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quickly that one hand touched her breast as if to calm it; but her mind, swift as the hawks she loved, dared him to parry that thrust, if he could.…
    â€œThere is no point in going anywhere or doing anything, unless I can have my heart’s desire,” Dudley answered without hesitating. “And since that is forbidden me, then I can only bring dishonour by staying at Court. I can’t hide my feelings, Madam. Don’t ask me to try, it’s beyond Nature. And don’t ask me to stay here, watching you day and night, touching your hand, as I did a few moments ago, and knowing that I would give my life to take you in my arms.”
    â€œNot only your life, but mine too. I am no King—only a woman, and a Queen cannot take a lover.”
    His back was between her and the Gallery; he caught one of her hands and found it deadly cold. Suddenly he pressed her palm against his mouth.
    â€œTake me,” he whispered. “Nothing will befall you.… I know what you fear. Take me, just for one hour.…”
    â€œSo another man said.” Elizabeth wrenched her hand away, fighting a serpentine quiver of response that frightened her so much she could have hit him. “He lost his head and I came near to joining him. Get off your knees, you fool.”
    She stood up then, and immediately the laughter and talk in the Gallery ceased as everyone sprang to their feet.
    â€œYou are dismissed, my Lord.”
    She walked past him into the centre of the room and beckoned to Lady Warwick to join her. Then she turned and looked at him over her shoulder.
    â€œUntil this evening. I lost to you at backgammon last night, and I want my revenge.”
    Lady Warwick held out the silk embroidered slipper, and eased it over the Queen’s foot. Covertly she watched her mistress. She had been watching her for several weeks now, performing her duties in the Royal bedchamber with such diligence that Elizabeth suddenly demanded whether she expected to find someone under the bed. Lady Warwick blushed; she was quite sure that if Dudley were anywhere to be found, it would be inside the curtains, not underneath them. And everyone said he was, though nobody knew when or how it was arranged. But she had not watched Elizabeth for that; she was spying in order to test the truth of a far more serious rumour and one which could not be hidden even by someone as adept as the Queen. If she was pregnant, Lady Warwick would find that out. Elizabeth was certainly nervous enough, and so irritable that she had slapped poor Dacre for dropping a scent bottle. But she was thinner than usual, and not sick, nor given to whims about food. No, there was no child, Lady Warwick could swear to that. A sudden angry kick sent the slipper flying into a corner.
    â€œNot that one,” Elizabeth snapped. “They pinch; find me another pair, and stop daydreaming, woman. There’s a deputation waiting for me.”
    â€œIs it about your marriage again, Madam?” Lady Dacre, rather unnerved by the violence and speed with which the Queen delivered a blow, asked her question from a safe distance. She was locking up the Queen’s jewel box. Elizabeth had chosen a massive chain of emeralds and pearls with a matching brooch as big as a child’s fist. The stones winked and blazed against her black and gold dress. A collar of stiffened lace framed her head.
    â€œIt is. They come to urge me to marry the Archduke Charles. How will you like another Spaniard for a Consort? Better than I should, I daresay!”
    â€œIt’s a shame to worry your Grace, so,” Lady Dacre twittered on, unaware of the angry gaze directed at her back. “Why should you be pestered to take a husband till you wish for one? The Lord knows, I wish I were a maiden!”
    Elizabeth suddenly burst out laughing. Poor Dacre! Her sympathy was quite genuine. She saw marriage in the light of her own unhappy union with a middle-aged boor who bullied her