtiers were dressed in bright velvets, jewels covering gowns and doublets, rings on every finger, feathers in the ladies’ hair. With them, the Spanish ambassador, Don Guerau de Spes, stood in the middle of a group of his countrymen, his foot tapping impatiently as Elizabeth listened to her advisors, while an architect