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will have made my decision. Your messenger will be at the Cap and Crown.”
    “The Cap and Crown.” He knew that tavern well. Many a stratagem had been hatched there. “How will I know him?”
    “He will wear both a red and white feather in his cap, for the blend of the roses that are Tudor.” He stood looking at her, wondering what it was she planned. “Go. Now.” She started to say more but instead turned her back upon him. As she walked away he felt a lump in his throat to think of all she must now face, she who wanted only to love and be loved and to say her rosary.
    “God speed you, my queen,” he whispered.
    He hurried to seek out the queen’s groom to procure a horse for his ride back to London. The stallion he had ridden to Hunsdon deserved a long rest. At last mounting a brown mare, he sought to retrace his path.
     

Chapter Six
     
     
    Through the small window of her father’s counting room, Heather could hear the sounds of London: the clatter of the carts, the barking of the hounds, the din of the pedestrians as they wound their way past the shops, the voices of the peddlers hustling their wares, and loudest of all the pealing bells announcing a new sovereign. The entire country was in a state of shock. King Edward was dead and Lady Jane Grey Dudley had been proclaimed Queen of England.
    “So the rebel told me true,” Heather said softly, absentmindedly tapping the quill she held in her hand against her fingers. She had doubted him, had felt herself the fool, when two days had come and gone and still no word had been heard about the fate of the king. But then London had been rocked by the news that the king was dead.
    “Edward,” she murmured, remembering the red-haired young king. In his feathered hat and ermine-collared robe he had looked so young at his coronation. He had been but nine years old, his gentle face so like his mother Jane Seymour’s. So opposite from his father had he been that it had been said that an ogre had been buried to make way for a saint.
    Heather looked across the room to where her father sat at his calculating board, that table marked out with horizontal lines on which bone counters were manipulated. He was busy at  his work, adding up the pounds of profit he had made the past few days on his wool and furs. He had been frightened at the news of the king’s death; certain that now his money would be in jeopardy, but had sighed with relief to hear that instead of the king’s sister Mary it would be the king’s cousin who would wear the crown. Always before her father had been concerned for only one thing—money—though now something else was taking up a great deal of his time. Several times now she had seen Thomas Bowen sneaking out at all hours of the night as if fearful of being seen. Whom was he meeting, and why?”
    “Heather, fetch me my strongbox!” Thomas pursed his lips together as soon as the words were out, in the expression Heather knew all too well. The profit was not as great as he had thought.
    Picking up the bound iron box, fastened with a large iron lock, Heather was surprised by the weight of the coins within. It was twice as heavy as it had been this time last night. Had she then misunderstood her father’s sour look?
    “Ah, that’s a good girl.” With stubby, clumsy fingers he unfastened the lock, hesitating slightly before opening the lid a crack. He seemed loath to let Heather see inside, and this puzzled her, for since there was no son to work her father’s trade, Heather had helped Thomas run his business and more often than not had kept her father’s books.
    I must be wrong, she thought, taking a step forward with the intent of tallying up the amounts contained within the box. Thomas Bowen seemed to draw back from her.
    “Why don’t you go outside, Heather? A breath of fresh air would do you good. Your cheeks are pale.” His smile was insincere, more of a grimace. “How will I ever be able to find a husband for you if you don’t